Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur

    The first thing Arthur noticed about the boy was his eyes.

    The camp was similar to the countless others the knights of Camelot had liberated before. This camp in particular was a woodworking one. The slaves- or workers, as their handlers preferred to call them- were assigned the task of either the initial takedown of trees or the process of breaking the logs into more easily transportable sizes. The labor was tough, and thus most of the slaves that had managed to survive their captivity were younger men and women, roughly in their twenties and thirties.

    Arthur found his eyes flitting between the shocked but hopeful faces before him. The knights and healers circulated among the crowd, murmuring words of comfort, and tending to the very ill or newly wounded. While Arthur always admonished his men to protect the slaves at all costs, some inevitably were injured by their frustrated handlers in the chaos that ensued upon initial attack of the camps. The King often remained removed from the general slave populace for the first few hours after the liberation. He told himself it was so that he could easily be found for the many questions his knights or freed slaves would have for him; however, he knew there was another reason.

    His gaze wandered, scanning several times, always hoping to see a pair of bright blue eyes and a curled flop of black hair. If he was lucky, he might even see a faint smile starting to form.

    "Old habits die hard," Gwaine had remarked sympathetically on one of their more recent liberations.

    But this was one habit that Arthur did not want to lose. He knew that the odds of anyone, even Merlin, surviving a camp for over a decade were slim to none. And yet, Arthur searched on, as though he could not stop even if he wanted to.

    The slaves were free to leave as soon as they wished, but most decided to stay with their Camelot saviors for at least a night before either departing to Camelot with the knights or heading back to their respective homelands. Sometimes, sparse groups of slaves would leave immediately after the liberation, too paranoid of any powerful group to even trust those that liberated them. Arthur commanded his knights to never force sanctuary on those who decided to depart earlier than normal, as he knew some may be desperate enough to rid themselves of the camp which had plagued them that they would even deny the food and care provided by the Camelot knights.

    Those that denied further help from Arthur’s men generally left in groups, or were at least old and sturdy enough to reasonably get by on their own. Children never left alone, as they were often frail and heavily dependent on the parents that had miraculously enabled them to survive the ordeal.

    That was why the boy caught Arthur’s eye. At first, his figure flitting hesitantly across the ramshackle sleeping quarters of the camp was scarcely noticeable. Arthur almost thought him a trick of the light cast by the shadows thickening in the sunset. The boy paused every time he approached an area without the cover of shadows, as one does when they do not want to be seen. Had the boy been any larger, Arthur may have worried he was a handler trying to escape from imprisonment and interrogation at the hands of Camelot’s forces.

    The boy’s movements were fairly agile and quick, but when he was about ten feet from Arthur and only a short distance from reaching the edge of the clearing and the beginning of the forest, he paused. No more buildings beyond where he stood would provide the coverage he seemed to crave. His head swiveled around, scanning to see if anyone was watching.

    It was at that moment their eyes met. A jolt of surprise rocked through Arthur’s body, and he felt his arms break out into goosebumps. I know those eyes, Arthur thought. His mind flashed back to many adventures shared on horseback, friendly banter after long days, and a sense of belonging. His startled thoughts must have reflected on his face, as the boy appeared horrified at how much his presence had been registered by Arthur. The look on his face was one akin to how Merlin had looked during the countless times they had been chased by bandits.

    No more time for shadows; the boy broke into a sprint.

    “Wait!” Arthur called out, futilely holding out a hand in the boy’s direction before realizing the request would not be listened to. Arthur broke out into a sprint as well, noting the clanging of metal behind him that indicated the knights closest to him had followed without question. Camelot’s king did not even take the time to look over his shoulder to see which of the knights had followed him; he was intent only on the pursuit of the boy.

    In the back of his mind, Arthur realized this chase may not have been the brightest idea he’d ever had. The boy, whoever he was, was probably terrified and simply wanting to leave the camp. Had Arthur not made eye contact with him, he may have let him go despite his young age.

    But those eyes, Arthur thought. What if, what if, what if…?

    The boy was fast, there was no doubt about it. Unlike the knights, he was not weighed down by armor, and his small frame allowed him to move quickly. However, after less than a minute of chasing, the they began to close the gap. Desperately, the youth looked over his shoulder. Arthur saw his eyes flicker up to a tree that seemed to be half-cut into, as though some slaves had started the effort of chopping it down but then abandoned the task.

    “Tethu!” the boy shouted, and the tree started to lean towards the knights of Camelot slowly, and then all at once. Arthur felt the back of his chainmail grabbed, lurching him away from the tree as it crashed down, the sound of the crackling branches punctuated by the boy’s feet pounding the ground just past it.

    Magic, Arthur thought wildly. He has magic. 

    Perhaps he'd not been a fool after all. 

    “Sire! He clearly does not want us to follow, we should turn back,” exclaimed Sir Leon.

    Arthur simply shook his head in disagreement, and instead took the long way to run around the fallen tree. For a moment he didn’t know which direction the boy had gone, but then saw the edge of a bare heel disappearing not too far ahead, near where a river sloped. His knights followed him, and Scot, one of the youngest of the new recruits, began to outpace him.

    My age is showing, Arthur thought in resignation, but was grateful for the young knight’s initiative. Scot ran quick enough to be out of Arthur’s sight for a moment, and soon after Arthur heard a Thump!  followed by the boy’s angry yelps.

    Around a bend of trees, and there was Sir Scot holding the boy against a tree. The boy’s legs kicked out continually, and he yelled wordlessly in frustration.

    “Let him down!” Arthur ordered. Scot did so hesitantly, and Arthur noted to himself to remind the recruit later to not handle any of the slaves so roughly. The hypocrisy of such a warning was not lost on the king, given he had been the one to initiate the chase.

    The boy was breathing heavily, but Arthur couldn’t tell whether that was due to physical exhaustion, anger, or a mixture of both. He wore a dark green tunic with sleeves only to his elbows, and tattered brown pants that looked like they would be more appropriate for a boy several years younger than him. On his forearms were a multitude of runes, dark blue and black. It was not uncommon for runes to be found on the skin of slaves, in order to ensure their obedience and weaken any attempts at escape.

    However, this boy seemed to have far more runes than typical. He could not have been more than 10 years old given his short stature. Had the boy hailed from Camelot, Arthur would’ve thought him to be younger, but he knew from experience that slave children often looked younger than they were due to malnutrition.

    All this Arthur only remarked on for a moment before his gaze turned back to those eyes, reminding him why he had made the impulsive choice to pursue the boy in the first place. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to frighten you,” Arthur told the boy in a placating voice.

    “You didn’t frighten me, you chased me,” the boy said indignantly between gasps for air. His fists were clenched, and his eyes kept darting between each of the knights as though sizing them up. The anger was evident in the boy’s voice, but there was fear there, too. His legs were trembling, and Arthur doubted that was just from exhaustion.

    “Yes, we did,” Arthur said softly. “We just wanted to make you’re alright. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

    “And you shouldn’t be chasing those you just freed!” the boy retorted. His chin was tilted up and his shoulders were set back, as if he were trying to appear taller than he was.

    Maybe, his age wasn't just affecting his joints. Or maybe years of thinning, stubborn hope had led him to the point of looking for signs where there was nothing to be seen at all. But gods help him, that boy’s quick responses instantly reminded Arthur of the banter he had once shared with his old friend; however, there had usually not been as much anger in those past conversations.

    “That’s no way to talk to King Arthur, boy,” Scot said.

    “King Arthur?” the boy repeated, shock entering his voice. It then became apparent to Arthur this boy must have thought him to be a merely a knight, for he was not wearing his crown then nor any other obvious insignia of higher status.

    “Yes, that is my name,” Arthur responded, glad that at least some of the anger had seemed to dissipate between them. “What’s yours?”

    The boy’s gaze flitted away, to the stream, and he seemed lost in thought. Instead of answering the question, he continued to stare at the stream before asking in a quieter voice, “Why did you chase me?”

    Arthur considered reiterating his wish to make sure the boy was okay, but knew that would sound like horse dung. The boy had likely seen the other few groups of slaves leave before he had, albeit not as sneakily and not alone. The knights, nor Arthur, hadn't chased any of those people.

    Thus, Arthur decided to go with the whole, unabashed truth. “To be honest, you made me think of an old friend. When I saw you, it was like I was seeing him.”

    The boy’s gaze went back to Arthur’s for a moment, and he nodded. “That...makes sense,” he said, and his blue eyes softened, once again awakening a sense of familiarity in Arthur. “People always say I look like my father.”

    Arthur inhaled sharply. Leon didn’t seem to be making the connection as quickly, as he asked, “Who's your father?”

    The boy paused, looking around the group of knights, and seemed to hesitate. “Merlin,” he finally said. “My father is Merlin.”

*****
   

    Murmurs passed through the few knights that had followed Arthur’s pursuit. Leon looked back and forth between Arthur and the boy, waiting for one of them to make the next move in this miraculous turn of events.

    The tales of Merlin, both truthful and mythical and everything in between, had not dissipated in his long absence from Camelot. Most knew him as the first and last Court Sorcerer, the one who had helped free Camelot of Morgana’s reign of terror. Among the older knights, the deep friendship between Arthur and Merlin was thought of at any mention of the missing man; among the newer recruits and the general populace of Camelot, Merlin’s capture was also known as the one to spark Arthur’s determination to rid Albion of any and all slave camps.

    At first, Arthur’s campaign had met much pushback within Camelot as well as outside of it. His advisors had insisted that they could not waste the resources on freeing the countless camps scattered throughout Albion. But Arthur was adamant that the campaign was in Albion's best interests- his motives did not lie solely in finding Merlin. While no camps existed within Camelot’s borders, some were not far outside of it, and the capture of unlucky Camelot natives near the border was not unheard of, as Arthur and his knights had experienced firsthand on that fateful night a decade ago.

    Rulers of Albion’s lands were more than hesitant to allow Arthur and his knights access to their lands. It took months of reassurance to convince all rulers that he intended only to liberate the camps in order to help all the people of Albion, both Camelot natives and otherwise, who had fallen into captivity. Each ruler had been suspicious that the liberations would be used as an excuse to gain valuable information on their lands to be used in invasions and war. They eventually consented, however, as each of their people suffered heavily from the vast slavery they had failed to prevent.

    Those first few months had been some of the hardest of Arthur’s life. He knew with each week his friend’s chance of survival dwindled. His anxiety for his friend’s safety built up, and by the time he was able to liberate the first camp, it was all he could do to not rush throughout the crowd and beseech the shocked, muted slaves to give him any news of Merlin.

    Gwaine had come to him at the end of the night as he sat by the fire and shook his head sadly. “No sign of him, Arthur,” he had said, the defeat evident in his voice.

    Arthur had nodded, the news disappointing but unsurprising. He knew that if Merlin had been alive in this camp, he would’ve sought out Arthur as soon as the camp had been liberated. None of the slaves had seemed to recognize Merlin’s name or his description, which meant he likely had never been in that camp in the first place. And that means he did not die here, Arthur had realized with relief. No leads on his friend’s location was frustrating, but at least the lack of knowledge allowed for some hope to prevail.

    And then time began to pass frighteningly fast, with a few camps freed each year. While Arthur was more than proud of these accomplishments, he could not help but feel as though he was failing with each mission that did not result in the finding of his old friend. Arthur was not always able to accompany the knights, as his duties within Camelot would beg the full extent of his attention. So many times he wished to ride out with the knights, if only for the chance of being the first to spot his friend among the crowd.

    However, with his newly born son, and eventually his newly born daughter, he found more and more reason to not go on the missions. In the past few years he had only been on a handful. Each time the bells signaled the return of the knights, Arthur watched from the steps, dimly hoping to see that familiar face. As the years passed however, Arthur no longer even had to ask the question; the answer was always a shake of Gwaine’s head. The other knights of the Round Table always searched as well, but Arthur could sense they had long since given up on ever seeing Merlin again.

    And yet there stood Merlin’s son, a link to the friend Arthur had almost given up on being reunited with. All these years, Arthur had always imagined that should the day ever come, it would be Merlin he would see, not his child. It was rare for children to survive the camps at all, let alone for slaves to take the risk of bringing a new life into such cruel circumstances.

    Leon looked back and forth between his king and the boy, perturbed by Arthur’s shocked silence. Arthur knew he should be asking questions, but his mouth didn’t seem to work, instead simply gaping.

    “Alive?” Leon asked, the shock evident in his voice as well. “Is your father alive?”

    At this the boy looked down, kicking up the dirt as though ashamed of something. “I don’t know,” was his resigned reply, and Arthur felt his shoulders sag. There it was again, the uncertainty that had plagued him for so many years. “He was alive two months ago, when I last saw him. But… we got separated.” The boy looked up at Arthur, the bitterness once again returning to his eyes. “We were at the mining camp in the Medora mountains, but the handlers were getting nervous ‘cause they thought the camp would be attacked soon by- by all of you. So they broke us all up and sent us to camps further up north. That’s why I’m here. But my father was sent somewhere else, I don’t know where. And I don’t know where the rest of my family is, either.”

    “You have siblings?” Arthur asked, again incredulous. It was miraculous enough that this child had survived for so long, but the king could not fathom how more than one could have survived captivity since birth. Hearing why the boy had been separated from his family furthered his guilt; the many successful liberations carried out by Arthur had caused this family, and likely many others, to be separated due to the growing fear of all handlers.

    “Yes… a twin sister and a little brother,” the boy said. His hesitancy to divulge this information confused Arthur. Hadn’t Merlin told the boy about him, about how close they had been? Why did the boy seem so wary of him?

    “Why did you try to leave the camp?” Leon asked, his confusion clearly mirroring Arthur’s. “We can help you find your father and your family again.”

    “Really?” the boy said, the anger in his voice returning sharply. “That’s what my father used to say; that he knew the king, that you’d find him and save us one day.” His cold blue eyes turned back to Arthur once more. “But you never found him, did you? You still haven’t. You knew him, but a fat lot of good that’s done for us.”

    Arthur swallowed hard. The boy was only voicing his own thoughts from all these years; that he had failed his friend, and that if Merlin and suffered and died, his blood was on Arthur’s hands. But the news that his friend may yet be alive strengthened his determination to find him, a determination that had dwindled after a decade but was now reignited by the boy standing defiantly before him.

    “You’re right,” Arthur murmured, and the boy narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the king’s agreement with him. A small part of Arthur wanted to laugh; perhaps Merlin had told the boy of his stubbornness throughout their friendship. He could almost hear Merlin’s voice telling his son about how much of a ‘cabbagehead’ the King of Camelot was. “I haven't found your father yet,” Arthur continued. “I want to make that right though. Please, rest with us, at least for the night, and perhaps we can talk in the morning of how to find your family.”

    The boy glanced back to the forest, as though considering denying the request- but to Arthur's relief, the boy seemed to decide against continuing his run, and instead nodded. “Alright,” he said, and allowed the weariness to creep into his voice. The king noted then how thin and ragged the boy looked; his clothes and face were covered in dirt and sawdust from the time he had spent in the camp, and his dark hair was tinged brown with small chips of wood.

    Arthur motioned for the boy and the knights to follow him. The boy stayed to the back of the group, perhaps wanting to be able to easily depart if he changed his mind. When they could see the opening to the clearing of the camp, Arthur slowed his pace until he was walking alongside the boy.

    “You never did answer my question,” he said chidingly, allowing lightness to enter his tone in the hopes that Merlin's son might prove as good at banter as his father. But the boy only looked up in annoyed confusion, wordless. “Your name?” Arthur prompted.

    The boy returned his gaze to his bare feet. “Thean,” he said. The name was characteristic of villages outside of Camelot’s borders, and demonstrated the Ealdor roots of his father.

    “Thean,” Arthur repeated softly. “I’m glad we’ve met.”

    The boy- Thean- looked back up at the king, and the edges of his mouth seemed to quirk up slightly, the beginnings of a smile. It did not reach his eyes before he glanced back down. This, Arthur knew, was a common characteristic of those who had been suffered years of slavery. The handlers seemed to mistake prolonged eye contact for defiance, resulting in punishment of the slaves.

    When they arrived back in the camp, Thean immediately sat down by one of the nearest fires. The chase seemed to have worn him out, and Arthur felt a twinge of guilt. Some of the closest slaves glared warily at Arthur, angered at the unexplained chase after one of their own. The closest knights, meanwhile, looked up curiously, clearly wondering why their king had chased after a mere boy.

    Only Gwaine had the nerve to approach the wearied king. “So who’s the young lad?” he asked, cocking his head towards where Thean sat dazedly staring into the fire. His voice seemed to hint at another question: And why did you chase him?

    “Thean.” Realizing that wouldn’t be enough clarification, he added, “Merlin’s son.”

    Gwaine shifted, the smile that always lined his face suddenly frozen. “What?” he said softly, staring over his shoulder back at the boy. “Are… are you sure? Where’s Merlin, then?”

    “He looks just like him, doesn’t he?” Arthur responded wistfully. “And he has magic. He doesn’t know where Merlin is, they were separated a few months back. He doesn’t know where his mother, brother, and sister are either.”

    Gwaine’s eyes widened further. “Merlin has a lady… and kids? Three kids?” He whistled, and a grin spread on his face. “I guess our Merlin has been busy!” he laughed.

   Arthur didn't even try to stifle his own laugh; the giddiness he shared with Gwaine made him realize the full extent of all he had discovered in such a short amount of time. Merlin could be alive, and the boy sitting not too far away was proof that all these years, Merlin had lived.

    “He looks hungry,” Gwaine remarked, the smile slipping from his face.

    At that moment, one of the knights approached Arthur with a drafted letter to be sent to the ruler of the lands from which these slaves had been liberated. Arthur took the letter and sat down with it at the fire Thean huddled by. The boy glanced up and Arthur offered him a small smile, but Thean did not reciprocate. Camelot’s king knew it would have been easier to retreat to one of the tents set up by his knights, as candles would be available to provide better lighting to read the letter. However, Arthur was hesitant to let Thean too far out of his sight, as though at any moment the boy could melt back into the shadows that had not too long ago hid him from Arthur’s view.

    Gwaine approached the boy and offered a bowl of stew. “Thean, is it?” he asked. “I’m Gwaine.”

    Thean blinked at the proffered bowl before taking it. He tilted his head up and met Gwaine’s eyes questioningly. “You pushed my Pa into a bale of hay once."

    Gwaine guffawed. “Well, it was a soft bale of hay,” the knight claimed, settling onto the ground next to the boy.

    Thean shook his head and gave the biggest smile yet. “My Pa didn’t think so,” he countered, but there was jest in his voice.

    Gwaine chuckled, and he and the boy stared warmly at each other for a few moments more before lapsing into a companionable silence over their shared dinners. A mutual and unsaid understanding seemed to exist between the two that had not been present between Arthur and Thean. He suppressed a twinge of envy as he tried to turn his focus back to editing the letter. Thean was not Merlin; it was unreasonable to expect the boy to act as familiarly with Arthur as Merlin once had. Thean may have physically resembled Merlin, and had already demonstrated magic, but his regard for Arthur certainly did not mirror the respect Merlin had always shown in moments of need.

    And why should he? He was just a child, one whom Arthur had not done 'a fat lot of good' as Thean had eloquently put it. 

    With his letter nearly fully edited, Arthur’s thoughts began to turn towards the stew that Gwaine and Thean had nearly finished. The boy had started out his dinner eagerly, but now was beginning to look bothered by the presence of food. “Are you alright?” Gwaine asked, clearly noting what Arthur had just observed. “You look a little-”

    Thean dropped the bowl gracelessly onto the ground, stood up suddenly and twisted his body over a nearby rock, vomiting into the dark space behind it. Gwaine hurried over to him, quickly followed by Arthur. It was not uncommon for slaves to initially be unable to handle the intake of rich food provided by Camelot’s knights, as theirs stomachs had shrunk and weakened from lack of food. But as Arthur put a hesitant hand on Thean’s shoulders to comfort, he felt the boy shaking and with a warmth that could not have been solely due to the fire.

    “Healer!” Arthur called out, trying to keep the note of alarm from his voice for Thean’s sake. “We need a healer over here!”

    Perhaps luck had not abandoned him that day, as Helena came rushing forth. She was the regular head healer back in Camelot, having taken over in recent years when Gaius grew too old for the task. If anyone would be able to help the boy, it would be her.

    She knelt by Thean, who had only just stopped upchucking the night’s stew a few seconds before. “Do your arms hurt?” Helena asked.

    “His arms? He just vomited,” Gwaine replied shortly.

    Helena paid no mind to Gwaine’s remark. “Please, tell me where it hurts the most, and I will do my best to help you,” she said.

    Thean glanced around at the three of them shyly, before rolling up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal one of his upper arms. Arthur stifled a sharp intake of breath. He had already noticed the numerous small runes on the boy’s forearms, but usually, such runes were dark blue or black and no larger than a thumbprint. All of the runes on the boy’s upper arm fit the same description, save for one that was uncharacteristically large and glowing red. Most runes were circular and twisting, with spaces inside of them. If not for their inhumane purpose, some runes could almost look graceful. This rune, however, appeared as a chaotic series of slashed lines, not at all resembling the carefully laid out appearance of the runes surrounding it.

    Helena gently hovered a hand on the area, and the boy flinched back. “I’m sorry,” Helena said softly. “I’ve never seen this rune before. Do you know why it’s on you?”

    Thean nodded. “My magic,” he explained. “It’s to keep me from using magic.”

    “You used magic in the forest though,” Arthur recalled. 

    “I can still use it sometimes, especially if I think I’m in danger. But it always hurts after,” Thean explained. Gwaine glanced over at Arthur disapprovingly, having been previously unaware of how intense the chase had been for the boy.

    “What did you use your magic to do?” Helena asked.

    “To take a tree down,” Thean replied softly, and studied his bare feet.

    “That’s a big spell,” Helena murmured, eyes widening. “No wonder you’re having these reactions. I’m guessing the more powerful the spell, the more it hurts afterwards?” Thean nodded, rolling his sleeve back down as though suddenly embarrassed.

    “Can’t you take these runes off of him?” Arthur asked of Helena. Camelot’s healers had been taught the process when slave camp liberations became more frequent. Removal of runes required some magical abilities, but with the revoking of laws banning magic, Camelot’s healers had been encouraged to master at least rudimentary levels of magic. The task often involved hours of work to complete if done all at once, and was often taxing for the individuals from whom the runes were being removed from as well. Due to this, removal of runes generally did not take place until after the freed peoples had recovered somewhat from their captivity and found a place to settle. However, the misery on Thean’s face as he sat shuddering by the fire made Arthur wish to rid him of the runes as soon as possible.

    “I could remove some of the smaller runes tomorrow, but given how he seems to be feeling right now, I doubt it’s wise to remove all of them at once,” Helena said. “Since I’m unfamiliar with the larger rune, it’s unsafe for me to remove it. The boy’s best hope is to find a more experienced healer in Camelot who can recognize the rune.”

    “Camelot?” Thean startled, looking up at the adults who stood before him. “I-I’m not going back to Camelot. I have to find my family first.”

    “Thean, you’re not well,” Arthur explained gently. “We should at least get that rune off of you first. We can reach Camelot within a nightfall.”

    “No!” Thean cried and he leapt to his feet. The strength of his voice starkly contrasted the way his legs shook beneath him. “They could all be dead by then! Just because you stopped looking for us doesn’t mean I will!”

    The boy turned and strode away from the Camelot natives. For a moment, Arthur worried Thean would leave the clearing completely, but instead he went to sit at the edge of another dimmer fire many paces away. Even with his anger to fuel him, Thean’s weakened state seemed to prevent him from getting too far from them.

    Arthur made a motion to step forward, but Gwaine put his hand to his chest. “I’ll look after him for the night,” he told Arthur. “You should get some rest.”

    The unsaid message, Arthur realized, was likely ‘You’ve messed this up enough, so let me handle it.’ Arthur nodded; he was reluctant to let Thean out of his sight, but wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with the task aside from Gwaine.

    As Gwaine made his way over to Thean's new resting spot, Arthur glanced back at the rest of the camp. His eyes ached from weariness; more recently, his joints had begun to ache as well towards nightfall. He longed to stretch out in a bed and embrace a forgetful sleep, but knew there was much to be done before he could rest. He wanted to visit the healer’s den to comfort some of the worse off freed slaves, a task he usually would have completed much sooner had it not been for the unique events that had transpired. Many knights would wish to report to him on the various findings from interrogation of the handlers, although as Arthur rubbed his eyes, he concluded that some would have to wait till morning.

    Despite his tiredness, Arthur felt a sense of hope he had not been graced with in over a decade. Later that night, he dreamed of two pairs of bright blue eyes. 

Chapter Text

Thean 

    Sunlight warmed his face, and Thean blinked in confusion, groaning as he stretched. It was warmer than typical of the mountain caves. He didn’t remember going to sleep near their entrance, and thus the strong light befuddled him.

    His hands scrambled, as though trying to ward off the cobwebs of sleep. “Ava?” he muttered. “Clo?” 

    The sleep finally out of his eyes, Thean’s vision cleared till he realized he was not in a cave at all. Instead, he was in a clearing. Memories came flooding back, weighing down his thoughts. Around him, knights milled about, preparing horses and passing out pieces of bread and fruit. Healers murmured words of comfort and distributed packs of food, skins of water, and potions to the freed people that chose not to journey to Camelot.

    Though the crowd was filled only with people aiding each other, Thean felt depressed by the sight. He longed to feel the forms of his sleeping brother and sister beside him, hear his mother and father gently rousing them to face another day in the mines. So many times Thean had imagined what it would be like to be free, but he had always pictured his family beside him if and when that day came. 

    “Here you go,” Gwaine said, walking over with a small piece of bread and an apple. The breakfast was a plain one, not altogether unlike the one Thean had regularly eaten in the mines, but upon remembering how his body had rejected the stew last night, the boy was pleased by the meal’s simplicity. 

    “Thanks,” Thean said, and began to nibble at the bread, grateful when his stomach didn’t lurch in dismay. 

    “How’re you feeling?” Gwaine asked, and Thean could tell he was trying to maintain a casual tone to his voice. 

    “Better," he replied truthfully. His right arm still ached where the large rune lay, but the mark no longer burned as it had last night. 

    “That’s what I was hoping to hear,” Gwaine said, studying Thean with a smile. “You don’t look like a queasy quail anymore.” Merlin’s son smiled at the expression; it was one he had heard his own father use before. 

    Thean was half tempted to suggest that perhaps he needn’t go to Camelot given his improved condition, but he found himself too weary to argue his case. Despite his worry for his family, he knew his efforts to find them alone would likely be futile. This land was unfamiliar to him as well; he had only been at this camp for a few months, and never beyond the watch of the handlers.

    Thean’s attempt to escape the previous day had been an impulsive decision, spurred by the fear that washed over him when he realized his camp was being liberated. While the other slaves had rejoiced, he had felt a strange sense of dread as he watched the handlers either be slaughtered or subdued. Freedom was something every slave dreamed of, but with it now before Thean without the support of his family, he had been overwhelmed by the thought of What now?

    The only answer he had found at the time was to run, run in a way he'd never had the chance to before. 

    He knew of his father’s history in Camelot, and how much more accepting of sorcery the land had become in the year before his father’s capture. Yet he also remembered the stories of how his father had spent years in perpetual fear before King Arthur had become convinced of the innocence of most sorcerers and changed the laws. Thean doubted that all of Camelot’s people had become as accepting of those with magic as the king had, and thus his escapade into the forest had been partially out of the desire to prevent anyone else from harming him for his magic. The handlers in the mines, and later in the woodwork camp, had all treated him and his family with particular disdain, for they were known for their potential for magical mischief.

    In truth, Thean did not know the full extent of his powers, as the side effects of casting any spell prevented him from ever attempting more than insignificant ones here and there. Tearing down the tree in the forest had been the most powerful spell he had ever cast, and he had only known of it from a story his father had told him. Thean hadn't even been sure the spell would work when he performed it, and amidst his fears he had felt a thrill of wonder when he had heard the tree crash to the ground behind him.

    “We leave soon. I’ll go find you a horse,” Gwaine said.

    Thean startled at this; he had thought he and the other slaves would simply walk back to Camelot while the knights rode. Surely the knights wouldn’t give up their horses for near strangers? 

    “Wait!” Thean called as Gwaine moved to walk away, causing the knight to turn back to the boy questioningly. “I… I’ve never ridden one,” Thean explained sheepishly. He had never even seen a horse until he had been brought to the woodwork camp. 

    Gwaine nodded slowly. “Then you can ride with me,” he decided, and again set off to find a horse.

    Thean sighed in relief as he watched the knight walk away. He had heard of Sir Gwaine in many of the stories his father had told him and his siblings, and there was always warmth in Merlin’s voice when he had described the adventures involving the mischievous knight. Although all the knights of the Round Table had shared adventures with Merlin, there was no doubt he had been closest to Gwaine. 

    With his breakfast finished, Thean surveyed the camp, catching sight of the king disappearing into the large hut where the handlers had all slept before the attack. Several guardsmen stood at attention outside of the door, their eyes always scanning the crowd. From this, Thean surmised that the captured handlers were being held captive in the hut the king had just entered. After glancing over at Gwaine to ensure that he was still busy readying a horse, Merlin's son began to approach the handler’s hut warily. 

    When he reached the entrance, the two guardsmen on either of the door stared at Thean with an odd sense of wonder. They appeared more decorated than the other knights that surrounded them. “Are you Thean?” the darker skinned knight asked. “Merlin’s son?”

    Thean nodded, begrudgingly noting that the news of his presence had spread amongst the Camelot knights. There would certainly be no sneaking off without notice had he still wanted to. “I’m Elyan,” the knight claimed, and Thean’s eyebrows rose in recognition of the name. Elyan extended his hand out to Thean, and the boy flinched away, unaccustomed to being reached for in a non-threatening way. Realization dawned on Thean that Elyan meant to shake his hand, and so he carried out the gesture. It felt odd to shake hands with a knight as though they were equals. “This is Percival,” Elyan continued, gesturing to the tall and thickly muscled knight on the other side of the door.

    Percival dipped his head towards Thean. “We’re glad to meet you,” he said softly, surprising Thean with the sincerity in his voice. “Your father was- is- a good man.” Percival swallowed, clearly regretting his mistake of nearly referring to Merlin in the past tense. 

    “I know,” Thean replied without bite in his voice. “He spoke kindly of his time with you both.”

    Percival and Elyan looked relieved at this statement, as though they had instead expected the son of their old friend to spit at their feet. Thean realized sadly that perhaps the knights had heard of how he had spoken with contempt and anger to their king. “I was hoping to see if Arthur had learned any news of my family from the handlers,” Thean said, wishing to get to the matter at hand. He winced as he realized he had referred to the king without an accompanying title of respect; Thean had grown so used to his father referring to the king in familiar terms that he could not help but speak similarly. 

    However, the knights did not seem troubled by Thean’s mention of the king. “He’s trying to get information out of them right now,” Elyan explained. “You’re welcome to wait outside until he’s finished.”

    Thean nodded, somewhat surprised that the knights hadn’t shooed him away. He was used to being dismissed by anyone older than him, especially those with positions of authority. 

    He sat down on a nearby log across from the handler’s hut, using his hands to claw out clumps of grass from boredom. Gwaine eventually wandered to where he sat, bringing over the white horse Thean had seen him tending to earlier.

    “This is Arrow,” Gwaine said, tugging on the reins to guide the horse closer to Thean. It was clear why the horse had been named such, as the only mark on his muscled white form was a black streak on his snout resembling that of an arrow. “We often lend him to beginner riders, so he should suit you and I just fine,” the knight continued on jovially.

    Thean raised his hand hesitatingly to the horse’s face. Arrow sniffed and snorted before nudging his palm. “See, he already likes you! You’ll be a natural at this,” Gwaine said. Merlin’s son was grateful for the knight’s attempts to ease his worry. His only experience with horses had been trying to avoid being trampled by them when the woodworking handlers had bustled past him in a hurry. Thus, the idea of riding such a strong creature was slightly worrying for the boy, although he was trying not to show it. 

    Thean and Gwaine stood there for some more time, the boy gradually warming up to the horse and stroking his snout as the knight showed him the various parts of the saddle and the different ways to command the reins. Thean did his best to be attentive, but couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to the handler’s hut. On what was likely the tenth time he looked in that direction, he was greeted by the sight of Arthur exiting, a grim look on the king’s tired face. The king dusted off his hands and shook his limbs out slightly, as though wanting to rid himself of any lingering presence of the handlers he had just interrogated. Several knights who must have been with the king during the interrogation followed behind Arthur. 

    After some hushed words with Elyan and Percival, Arthur’s gaze met Thean’s. The king walked over slowly to where he and Gwaine stood, not seeming to look forward to the conversation he intended to have with them. “I’m glad to see you’re looking better,” he said, glancing the boy up and down, as though he half expected Thean to resume the shaking and vomiting he had exhibited last night. 

    Thean nodded impatiently. “Did you learn anything from the handlers? About my family?”

    “We learned the mines of Medora still contain some slaves."

    This confirmed what Thean knew to be possible, solidifying how much was still uncertain about his family's fate. The handlers had given him little information when he had been separated from his family. All he knew for sure was that his father must have been taken to another camp, as Merlin had not returned to the family the previous night before Thean’s separation. That was how slaves were often taken from their families: without warning or explanation from the handlers. Merlin had clearly not been the only one to be separated from his family, as the muffled cries of several slaves within the sleeping caves could be heard that night. Clo and Ava had been visibly distraught, but Thean had tried to mirror the brave face his mother put on that night as she attempted, for the first time ever, to comfort her children without the aid of their father. 

    The next day, his mother had clung tightly to Thean and his siblings as they were assigned to various different parts of their mine; even Clo, the youngest of them, was not assigned to a section where any of his other family members would be. Thean had been assigned to a distant section, one he had rarely visited before and was not known to have plentiful ore. He had followed the instructions though, grateful to have what he thought was confirmation that he would remain in the same camp as his remaining family.

    But on his long trek with his fellow slaves to that distant section, they were suddenly halted by a large group of handlers. They were redirected outside of the caves, away from the section they were supposedly meant to mine that day and instead brought down a path leading away from the mountain and into the forest below. Dread grew in the pit of his stomach as they were led further away from the mountain without any explanations. It wasn’t unheard of for slaves to be taken outside of the mountain for small tasks like finding firewood or collecting water, but for such a large group of slaves to be led out at once only signaled trouble. 

    “Please, where are you taking us?” a woman cried out, and Thean cringed inwardly at the sound. No one else had asked any questions because they knew the consequences. This woman was perhaps new to the caves and unaware of how handlers reacted to any queries; she did not even flinch as a handler let out an angry grunt and approached her. “My daughter is not with me,” the woman continued in a panicked voice. “At least let me-”

    Whatever she intended to say was cut short by the sickening sound of a slap. The woman was thrown to the ground by the force of it, and left there sobbing. The handler who had punished the woman said nothing and walked back to the edge of the group towards his fellow handlers. An older man had helped the woman up and supported her as she attempted to stifle her crying. All other slaves, including Thean, had tried to ignore her pain; they were too numb with their own.

    The trek had continued for into the night and the following day, with only short breaks for rest and sparse distributions of old bread. Thean had not spoken throughout the journey. He had not spoken to his fellow slaves for fear of being accused of conspiracy to escape. He had not spoken when they arrived at the camp and were quickly taught how to chop down trees and cut the bark into smaller pieces. The numbness of being separated from his family caused him to have little interest in interacting with any of the slaves in the camp, even though some of them he had been familiar with in the mines of Medora. 

    By the time he had glimpsed bright scarlet capes entering the camp, Thean had not spoken for so long that a part of him believed his voice unable to work anymore. The anger present in his tone when he had first spoken to Arthur after being chased in the forest was of one who had been silent for too long. 

    Thean felt that same anger returning now. “Then what are you waiting for? We should head there, back to the mountains!”

    The King started shaking his head before the words were fully out of Thean's mouth. “There’s no ‘we’ in this, Thean,” he said in a clipped tone. For the first time, Arthur’s impatience with the stubborn boy was showing. “I’m sending out a patrol to assess how to best access the mines; they’ll report back to me, and I’ll decide when to strike after that. But for now, you’re coming back to Camelot.” Thean opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Arthur turned to Leon. “Sir Leon, you know the mountain area well. You will lead the patrol. Choose the men you think would be best, but only take a few.”

    Thean watched the knight depart obediently and sighed. Hearing his disappointment, Arthur glanced back at him and Gwaine, and then at the horse. “You’ll be riding alongside me, near the front,” he said to Thean and Gwaine. Gwaine nodded; Thean said nothing. “We leave now,” Arthur said curtly, and turned away, calling out orders to Elyan and Percival. 

    Thean turned to stare at Arrow, his eyes scanning the stirrups and wondering how to best get on. He vaguely remembered Gwaine describing it earlier, but regretfully realized he had not been fully paying attention. Seeing his hesitation, Gwaine beckoned him forward. As he put one foot in the stirrup, Gwaine guided his torso up further until he was fully sat on the horse and able to place his other foot in the stirrup. The knight then easily swung himself up whilst only light gripping the back end of the saddle. 

    Thean marveled at how high up he was, how small the surrounding people below looked as they scattered about the clearing in preparation for departure. He wished Ava was here; he’d finally be able to claim he was taller than her for once, as he and his sister had always been of the same height. 

    Gwaine lightly shook the reins and Arrow walked forward. Thean startled at the movement and gripped the front of the saddle, causing the knight to chuckle and place one arm around the boy reassuringly, transferring the reins so that he only needed to hold them with one hand. Thean resisted the urge to say that he was fine, as in truth he was grateful for the extra support. 

    When they were halfway across the clearing en route to the growing crowd of slaves and knights on horseback, another horse trotted up beside them. Thean recognized its rider as the healer who had helped him the night before. Since he wasn’t vomiting as he had been upon the first time he met the healer, he was able to fully focus on her in the sunlight. She had tanned skin and a freckled face, and her hips curved where she sat astride her black horse. Thean found himself staring at her for longer than he knew was normal; he was so used to seeing only haggard and bony women, that it occurred to him he had not known what a healthy woman looked like. The guards in the camps had shown him how muscular and sturdy men could look when they were well-fed, but never before had the boy seen a woman looking just as nourished.

    “Good morning, Helena!” Gwaine greeted her, and Thean was grateful to be able to put a name to her face. 

    “Good morning, Sir Gwaine. Good morning, Thean,” she said warmly. With her gaze on Thean, she continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to start removing your runes yet. You look like you’re doing better today, so we can begin the process when we stop tonight.” 

    Thean knew he should’ve been eager to get the smaller runes off, but the thought of starting the process so soon frightened him. “That’s alright!” he said, noting his voice was a little too loud to fool anyone into thinking he was feeling calm. He felt his cheeks turn scarlet at how obvious his discomfort was. “I can handle them until we reach Camelot, so that…” Thean scrambled for an excuse. “They can be removed all at once!” 

    Helena blinked at him in confusion. “Alright, if that’s what you wish,” she murmured, her gaze lingering on Thean. The boy glanced away, not wishing her to see the unease in his eyes. 

    Instead, Thean observed the runes visible on his forearms. They had always been there, for as long as he could remember them. He knew that their purpose was to weaken his magic and encourage him to obey; and yet, despite their malicious effects, they were a part of Thean’s body. He remembered nights when, as he struggled to fall asleep, he had caught sight of the nearly identical runes on the arms of Ava and Clo. Being the only children in the caves with known magic, their runes were unique to them and them alone, separating their likenesses from the other children in the caves. At that moment, as Thean sat on the shifting horse beneath him, the runes felt as though they were the only tether he had to his siblings. He wasn’t quite ready to lose that sense of connection yet. 

    Thean allowed his fingers to trace over the runes, vowing to remember them in the hopes that he would one day see those same runes on his brother and sister again. 

*****

    The long procession of slaves and knights had been slowly winding through the thick forest for a few hours. The sun peaked out above the branches, indicating the time to be approximately noon. True to his word, Gwaine had trotted up to ride next to Arthur, with Thean still sharing the same saddle and horse.

    Thean was grateful to be at the front when he realized the captured handlers were being led at the back of the line, happy to be as far away from them as possible. The king was quiet, only shouting out directions on occasion after consulting a small folded-up map he periodically removed from the inside of his red cloak. Indeed, almost all the riders, both freed people and knights alike, seemed quiet. Many knights had given up their horses to allow the former slaves to ride on them, especially those who had grown particularly weak from captivity. 

    Thean was grateful for the relative silence, as it gave him enough peace of mind to process the newly opening world around him. Already he was starting to see trees and shrubbery he had never seen before, and hear the calls of birds not yet familiar to him. As the trees thinned out to look less menacing, the reality of where the procession was heading hit Thean.

     I’m going to Camelot, he thought, and felt goosebumps break out on his arm. I’m really going to Camelot.

    Despite his protests to going in the opposite direction of where his family could be, Thean did feel a thrill of excitement at seeing the land where his father had had so many adventures and had called home for so many years. When Thean caught Arthur in the corner of his eye, his excitement was dampened by the reminder that he would be experiencing this new land only accompanied by those he had not known by face two days ago. He knew of Arthur, Gwaine, and the other knights of the Round Table, but only through the tales his father had told him of their pasts. Nor did Thean feel comforted by the presence of the newly freed slaves behind him; despite working and living alongside them, Thean only recognized most of them by face and nothing more. His only vague goal within the camp he had inhabited these past two months had been to survive, not to acquaint himself with those who suffered near him. 

    Some regret rose within him over the harsh way he had spoken to Arthur since they first met. He knew how much his father had admired the king of Camelot, and how close they had been with each other. It was not lost on Thean that Arthur was likely disappointed by the few and cold words they had exchanged.

    He couldn’t remember the exact moment he had begun to resent Camelot’s king. After hearing so many stories of how his father had saved the king, Thean had gradually grown bitter at Arthur’s failure to save his father, and therefore his family, from the cruel life of slavery. Last winter, when their father had tried to distract his children from the cold by telling a story of how he, Arthur, and Sir Gwaine had escaped a fighting ring, Thean had departed midway through the tale, no longer interested in it. Making his way to the entrance of the cave, he had sat in a huff on the increasing pile of snow, shivering slightly in the cold but determined to not return to his family yet. Although he could not figure out why, Thean had wanted to be alone at that moment, as far as possible from the fantastical tales of his father. 

    His wish for solitude had not been granted. Only a minute later he heard the light steps of his sister, Ava. She sat down beside him, gazing out at the swirling snowflakes before speaking. “He’s not a god, you know,” she said, and her light brown eyes met his. “Arthur. He’s not a god.” 

    “Pa seems to think he is,” Thean said bitterly, and all at once it became clear to him why he had walked away. He was struck once again by how well his twin knew him; she could always tell what was bothering him, even when he couldn’t. Thean tired of all the stories of his father saving Arthur, while there were few stories where his father had been saved by the king in return.

    “That’s ‘cause they spent so much time together. And of course he thinks well of him, he freed magic for all of Camelot to use,” Ava countered. 

    “We haven’t been freed,” Thean muttered in reply. Tales of Camelot’s raids on slave camps had spread throughout Medora’s mines, whispered at night. Though the rumors gave hope, they also created a feeling of envy within Thean. Why hadn’t their camp been liberated yet? 

    Ava frowned then, and had looked uncharacteristically disheartened for a moment. Thean thought about apologizing, as he knew his sister only meant to comfort him, but she spoke before he had the chance. “No, we haven’t,” she agreed. “But we will be one day.”

    Hope had returned to her eyes. In her attempt to reassure her brother she had also reassured herself. Thean had always admired that trait of his sister; the way she could use words to bring light to the darkest of situations. The twins sat together near the ledge for a few more minutes in silence, before returning to the somewhat warmer area near their family. 

    A piercing wail interrupted Thean’s thoughts of his sister. Arthur held up his hand to signal the halting of the journey, turning his horse around so as to investigate the cause of the noise. Gwaine hesitated for a moment, and though Thean could not see his face, he could sense the knight struggling with a decision. Seeming to make up his mind, Gwaine tightened the arm he still had wrapped around Thean’s chest and pulled on the reins to turn Arrow around to follow the king. 

    The wails continued, and Thean shuddered from the pain in the unfortunate person’s cries. Just up ahead, Arthur arrived at a crowded circle of onlookers. A woman huddled on the ground over a small and limp boy, his head hanging back. A man who was likely the boy’s father stood nearby, staring down in shock.

    A healer approached the man and woman, gesturing for the mother to hand over her son. “No, no!” the woman cried, scrambling back. “He’s dead! It doesn’t matter, he’s dead!” 

    Despite a part of him wanting to wrench his eyes away from the painful sight, Thean looked on with a morbid curiosity. The dead boy’s sunken cheeks and blue lips confirmed that he had died from what slaves often referred to as the Blue Sickness, or simply 'the Blues.' It often started with the inability of the victim to eat due to nausea, and if the sickness worsened, the eventual inability to breathe.

    Clo had suffered from the sickness once when he was just a toddler, and it had been one of the scariest weeks of Thean’s life. Only through his father’s small doses of healing was Clo able to recover, along with the help of Thean and Ava, although they were too young and inexperienced to be of much use back then. The healing process had temporarily weakened Merlin as well, but it had allowed his youngest son to survive. Thean had almost no doubt Clo would have died had it not been for the magical healing. 

    Thean briefly wished he had known of the boy’s sickness; he could have possibly helped him, even if only to abate his discomfort. However, he knew that his reclusion within the woodwork camp may have created a bad impression of him from his fellow slaves. Furthermore, though magic was free in Camelot, it was not so in some of the other lands of Albion; thus, some slaves were still suspicious of any and all magic. They may not have let him help even if he had offered.

    Arthur walked slowly towards the grieving couple. Thean was impressed by the king’s fearless composure; perhaps this was a tragedy Arthur had seen play out in his prior liberations of the slave camps. “He’s been sick for so long…” the father murmured as the king approached. “I thought when all of you came that he would live, but it was too late.” The father seemed to come out of the daze of shock, and his eyes met the king’s with slight surprise, as though he hadn’t even noticed Arthur’s arrival. The ragged man’s face twisted suddenly in anger. “Why didn’t you come sooner? If you had, he could be alive!” Suddenly the man raised a fist; the king took a step back, his arms beginning to rise in defense, but as the man’s fist approached Arthur’s face, it stopped in midair as though it had hit an invisible wall.

    Thean felt the familiar fuzziness in the back of his head that he had felt just yesterday when he had felled the tree. A shock of pain ran through his arm, and he realized dully that he must have been the one to stop the man’s fist. Gwaine’s sharp intake of breath told Thean that the knight had come to the same conclusion.

    Murmurs rang throughout the crowd, and some eyes turned to Thean- those who had been with him in the Medora mountains knew of his family’s magic. In the bright sunlight, the momentary change of Thean’s eyes from blue to gold must have been unmistakable. Some of their gazes were simply surprised, others accusing or wary. Two knights quickly grabbed the arms of the still grieving (and now, confused) father. The king, after regaining some sense of composure,  murmured some words to the healer before turning back to the horse he had dismounted. 

    The magic had occurred as a reflex, similarly to how it had when Thean had once stopped a handler from hitting his brother for not bringing back enough ore. In such cases, where there was no time for thought, Thean could perform a spell without speaking. When Arrow and Arthur’s horse had returned to the front of the procession, the king turned his head to Thean and Gwaine. 

    “Are you alright?” he asked, the question clearly addressed to Thean. “That was you back there, wasn’t it? The magic.” 

    “Yes,” Thean said quietly, not looking up at the king. Every time he met Arthur’s eyes, he felt a sense of shame or bitterness in the pit of his stomach without fully knowing why. Once again, he longed for his sister.

    “You shouldn’t have done that,” Arthur admonished. “Your runes haven’t been removed.”

    “You could say thank you,” Thean muttered, and this time he did meet the king’s eyes. He thought he saw a glint of amusement in them. 

    “Thank you,” the king said, and sounded genuine. “But you still shouldn’t have done that.”

    “Does your arm hurt?” Gwaine asked, and he loosened his grip around the boy, perhaps fearful of causing him further pain. 

    “Yes." He saw no point in denying it. He felt nauseous as well, though not as much as he had the previous night. 

    “We’ll rest soon,” Arthur said decidedly.

    He kept to his word, as the procession came to a halt only a few minutes later. Rounds of cheese and bread were passed throughout the crowd. Thean accepted the bread but declined the cheese; he did not want to take any risks of upsetting his stomach further after his recent use of magic. The boy took a moment to stretch out his legs after dismounting Arrow, finally realizing what his father had meant when he claimed he used to be constantly 'saddle-sore.' 

    The break was short, allowing only enough time for the people to scarcely finish their meals. After the recent tragedy, Arthur seemed reluctant to slow the pace any more than necessary, perhaps fearing any further delay in their arrival at Camelot would result in worsening the state of the freed people. With the pain in his arm reduced to a dull ache, Thean found his thoughts drifting until he was suddenly startled by the halting of Arrow. Gwaine was shaking him awake. 

    “Sorry,” Thean mumbled sleepily, noting that it was now dusk. He did not remember falling asleep, and felt discombobulated as he took in his new surroundings. 

    “S’alright,” Gwaine replied easily. “You looked about as tired as I feel now.”

    Despite his claim to tiredness, the knight leapt off the horse efficiently before helping Thean down as well. They were in a clearing spotted only by a few trees and a stream babbling at its edge. Several of the freed peoples and knights departed to wash up by the stream, but Thean remained where he was. He felt paranoid of the vast amounts of unfamiliar people he realized he was surrounded by, and was hesitant to stray too far from Gwaine’s side, even if only to bathe. He hadn’t gotten the chance to wash in ages, but steeled himself to face another night with dirt under his nails. 

    As he looked back from where he had been staring at the people in the stream, he turned to see Gwaine staring right back at him. Thean felt his cheeks flush red against his will- could the knight read his thoughts? But Gwaine simply patted him on the shoulder and beckoned Thean to follow towards one of several large piles of wood that dotted the clearing. A young, sturdy looking man hurried over to one of the fires- since he carried a pot, Thean assumed him to be one of Camelot’s many servants that had accompanied the knights on their journey. “Forbaernen!” the servant muttered, hand extended to the pile of wood and eyes flickering gold. The pile roared into strong flames, and the servant knelt down to begin preparation of that night’s stew. 

    Thean turned his head to Gwaine, whose shoulders shook with mirth at the boy’s shocked expression. He knew magic was accepted in Camelot, but this was the first time he had seen someone use it so fearlessly. He wondered how many times his father had performed that same task as a servant- first only when Arthur wasn’t looking, and then with ease once he had revealed his magic to the king. 

    Thean watched closely as the servant cut up vegetables deftly and added pinches of spices he’d never seen before to the boiling pot. Although it was clearly an everyday task, Thean still found it fascinating; he had never seen the preparation of food before, only the result. While the cooking of stew had taken place the night before, the boy had been too exhausted then to pay it much attention. At both the mining and woodcutting camps, only a few lucky slaves were regularly assigned the less grueling task of cooking for their handlers and fellow slaves instead of doing ordinary work.

    So mesmerized was Thean by the cooking that he scarcely noticed Gwaine depart from the fire, although he felt nervous by the knight’s sudden absence. Thankfully, the knight soon reappeared, carrying a piece of cloth and a bucket of water that Thean assumed came from the stream. “I figured you might want to wash up before dinner,” Gwaine explained as he offered the bucket. Thean accepted and smiled gratefully. The knight had noticed his longing glance at the stream earlier, but had not questioned his reluctance to enter it. “I’m on guard duty now, but I’ll be back within a few hours,” the knight continued. 

    “Okay,” was all Thean said, trying to sound casual.

    Please don’t go, he thought as he watched the knight depart to the edge of the clearing, chiding himself for feeling so helpless. Gwaine was not his family member, but he was still more acquainted with the easygoing knight than he was with anyone else in the large group of strangers. 

    After partially washing the parts of his body not covered by clothes, Thean tried to distract himself by watching the servant stir the pot, periodically sampling the stew and adjusting with spices and salt accordingly. When the dish was ready, the servant clanged his large wooden spoon against the pot to signal anyone nearby to get their share. However, before serving anyone else, the servant turned and offered a bowl to Thean.

    The boy realized that the servant must have noticed his close observation of the meal preparation. “Thank you!” Thean said, grinning. A servant with magic, preparing a meal- if fate had worked out differently, it could have been his father standing before him. 

    Warmth spread throughout him as he ate the stew, trying to savor each bite, pacing himself so he could fully enjoy it. It was certainly more delicious than anything he had sampled in the mines, and the flavors danced across his tongue. He occasionally raised his spoon to try and catch the shapes of the vegetables within it in an attempt to identify the ones he did not know. He thought that the curved green one might be celery, but couldn’t be sure.

    Whilst observing one of the last morsels, Thean saw a figure settle onto the log to the left of his own, and recognized their golden hair to be that of King Arthur. “Enjoying that?” Arthur asked, accepting an offered bowl of stew from a servant. 

    Thean allowed the spoonful of stew he had been studying to plop ungracefully back into the bowl, self-conscious of how intensely he had just been staring at it. He forced himself to be polite, remembering how he had reflected with regret on his previous conversations with the king. “Yeah, it’s really good,” he replied earnestly. 

    “Your father always cooked well on our journeys,” Arthur said, staring into his own bowl of stew. “He was never much one for hunting, so he packed potatoes and vegetables so we could avoid it if possible.” When Thean failed to respond after a pause, the king continued, “You said you have siblings. What are their names?” 

    Thean remained silent for a moment, but then realized he wanted to talk to Arthur then. He wanted to talk about his family; it made him feel as though they weren’t so far out of reach. “My sister’s name is Ava." He could almost see her smiling slightly at him, her dark hair pulled back into braids she had tied with plant stems from the forest. 

    “Ava,” Arthur repeated, as though testing the name. “So your mother is from...” 

    “The Departed Lands,” Thean confirmed. “Yes. She doesn’t like to talk about it much though. My Pa’s always told us stories about- about before, but not Ma. Her name is Lea.”

    Lea’s children had quickly learned that whilst their father was happy to discuss his eventful past, their mother met such questions about her own past with an uncomfortable silence followed by a warning to not ask such questions again. As he grew up, Thean had pieced together from what he’d learned from other slaves in the mountain that the Departed Lands were a cruel place, rife with anarchy and lawlessness. No ruler had ever laid claims to that land, as many said that they were cursed by the corrupted nature of its people. 

    “And your brother?” Arthur pressed gently. 

    “Clo,” Thean said, and he sighed. Clo was always getting into trouble, but he somehow always seemed to get out of it too. With the copper-colored hair he had inherited from his mother and the blue eyes and big ears he had from his father, he was always easy to spot in a crowd. “His full name is Clover, but we always call him Clo. My mother named him that because on the day he was born, someone ran into her while she was holding him, and he slipped out of her grasp and nearly rolled down the whole mountain. When she caught up with him, she thought he’d be dead, but he was completely unharmed. So from that day on she claimed he was our good luck charm.” Thean smiled at the memory of his mother explaining Clo’s name to them when Clo had once questioned her about it. The smile dissipated once he considered how his family's luck may have run out. 

    “It’ll be nice to meet them all,” Arthur said quietly. The unspoken question between them was whether that day would ever truly come. Perhaps wanting to avoid such a question from being spoken aloud, Arthur continued, “Thank you again, for using your magic earlier. I know I said you shouldn’t have, but I was certainly grateful for it in the moment.” 

    Thean looked up in surprise- he had been thanked twice by the king of Camelot, all in the same day. Pa really should be here to see this, he thought, and almost laughed. “Yeah, of course,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t think my father would have been pleased if I let you get a black eye.” At this the king looked surprised- Thean realized it had been perhaps the first joke he had told to the king. Arthur began to chuckle, and Thean allowed himself to as well. 

    When his stew was finished, Arthur stood and stretched some limbs. “Get some rest,” he told Thean, more a weary suggestion than a demand. He paused for a moment when he was behind the boy, hesitating before lightly patting him on the shoulder. Thean watched as the king made his way to his own makeshift quarters, occasionally pausing to discuss matters with a knight, healer, or even a freed slave.

    Although the chase in the forest had made Thean initially believe the king to be just as impulsive and arrogant as his father had described him in their earlier adventures, his otherwise calm nature throughout the journey had made Merlin’s son question his prior supposition. Perhaps the past decade had changed the king in more ways than just physically. 

    As Thean lay on a provided bedroll gazing at the stars and awaiting Gwaine’s return, he thought to himself, Everything will be alright. It has to be.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    The King of Camelot rubbed his eyes in an attempt to stay awake. While Thean had had the good fortune of being able to sleep the day before without falling off his horse, Arthur did not want to take any chances. He wanted to display a sense of strength for the former slaves who had trusted him and his knights to lead them to the safe haven of Camelot, where they could rest and recover before beginning their new lives. He could not afford to show tiredness, not until they had reached the citadel and he was out of view of his newfound subjects. 

    Soft whistling came from Arthur’s left side. Due to the numerous complaints of the Knights of the Round Table concerning Gwaine’s incessant chatting on long expeditions, he had acquired the habit of whistling when he had nothing in particular to say. The whistling proved eventually to be just as annoying as his chatter. At that moment, the knight was carrying the tune of a typical bar song concerning a lady’s short dress. Had the knight recited the lyrics, Arthur would have ordered Gwaine to cover Thean’s ears. 

    The boy was always just at the edge of Arthur’s vision as he rode once again on Arrow with Gwaine seated behind him, securing him to the tall horse. His concern for Thean’s situation was partially why Arthur had struggled to sleep the night before. Merlin’s son currently existed in a state of limbo, and the King of Camelot was very aware that it was his duty to guide Thean through what must be a very strange time in his life.

    The worry that had nagged Arthur the previous night was similar to what he had felt when his son, Anselm, had been born. Though his boy thankfully suffered from few illnesses during the 12 years since his birth, Arthur found he worried even when he knew his son was happy and thriving. He worried for the vast uncertainty of his future, and for all the dangers and sorrows in Anselm’s life that he could not predict. Arthur had hoped that the perpetual anxiety may decrease with the birth of his now 7 year old daughter, Eloise. She would not carry the same burden of having to one day inherit Camelot. And yet, Arthur still found himself running over the countless possibilities of misfortune that could befall his daughter as frequently as he did for his son. 

    He had used to never worry for his loved ones when they were not in immediate danger. Sudden threats had occurred so often when he was a prince, as well as in the early days of his reign, that he would have lost his mind had he worried during the short periods of peace in between. During the first year after Morgana’s downfall at the Battle of Camlann, Arthur had lulled himself into the false belief that he would never again have to fear so desperately for the safety of those he cared about. 

    Then Merlin had been captured in an area that should have been relatively safe, and suddenly the entire world seemed filled with unseen dangers. It was meant to be a routine two-day hunting trip at the western edge of Camelot, where the rabbit population was plentiful in early spring. Arthur had taken only a handful of knights, wishing to remain as quiet as possible so as not to startle the prey. Merlin had of course grumbled throughout the long trek, but seemed relatively good-natured despite himself.

    Good fortune had filled the kingdom in that first year. Anselm had only just been born a month before, and while Arthur had been more than happy to spend most of his time with his newborn son and Guinevere, he had begun to feel stir-crazy by the end of the month. He craved the sense of his feet pounding the earth and the unique thrill of chasing prey. After hearing from Merlin of how Guinevere had once been enchanted into a deer Arthur had nearly killed in a hunt, the King of Camelot had lost his taste for deer hunting, but had no qualms with hunting rabbits. 

    By the second day, not much prey had been caught. Arthur led his knights somewhat deeper into the forest than he originally intended in the hopes of finding more rabbits. He did not want to return to Camelot looking as though he and his knights had just pranced through the forest for two days without hunting. Merlin had stayed behind to prepare the horses for the upcoming ride back to the citadel. While a considerable amount of Merlin’s time had been taken up by his new duties in delegating the laws of magic, he still insisted on attending to as much of his prior role as Arthur’s servant as possible. Arthur had been concerned that his friend would burden himself with too many tasks, but Merlin had taken the change with grace, allowing for other servants to take over his duties when he was too immersed in meetings pertaining to his role as Court Sorcerer. 

    Arthur had half-expected to see another servant preparing his horses on the first day of the hunting trip, but had been pleasantly surprised to spot Merlin performing the task in the courtyard. To some extent, the King believed Merlin’s wish to remain acting as a servant to be from the sorcerer’s residual fear of being pushed away for his magic. It seemed Merlin had never fully forgotten the initial disgust Arthur had reacted with upon learning of his friend’s secret. While the King of Camelot made clear his plans to work towards freeing Camelot from the prejudice against the use of magic, Merlin seemed to fear that Arthur still had a personal contempt for magic that ran deep.

    “Merlin, why are you still doing this?” Arthur had asked as Merlin helped him dress one morning, several months after the Battle of Camlann. Merlin had remained silent as he fastened the cloak around Arthur’s neck, pulling a little tighter than normal, as he often did when nervous. 

    “Did you fall on your head this morning? Because I’m your servant, that’s why,” Merlin had replied, the lightness in his voice sounding forced. 

    “And you’re Court Sorcerer, and you help out Gaius,” Arthur remarked, turning around to face Merlin now that he was fully dressed. “You’re really telling me there aren’t any herbs he wants you to go collect?” 

    Merlin had ducked his chin slightly. “Would you prefer I do that?” he said softly, with less jest in his voice. 

    Arthur’s eyebrows had knitted at the sudden serious look on his friend’s face. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, perturbed. “You know that’s not what I meant.” Merlin seemed to suddenly be very interested in the hardwood floors he had scrubbed the previous night. “Merlin?” 

    Still avoiding his gaze, his servant said, “If you’re uneasy with having me as your servant, just tell me. I’ll understand.” 

    Arthur nearly stepped back in shock. “That’s what you thought I meant?” He scrambled for words of reassurance, but all he managed to say was, “You really are an idiot then, Merlin.” Shaking his head in mock contempt and turning away from his servant, Arthur had picked up his nightclothes and tossed them over his shoulder. “I want those washed by tonight, or you’ll be in the stocks tomorrow,” he ordered, and heard a soft chuckle behind him. He did not need to turn around to know that Merlin had smiled then. 

    Slowly, his friend grew more accustomed to using magic without expecting a shocked response from any onlookers. The first time Merlin had used magic openly to stop a mug in midair from falling to the ground during a patrol, Percival had spit out a mouthful of stew in surprise. Merlin had quickly grabbed the mug from where it floated and glanced around sheepishly at the Knights of the Round Table. Gwaine was the first to laugh, quickly followed by all the other knights. Merlin’s shoulders had sagged in relief as he grinned at their amusement. 

    During that last hunting trip, Merlin had used magic countless times for small tasks, and Arthur marveled at the comfort his friend finally displayed in doing so in front of the knights. As the King had stalked quietly through the thick forest, he pictured Merlin back at their temporary camp using magic even more liberally without the presence of any others watching. The thought made him smile before he turned back to focusing on the rabbit he spotted up ahead. Arthur managed to get close enough to see the whiskers on the rabbit twitch as the creature sniffed the air. That moment was almost serene, with the rabbit as the unknowing prey, and the King as the knowing predator. He hadn’t been aware of it then, but it would be one of the last moments of peace Arthur would feel for many years. 

    In unison, the rabbit and the King startled at the sound of a pained wail that quickly faded out. The rabbit fled, but Arthur scarcely noticed before turning around to run back towards the direction of the wail. He knew that voice, and while he had never heard it sound so agonized before, it was undeniably Merlin’s. 

    His knights quickly fell in line and began racing beside him. Arthur arrived at where they had set up camp but spotted no sign of Merlin, until his eyes turned to a bucket on its side next to the nearby stream. Scrambling down the path, he nearly slipped, only able to stand upright from the support of the knight behind him. Arthur glanced down at his feet and felt his stomach lurch at the sight of a thick pool of scarlet. Following the trail of blood, his eyes landed on a groaning figure of an unfamiliar man slumped against a tree. 

    The King of Camelot raced towards the man and dragged him up by the collar of his shirt, only then noticing the profuse bleeding beneath the man’s cap. “Where is he?” he growled. The man’s eyes rolled back and forth, unable to focus. Arthur slammed him against the tree in a fit of rage, realizing only after that it wouldn’t help the man’s dim grasp of consciousness. 

    “Doesn’t matter,” the man drawled, and seemed to be laughing in shock. “You won’t be seeing him again.”

    His eyelids drifted shut, and he sagged with a weight Arthur was all too familiar with from his battle experiences. He dropped him down gracelessly, and hurried to search the rest of the surrounding area of the stream. His knights followed suit. No footprints or horse prints could be seen; Arthur pondered that perhaps whoever had done this had used magic to cover their tracks. He had witnessed Merlin perform the trick countless times before. A tense silence ensued until one knight called out for the others to come forward. 

    The knight pulled out an arrow from beneath a shrub. The tip was dripping with a mixture of a thick yellow substance, and what Arthur realized with fear to be more blood. A fresh scarlet puddle lay beneath the bush, along with a now sodden piece of fabric from a blue tunic Merlin often wore. Arthur picked up the piece gently and stared at it blankly.

    “This is Amatinth,” the knight who had picked up the arrow said, and there was a woeful tone to his voice. “The slave traders use it to knock their victims unconscious.”

    Arthur nodded; the knight only confirmed what he had begun to fear. He thought they’d be safe here, that they were still close enough to Camelot’s borders to avoid trouble. “Well, he has magic, so he’ll be fine, right?” One of the newer recruits piped up. Arthur only stared at him coldly, causing the young knight to shrink back from the King’s gaze. 

    “We’ll search the area on horseback,” Arthur said, stuffing the bloodied blue fabric into his pocket. “Stay close to me.” 

    They had searched the forest aimlessly for several hours, and Arthur felt a mounting panic take hold of him. Merlin would be fine, he kept telling himself. He was always fine, had to be fine. He had magic, after all. What if they have magic too? Arthur had thought as he frantically scoured the ground for any trail. He knew Merlin was apparently quite powerful, as had been evident at the Battle of Camlann. Yet no man, not even a sorcerer, was infallible. There had certainly been times where Merlin had been hurt before Arthur knew of his magic, and his powers had been available then as well. 

    “Sire, there’s no sign of him,” an older knight had piped up when the moon hung high in the sky. “It would be wise to head back to Camelot and recruit more knights to search in the morning.”

    Arthur only gazed out at the dark forest in response, hoping to see a lanky figure walk out, laughing as he talked about his escapade. When no such figure emerged, the King turned his horse back in the direction of Camelot wordlessly. They rode until dawn without rest. Arthur ordered out a patrol to the border as soon as the bells signaled his return to the citadel. 

    There was no news. 

    He sent out word of Merlin’s capture to the rulers of the lands Camelot bordered to the west.

    There was sympathy, but no news. 

    Each time Arthur found himself unable to accompany a liberation mission of a slave camp, he took aside Gwaine and needlessly reminded him to search for Merlin, or at least information on Merlin’s whereabouts. The shake of Sir Gwaine’s head each time he arrived back in the citadel told Arthur enough. 

    There was no news. 

    Sometimes, Arthur had hoped that Merlin had escaped the slave handlers and found a new home where he lived for himself. He knew that this was only a dim fantasy, that his friend wouldn’t have abandoned his ties to Camelot without notice. The sudden arrival of Thean into Arthur’s life just proved that Merlin had never gotten the chance to live for himself, that he had forcefully been transferred from one servitude to another. 

    As he eyed the slim figure of his friend’s son, Arthur wondered what thoughts must be racing through the boy’s mind. Thean’s eyes darted back and forth across the horizon ahead; the ramparts of the citadel had just become visible. It occurred then to Arthur that this could perhaps be the first time Thean and many of the freed slaves trailing behind him would enter a city. 

    The procession entered at the northern gate of the city, as typical for any group bringing newly freed slaves into Camelot. When Arthur had just begun his campaign of freeing Albion from slavery, he realized that those who wished to return to Camelot would need a temporary place to stay where they could rest and recover before deciding what to do with their newfound freedom. To prepare for the increasing influx of displaced people, a long-abandoned chapel was renovated to provide housing and healing for the freed slaves. The building had fallen into disuse during Uther’s reign due to its associations with the Old Religion; his father had not torn it down for fear that there were magical safeguards preventing its destruction.

    When renovation had begun, Arthur had dispatched sorcerers to ensure there was no lingering malicious spells in the building. Though he had never had the heart to replace Merlin's Court Sorcerer position with another person, he had recruited many sorcerers into various roles of service to the kingdom during his reign. Although no religious events occurred in the chapel now, those who sought refuge still fondly referred to the place of healing as ‘The Chapel.’ Arthur regularly visited the sanctuary in between liberation missions to check on healing and food supplies, as well as discuss the safe transportation of The Chapel residents to where they wished to move once recovered. 

    As the gates opened into the citadel and the large group trotted in, the relative silence of the freed slaves swelled into soft murmurs of wonder. The Chapel was immediately to their left, and its current residents had streamed out to welcome the newcomers. Already healers and recovered slaves began to help the travelers from their horses, and hand out portions of water and food. Some natives of the citadel also lined the streets with calm curiosity. 

    When Arthur turned around, he saw Thean struggling to disembark from Arrow. “And just where do you think you’re going?” he asked the boy. Thean gazed at him in confusion, with one foot still precariously balanced in the stirrup. 

    “Um… in there?” Thean said hesitantly, gesturing to The Chapel, where already many of the travelers were slowly streaming in. 

    “No you’re not,” Arthur replied lightly. “You’ll be staying in the castle until we can locate your family.”

    Arthur suppressed a laugh at how the boy gaped in shock. The decision was one he had come to after much consideration the night before. While he was hesitant to show any favoritism towards the freed slaves, he was even more reluctant to let Merlin’s son out of his sight. He feared that the boy would simply disappear in the night if he were to stay in The Chapel, as he almost had disappeared from the woodwork camp just two nights before.

    “But before then, we’ll be seeing Gaius to get those runes off of you,” Arthur continued. At this, the boy’s jaw dropped even further.

    “Gaius? ” Thean repeated in disbelief, clearly recognizing the name. “He’s still alive?” 

    Gwaine let out a soft chuckle. “Gaius is older than when you’re father knew him, but just as stubborn as ever,” the knight explained. Thean nodded slowly, and with Gwaine’s help was soon seated back atop Arrow. 

    There was some truth in Gwaine’s words, the King of Camelot reflected, but an unmentioned truth lay as well. Gaius was much more fragile these days, and had gone into semi-retirement due to his gradually weakening state. After Merlin’s disappearance, his strength seemed to diminish, as did his will to keep up with his duties in the castle. Each time Arthur relayed the news of there being no news at all to Gaius, he saw his own fear and disappointment reflected in the old man’s eyes. He knew Merlin was like a son to Gaius, and he saw the way in which Gaius grieved for Merlin’s disappearance as a parent would for their child. 

    Once a new physician for the castle had been found and trained, Gaius had moved to the middle of the citadel. Arthur suspected he had chosen his new place of residence so that he could readily be available to both the castle in times of need, as well as The Chapel. The old man was often at the sanctuary when Arthur made his routine visits, murmuring words of comfort and using his magic to help remove the runes of the freed people. After a decade of experience, Gaius had become one of the most skilled rune removers, thus why Arthur was determined to seek him out to assist Thean. Of course, he would have brought Thean to see Gaius eventually anyway, but the unique runes of the boy made Arthur determined to have him see Gaius as soon as possible. 

    After delegating routine tasks to the knights who were to stay behind to guard The Chapel that day, Arthur sent out a portion of the knights to return to the castle to relay word of their return to the citadel. With a few guards remaining to accompany him, and with Gwaine and Thean at his side, he set out towards Gaius’ residence. Along the way, he watched with amusement at Thean’s wide-eyed observation of the citadel. It was mid-afternoon and the city was teeming with life. Merchants called out their wares, and children ran through the streets for play, their parents yelling after them in exasperation to slow down.

    Thean seemed particularly interested in an entertainer who used magic to juggle three apples without the use of his hands, the performance eliciting polite applause from the small crowd surrounding the sorcerer. He wondered if Merlin’s son had ever used his own magic for anything aside from defense, and the thought saddened the King. So often Merlin had described and demonstrated the various ways in which magic could be used for nonviolent goals; and yet here was his son, who had in all likelihood scarcely gotten the chance to use his own magic for good. 

    Arthur held up a hand to halt his group once they reached Gaius’ house. It was a small residence, no different from the modest buildings surrounding it. The retired physician could doubtlessly afford a more upstanding residence, but did not seem to care for displaying the material wealth he had acquired from his years spent attending to the royal family. Two guards posted themselves on either side of the door before Arthur had the chance to knock; another two dispersed to patrol the outskirts of the street, and two more still stood behind Arthur, prepared to follow him inside. The King at times grew weary of the constant protection that followed him, but Guinevere had long since given herself the task of deciding the protocol for how he should be protected both inside and outside of the citadel. It seemed that which each year that passed, Gwen demanded more guards to be at his side. Arthur usually bit back his protests in the Queen’s presence, as he knew he worried her enough with his periodic absences from the castle. Consenting to more protection was his way of compromising for the concern he knew she had whenever he wasn’t at home with her. 

    Before raising the knocker, Arthur checked to make sure Gwaine and Thean were behind him. They had disembarked from Arrow, and Gwaine stood ready with a small excited smile starting on his face. Thean peaked out shyly behind him, as though wanting to shield himself with Gwaine’s cloak. The King thought for a moment that it might have been a better idea to first take the boy back to the castle to rest. Then, he spotted the multitude of runes that still littered Thean’s arms, and felt reassured in his decision to bring him to Gaius. Until those runes were removed, Thean could not truly be free. 

    A minute passed after knocking with no response, and Arthur worried the physician may not be home. Thankfully, the door did open. Gaius stood there blinking in surprise; the hair on one side of his face was matted, as though he had just woken up from a nap. Arthur couldn’t be sure, but he thought the physician looked thinner than when he last saw him a month ago.

    “Sire!” Gaius greeted the King, stepping aside to let him in. “What a pleasant surprise, I didn’t expect…”

    His voice trailed off when he laid eyes on Thean. Gaius’ face morphed into shock, and he stared at Arthur, a question already on his lips. He looked as though he had seen a ghost, and it occurred to Arthur that that was how he had felt when he had first laid eyes on Thean as well. With the boy’s flat yet curled black hair, slightly sunken cheekbones, and dark blue eyes, he was the smaller image of his father.

    “This is Thean,” Arthur said, beckoning the boy to come forward. He placed a hand on Thean’s shoulder, feeling how the boy slightly shook, from what Arthur was unsure. “Merlin’s son,” he continued, confirming what Gaius seemed to already suspect. 

    There was an even longer silence as Gaius stared at Thean, and Thean stared at the floor with only a quick glance up at Gaius. “We don’t know for sure where Merlin and his family are, but we have a lead that we’re looking into,” Arthur said, maintaining eye contact with Gaius when Thean seemed unable to. He thought he saw tears starting in the old man’s eyes. “We were hoping you could help remove the runes off of Thean. There’s a particular one that harms him when he uses magic. Helena didn’t recognize it.” 

    The assignment of a task seemed to break Gaius out of his shocked daze, and he nodded, blinking the water from his eyes. “Come here, my boy,” he said softly to Thean, patting the long table used to observe patients. Thean sat down willingly, glancing around at the vast quantities of potions and herbs that filled the shelves of the large room. Gaius made to study the boy’s runes, and Thean rolled up both of his sleeves. Gaius stifled a noise of surprise at the largest rune on the boy’s upper arm; it glowed red as it had the first night Thean had used magic, but not as brightly.

    “I’ve seen this rune only once or twice before,” Gaius said, still staring at the harsh and jagged lines of the red mark. “It’s used for those the handlers suspect have particularly strong magic.” 

    “Can you remove it?” Gwaine asked, hovering close to the boy’s side. 

    Gaius nodded, and Arthur felt his shoulders sag in relief. “Yes, I still have some potions left over from when I last removed the rune,” the physician explained. “Are these all the runes you have?” he asked Thean.

    The boy swallowed nervously, and shook his head. Glancing around at the onlookers, he slowly took off his shirt, and a collective gasp went about the room at the sight. Even more runes littered the boy’s chest and abdomen, with scarcely any room left for bare skin. Some marks looked like smaller versions of the large jagged rune on Thean’s upper arm. Handlers usually only had runes placed on the arms of their slaves, as this easily allowed them to differentiate the workers from the handlers. It was rare to find runes anywhere else on the body, especially in the extreme amounts present on Thean’s torso.

    “And your back?” Gaius asked quietly. Arthur felt further sadness when Thean bent down slightly to reveal the same display of crowded runes on his back. 

    “This will take a while,” Gaius confirmed as he began to fiddle about grounding herbs and collecting potions. Perhaps noticing the fear on Thean’s face, he went on, “It won’t hurt, I’ll just have to do it slowly. Your body’s physical and magical nature have grown accustomed to the presence of the runes, and so it’s best to remove them slowly and individually.”

    Thean only nodded at the explanation, appearing resigned to the situation. Gaius instructed the boy to lie back, as some slaves became dizzy during the process. Arthur considered leaving the room to give them some privacy, but found himself unwilling to do so. He had once had a similar reaction when Eloise had needed a tooth removed, and he had refused the dentist’s requests for him to leave the room despite being told the procedure would be unpleasant to watch. 

    Arthur had seen parts of the procedure Gaius was now performing, although he had never watched the process from start to finish. It began with a clear salve applied generously to the areas of the runes. Then, the healer would place a finger on the rune being removed, and recite its respective incantation. The more complex and powerful the rune, the longer the incantation. In Thean’s case, many of the runes required incantations that took over a minute for Gaius to recite fully, indicating the runes on his body were more powerful than typical of a slave. From the largest rune on Thean’s arm, Arthur had surmised that the handlers in the mines of Medora must have known of Thean’s and his family’s magic. However, with each long incantation Gaius spoke, it occurred to Arthur that perhaps the handlers had suspected the truly powerful nature of Merlin’s magic all along. 

    Arthur’s mind flashed back to the dying man they had found by the stream from which Merlin had been captured. He had been so concerned for his friend’s safety then, that he hadn’t spared a thought as to how the man had been so gravely injured. As time went on, Arthur realized it was likely Merlin who had dealt the man a fatal blow; and knowing his old friend, he had in all probability used magic to do so. Perhaps the others handlers had seen this terrifying display of sorcery, and had promptly covered Merlin soon after his capture in runes akin to the complex ones that covered Thean. Such a conclusion was the only one that could explain why Arthur’s usually crafty friend had been unable to escape slavery all these years. 

    In the weeks following Merlin’s capture, Arthur had almost hoped to be sent a ransom note. At least then he would have confirmation that his friend was alive, and have a possible lead on where to search for him. Merlin’s reputation as a powerful sorcerer and Arthur’s trusted companion was known in Camelot as well as throughout Albion. Had the handlers known of Merlin’s identity, they likely would have craved the wealth they could be granted for his safe return. Alas, handlers rarely cared to learn the names and past lives of those they captured; this only made them seem like real people instead of workers who deserved to be treated inhumanely. Thus it occurred to Arthur that his friend had not revealed his identity for fear of being used for ransom. Merlin knew Arthur too well to believe the King wouldn’t have paid the fine or followed the lead into inevitable danger to rescue him. 

    As Gaius worked, Arthur filled the physician in on the sparse information he had learned from his interrogation of the woodwork camp handlers, and described the patrol he had sent to the mines of Medora. Gaius remained mostly silent as the news was recounted. He did not seem overjoyed, and perhaps was still in some shock. Arthur wondered if the physician was hesitant to even hope for the return of his long-lost ward. The potential of having that hope be crushed was painful to consider.

    Thean had kept his eyes closed when Gaius began to remove the first of the runes. The boy had raised his head at one point as Gaius murmured an incantation, causing a rune to swirl and disappear. Thean had quickly lowered his head back down, deciding against watching the process. He seemed particularly keen on not watching the removal of the large jagged rune on his upper arm, turning his head to the other side during the process. Perhaps sensing his unease, Gwaine began to recount the story of when he had first met Arthur and Merlin during a bar brawl. Thean laughed at all the appropriate places in the story, although Arthur could sense he was only half-listening to the tale. He had no doubt heard it countless times before from Merlin. 

    By the time the last rune had been removed from Thean’s back, the orange glow of sunset had begun to filter into Gaius’ house. “You’re all set now,” Gaius said, supporting the boy with a hand on his back as he slowly sat up. “How do you feel?”

    Thean was studying his arms in disbelief, and tilting his head to observe his now bare torso. He even looked over his shoulder to glimpse his back. It was as though he was seeing his body for the first time. In a sense, Arthur realized, that was what it must have felt like. With the runes gone, the jutting of Thean’s ribs from malnourishment was more evident. Faint freckles were now visible on his arms as well. “Strange,” was all Thean managed to say. The boy’s response mirrored the look on his face. 

    Gaius smiled at the vague response. “That’s normal, it’ll take a while for you to adjust,” the physician explained. “You may want to avoid using magic for the next few days. Sometimes, when magic has been suppressed for too long by runes, it comes out stronger than you intend.”

    Arthur pondered on how Merlin’s son would soon be able to use his magic more liberally than he ever had before. After seeing the boy topple a tree in the forest even with the oppression from his runes, the King wondered just how powerful the boy’s magic was now that it was uninhibited. 

    Thean put back on his dirty green tunic, and Arthur made a mental note to find the boy some clean clothes once they were back at the castle. Their impending departure evident, Gaius paused in returning the potions he had used to their shelves. The physician turned to where Thean still sat on the table, and placed a hand caringly on the back of the boy’s neck, running his fingers slightly through his dark hair. Tears were now liberally streaming down the old man’s tired face. “Come back soon,” Gaius said, his voice scarcely higher than a whisper. Gaius could no doubt see another dark-haired young man in Thean’s eyes. Many times Arthur had wondered if the physician had only managed to survive this long due to his determination to see Merlin again. 

    To Arthur’s surprise, Thean looked directly back into the emotion-filled eyes of his father’s old mentor. “I will,” he said, his voice ringing with the determination of a promise. Gwaine gently helped him down from the table and guided him out of the house, with Arthur following close behind. Gaius watched from his door as their horses galloped away. 

    Arthur eyed the castle quickly growing closer on the horizon. Already he was beginning to feel more relaxed, allowing his tiredness to show a little bit more with each street that brought them closer to his home. He longed to see Guinevere and tell her of the journey, and to hold Eloise in his arms while he watched over Anselm’s sword practice. Nearly a week had transpired since he’d departed from Camelot, and while it certainly hadn’t been the longest liberation mission Arthur had been on, it was one of the most eventful. As they reached the gates and began to enter, Arthur stole one last glance at Thean and was seized once more with fear for the boy’s uncertain future. He knew Thean would be physically safe in the castle, but doubted the boy would be truly happy until reunited with his family. 

    Several of his advisors already lined up the steps of the courtyard to welcome him and hear his reports. As Arthur stepped off his horse, Guinevere hurried past the advisors before they could reach the King, and enveloped him in an embrace. The King took a moment to close his eyes and linger in her warmth, before pulling away. The Queen had a look of confused urgency. “Arthur, I heard- the messenger, he said- I mean, is it really true?” Gwen said, and Arthur realized whom she must be asking about. 

    Behind him, Gwaine walked forward with Thean at his side. “I believe this may be the little man you’re looking for,” Gwaine said cheerfully. 

    Thean stepped a bit closer to the Queen, and after a moment of hesitation, bent forward. The movement was awkward and stilted, and it took Arthur a moment to realize the boy was trying to bow.

    “Your Majesty,” Thean said, straightening up. “My name’s Thean, not little man,” he added, a nervous smile on his face as he glanced at Gwaine, who put a hand to his own chest in mock affront. 

    Gwen shook her head in amazement, at a loss for words. She closed the distance between her and Merlin’s son and wrapped him in a tight hug. For a moment, Thean seemed unsure what to do, but he slowly wrapped his arms around the Queen’s waist to reciprocate the hug.

    “Thean, it is so good to meet you,” she said into the boy’s shoulder. 

    From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Anselm and Eloise being led down the steps by their respective servants. Anselm had golden hair mirroring that of his father, and a freckled face. At that moment, the prince paused on the steps, befuddled by the sight of his mother hugging a boy unknown to him. Eloise ran past him to leap into her father’s arms. She had curly brown hair like her mother, copper-colored skin, and green eyes a shade mixed of Arthur’s and Gwen’s.

    “Dad, I made you this!” she said gleefully, holding up a roughly sewn purple and black cloth. There seemed to be a shape in its center that may have been a dog or a heart, but the King wasn’t sure. 

    “Ah, it’s beautiful!” Arthur said, grinning as he took his daughter’s handiwork. She had recently begun to learn sewing. The skill was one that could be easily be performed by the servants Eloise would have throughout her life, but the little girl had her interest piqued from watching her maids perform the intricate task. 

    Anselm walked slowly over to Arthur, his gaze still on where Gwen stood softly talking to Thean, her hands still on his shoulders. Arthur affectionately ruffled the hair on his son’s head and pulled him in for a side-hug. Pulling away after a moment, Anselm turned his head towards where Thean stood with the Queen. “Dad, who is he?” the prince asked, suspicion in his voice. 

    Instead of answering immediately, Arthur placed a hand on each of his children’s shoulders and walked them to where Gwen and Thean stood. The Queen and the boy stopped talking at their approach. 

    “Anselm, Eloise, this is Thean. He will be staying in the castle with us for the time being. Thean, these are my children.”

    At the king’s introduction, Thean stepped forward and bowed in their direction, this time with a little more confidence but just as much stiffness as before. Anselm turned a questioning gaze to his father, clearly having caught the gracelessness of the bow. Guests had stayed in the castle many times before, but only those on business or of royal birth. Thean clearly fit in neither of those categories, what with his awkward bows and unkempt appearance. Arthur merely gave a slight shake of his head in response to Anselm’s stare; he could answer those questions when Merlin’s son did not stand directly in front of them. 

    Perhaps sensing the confusion of her children, Gwen placed a hand on Thean’s shoulder and said, “Come along, Thean, I’ll show you to your chambers and have a bath run for you before dinner.”

    The boy’s eyes widened at this and he only managed to nod his head. The prospect of having his own room, a bath, and another meal must have seemed like a dream to him. 

    Arthur began to lead his son and daughter down a different hallway than Gwen towards their respective chambers. The Queen would be busy with Thean, so he’d take this time to catch up with his children on the events of the past week and answer the questions they no doubt had. An advisor approached Arthur for a report on the liberation of the woodwork camp, but he held up a hand to stop him.

    “I will give my report later this evening. Until then, I will be with my family,” he said, and the advisor gave a surprised nod and turned about face to inform his fellow advisors of the King’s wishes. Arthur had skipped many dinners to sit with his council, but found himself unwilling to do so that night. 

    “Dad, why is that boy so small?” Eloise asked, her curiosity clearly piqued by Thean as much as Anselm’s had. 

    “And why is he so dirty?” Anselm asked, sniffling. 

    “Thean was one of the slaves from the camp we liberated this week,” Arthur explained. He was hesitant to talk of such awful places in front of Eloise, who was only seven years old, but knew there was no other way he could explain the situation. Besides, the princess was young, but she had ears, and the castle certainly talked. She would have heard of Thean’s past eventually whether or not Arthur told her. “He’s been through a lot, so be nice to him while he’s here.”

    “A slave?” Anselm asked, shocked. “Why did you bring him here then?”

    Arthur had taken his son to The Chapel only once before, and for the rest of the day, the boy had been in a shocked stupor. The Chapel had just taken in many ill and starved slaves that week, and the horrors had seemed too much to process for the young prince. Arthur realized that his son may have been too young to witness the tragedies inflicted on slaves, but he had wanted to instill the mission of freeing such people in Anselm. If he was unable to completely free Albion of slavery in his reign, he wanted to know that Anselm would continue to carry out his father’s dream. 

    “Thean is Merlin’s son,” Arthur said, and heard Eloise’s soft gasp. 

    “Really? Are you sure, Dad?” Anselm asked as they stepped into the prince’s chambers. “I thought Merlin was…”

    He didn’t finish his sentence, looking away from his father’s gaze. Arthur felt a pang but didn’t bother to scold his son for what he had been about to say; no doubt, Anselm was only repeating gossip he had heard in the castle. A servant began to take off the prince’s sword practice cloak, but Arthur waved them away. It had been a long time since he had readied the prince for dinner himself. He allowed a maid to braid Eloise’s hair though as she sat at the edge of Anselm’s bed; he had never been quite as good at braiding as Gwen. 

    “Neither of you knew Merlin when he was here,” Arthur began as he unfastened his son’s cloak. “Thean is his spitting image; when I first saw him, it was almost like seeing Merlin again. And he has magic, too, just like his father.” 

    Eloise let out a squeal of delight. “Do you think he can show us some tricks?” she asked, nearly wiggling with excitement.

    Arthur’s daughter had only been alive during a time when magic was accepted in Camelot. Though she had learned of the history of Morgana’s campaign of terror, to the princess, these stories only sounded like events in a distant and irrelevant part of the past. 

    “Gaius said he’s not meant to use magic for the next few days. He just had his runes removed, so don’t ask him to do anything like that for a while.” Arthur now gently combed his son’s hair, the knots a result of when he had ruffled it earlier. Anselm clearly didn’t think he was doing a good enough job though, as he took the comb from his father’s hand and began to forcefully pull at his own hair in frustration. 

    “Do you think he’ll like sword work, then?” Anselm asked hopefully, and it was the first time he seemed to speak of Thean without wariness. Arthur hid a small smile as he thought back to the many times he had Merlin act as a shield for his swordwork, or even as a target for javelin throwing. He did not remember his friend enjoying those activities. 

    “Maybe, but we should let him rest for at least a day or two. He’s had a long journey,” was all the King replied, not wanting to dash his son’s newfound hope of Thean being a potential playmate. Just as the maid finished braiding Eloise’s hair, another servant alerted the royal family that dinner was ready to be served. 

    Arthur entered the dining room reserved for casual dinners with Anselm and Eloise following behind. He was pleasantly greeted by the sight of Thean already seated on one side of the table, with Guinevere leaning towards him from her end of the table. The Queen pointed at the cutlery before the young boy, carefully explaining the different purposes of the varying sizes of spoons, forks, and knives. Though Arthur hadn’t specifically asked for Thean to eat with them that night, he was pleased Gwen had taken her own initiative to ensure a place was set for him.

    Thean was now dressed in a new white tunic, brown pants and brown boots. The outfit was a simple one, but still much better than the near rags he had worn on the journey to Camelot. With the runes removed from his arms and the thick layer of grime cleaned from his face and hair, Thean could almost pass for someone who had not spent his entire life in captivity until a few days ago. Only the boy’s unfed figure and the nervous way his eyes seemed to constantly study his surroundings gave away that he had not grown up under kind circumstances. 

    Gwen sat back in her chair, halting whatever cutlery information she had been divulging to Thean. The Queen smiled as her children and husband took their seats at the table. Anselm seemed almost ready to complain about being seated next to Eloise instead of in the seat he usually occupied where Thean now sat, but after a stern glance from his father, the prince decided against it. Once they were all seated, two servants brought in the main dish of the night: a plate of roasted lemon and thyme chicken, whipped potatoes, and shredded brussel sprouts with walnuts. Numerous other side dishes were spread across the table to be sampled by the family and their guest as desired. 

    Anselm quickly dug into his portions, made hungry by the sword practice he had participated in earlier. Across from him, Thean carefully cut into his chicken, moving the knife hesitantly as if the chicken were still alive and capable of feeling the pain.

    “What’s this?” Eloise asked, wrinkling her nose at the purple juice a servant had just poured into her cup. 

    “Prune juice,” Gwen said in a tightened tone she employed only when anticipating an argument with her children. Eloise and Anselm groaned, all too familiar with the drink. “It’s good for you,” the Queen continued, taking a sip of her own portion of juice.

    Following her lead, Thean raised a cup to his lips, only to quickly splutter the drink back into the cup. Eloise burst into gales of laughter as Thean lowered his beverage sheepishly. 

    “The children will be having water for tonight,” Arthur told the servants, earning him a grateful glance from Thean and a glare of disapproval from his wife.

    Anselm and Eloise began their tales of all the happenings in the castle for the past week, at times talking over each other in their eagerness to captivate their father’s attention. Thean remained silent throughout the conversation, still focused on the careful disassembling of his meal. 

    When conversation lulled, Anselm piped up, “Pass the yams.” The orange starch lay closest to Thean, but the boy continued to eat his meal obliviously. “Pass the yams, please,” the prince repeated pointedly.

    Hearing the annoyance in his voice, Thean glanced up to see the entire royal family staring at him. A servant hurried over to correct the unexpected delay in the passing of the yams, but Anselm still stared at Thean as he accepted the helping from the servant. 

    “Don’t you know what yams are?” Eloise asked softly. Her voice wasn’t accusing, but merely shocked. She had always known a vast variety of foods to be served at each meal; to meet a boy who did not know one of the more common side dishes in Camelot must have shocked her. 

    “They didn’t have them where Thean came from,” Gwen replied simply as Thean stared at his plate in silence.

    Arthur wasn’t sure if the Queen knew that to be factually true, but she seemed intent on stopping the inquisitive stares of her children towards Thean. The remainder of the meal continued in relative silence, with Gwen occasionally remarking on the various banquets and pageants occurring throughout the citadel in the upcoming months. Arthur knew she was only doing so to fill the silence, as Guinevere was never one to revel in excess celebration. 

    Later that evening, as Arthur exited a meeting with his advisors, he found his feet leading him to where Guinevere had described Thean’s chambers to be. The Queen had remained in the advisor’s meeting for the first half to hear of the recent liberation mission, but had departed to help prepare her children for bed. The King paused to glance into the slightly ajar doorway of Thean’s new room. Thean lay curled atop the freshly made bed, hugging his knees to his chest. He was still dressed in the outfit he had been in for dinner, despite a set of nightclothes resting at the edge of his bed. In the moonlight, Arthur could see that the boy’s eyes were open, staring out through the window as though they were searching for something. The King considered stepping in to check on the boy, but he had never been the best at comforting others, and so he decided against it, instead slowly closing the door to the room so as not to disturb its occupant. 

    Arthur sighed as he entered his own chambers, his wife turning to greet him. “Are you alright?” she asked, hurrying across the room and placing a hand against his cheek. They shared a quick kiss. 

    “I’m fine,” Arthur murmured, gently kissing her neck. “Just tired.” 

    Gwen pulled away, looking into his eyes. “Arthur, I saw the way you looked in the courtyard. You couldn’t have been just tired.” Arthur smiled faintly at this, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, taking in the absolute familiarity of her presence. How many times had he tried to feign being okay, only for her to lead him out of his denial? 

    “I suppose it has been a rather… confusing week,” he admitted as she gently led him to the edge of their bed. They both sat down, holding each other’s hands loosely as they used to when they had first begun courting. 

    “Then tell me about it,” Gwen said. 

    Arthur nodded, but did not respond immediately. While it was easiest to be transparent around Gwen, he sometimes found she was able to make sense of his own emotions better than he was. Nevertheless, he tried to verbalize his current state of mind for her sake. “I know I should be feeling happy, finding Thean and realizing that Merlin could very well be alive,” Arthur began. “Instead, I just feel so very guilty.” His voice hitched slightly at the admission. “Now that I know the truth, I can’t stop thinking about how long he’s spent in such an awful place, and his family, too.”

    Sometimes, when Arthur accompanied a liberation mission and spotted the miserable children entrenched in slavery, he saw Anselm and Eloise in their faces and his heart twisted in grief. Merlin, meanwhile, had had to live through that reality of seeing his own children grow up in slavery for the past decade.

    “I failed them,” Arthur whispered, and realized with horror that he was crying. He had not truly cried since his admission of the raid on the druid camp to the spirit of that tortured boy, all those years ago. Merlin had been there that night, Arthur remembered; his servant had stood solemnly by, never turning to anger against the crimes of the King. Gwen’s frown deepened in concern, and she lowered her husband’s head into her lap, gently stroking his hair. The royal couple remained in that position for several minutes, the silence broken only by the King’s occasional sniffling and stifled sobs. 

    Once Arthur’s weeping had quieted, Guinevere raised his head until he could meet her eyes. Her hands cupped his chin, her thumbs stroking away his straying tears. “You did not fail them,” she whispered. “You didn’t even know there were camps in the Medora mountains. If you had, and you had known Merlin was in them, I know you would have saved him sooner.” Arthur stared into her brown eyes, and saw that she too looked tearful. Perhaps she was trying to appear strong for him, as he had so often tried to do for her. “There is still hope, Arthur. There always has been,” she continued. “We have to believe that- for our sakes, and for Thean’s.”

    At the mention of the boy’s name, Arthur felt his strength return. He could not let his guilt paralyze him; he had to push forward for the sake of his friend’s son. 

    As Arthur lay back down into the bed, with Gwen settling into his arms, he sent up a silent prayer to whichever gods dwelled above: Thank you for protecting my family. Now help me protect Merlin’s. 

Chapter Text

Thean

    “Is he awake yet?”

    “Obviously not, his eyes are still closed!”

    “Stop shouting, you’re going to wake him!”

    “That’s the point, Elly!”

    Thean had awoken at the beginning of the conversation, but forced his eyes to remain closed until he had fully banished sleep’s hold on his mind. It was a trick he had learned in the mines, when handlers would search for slaves that had awoken early to go fetch firewood on bone-chilling winter mornings. The instinct to carry out the habit had taken over when he initially heard voices not belonging to his family.

    Opening his eyes revealed the prince to be standing only a few inches from Thean’s face, his sister on the tips of her toes to peer over her brother’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” Thean asked, then chided himself for not using any respectful title.

    Anselm did not mind, only stepping back slightly to gaze at him. “Waiting for you to wake up,” he said, as though that was enough explanation.

    “Anselm wants to practice sword work with you,” Eloise piped up.

    “With me?” Thean asked in disbelief, turning to the prince. He had never held a sword. The closest he had gotten to playing with weapons were the rare occasions he and his siblings hadn’t managed to evade being sent to collect firewood. On those days, they'd make quick faux jabs at each other with the skinnier sticks behind the backs of the handlers, stifling their giggles.

    However, such horseplay likely paled in comparison to the training the prince of Camelot had received. “I’m probably rubbish at it,” Thean admitted, swinging his legs over the bed and staring at the floor.

    “You won’t know till you try though,” Anselm replied. “Besides, everyone fights differently. Elyan says I need to train with as many different people as possible so I can become the best.” The prince marched over to the door, then turned around. “Are you coming or not?” he asked impatiently. Thean bit back an annoyed reply; he knew he was a guest in this place, and therefore he should be kind to those who let him stay here, including the King’s son. Thean knew his father had often disobeyed and talked back to Arthur despite his royal status. Yet, Thean’s father had at least been a servant then; he had been of use to the palace, whereas Thean was merely taking up space.

    “Yes, Sire,” he said, slipping on boots. The word felt strange on his tongue; he had only remembered it from when his father had recounted his conversations with Arthur.

    As he followed Eloise and Anselm out into the hallway, a servant came running up. “Prince Anselm, Princess Eloise, where have you been?” the servant demanded, pressing his hands to his knees to catch his breath. “Neither of you were in your chambers!”

    “Thean and I are going to practice sword work,” Anselm replied, unfazed. “And Eloise is going to watch.” Eloise nodded succinctly in agreement.

    “But… you haven’t even had breakfast yet!” the servant insisted. “And you haven’t been prepared for the day!”

    “We got dressed just fine,” Anselm countered, rolling his eyes.

   Surveying the siblings more closely revealed they did indeed look as though their clothes had been put on with less skill than yesterday; Anselm’s belt was loose around his waist, and the necklace on Eloise’s neck was tangled. “And we can eat breakfast after!” the prince insisted, turning heel and heading further down the hallway. The servant remained in place for a moment, letting out a few sputtered gasps of disapproval before following the three children.

    As Anselm walked quickly ahead, expertly navigating the various hallways of the castle, Eloise fell in step beside Thean. She studied him before whispering, “Weren’t you wearing those clothes yesterday?”

    Thean glanced down to realize the princess was correct; he must have fallen asleep in the outfit. However, they still appeared clean to him, far cleaner than the attire he had worn on the journey to Camelot, so he didn’t understand the point of the princess’ question.

    “Yes, is that okay?” A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. He didn’t want to provide any further evidence of how differently he had grown up compared to the prince and princess.

    Eloise shrugged. “I guess it’s fine for now,” she murmured. “You might want to change into something else after practice though. No one really wears the same clothes twice around here, except for the servants sometimes.” Glancing to make sure her brother was out of earshot, she leaned in closer to Thean and whispered, “If you want, I can steal some of Anselm’s clothes for you!”

    Thean chuckled, and Anselm turned around, raising an eyebrow at the guilty looks he received from the two of them. Once he returned his gaze forward, Thean and Eloise exchanged mirthful glances over their shared joke.

    After a series of twists and turns that Thean struggled to commit to memory, they arrived at the training field. Already in the bright light of the morning, several knights practiced combat against dummies or each other. At the far end of the field, Thean marveled at how a knight gracefully launched a javelin into the air, watching as it descended to hit the intended target perfectly in the middle.

    “Micah, help me get the supplies!” Anselm called to his servant as he hurried to a large crate at the edge of the field. The duo returned, weighed down by a myriad of sewn pieces of tough fabric with thin rope attached and wooden shields and swords. Anselm dropped his load carelessly onto the ground, grabbing what he desired and beginning to fasten the garments to his body. After gently placing down his share of supplies, Micah, Anselm’s servant, hurried over to help the prince, but was quickly waved away.

    “I can do it myself. Help Thean,” Anselm said, not glancing up as he tied a piece of makeshift armor to his knee. Micah reluctantly began to tie the armor to Thean instead.

    Though Anselm and Thean were similar in age to one another, Anselm hardly needed to fasten the armor to himself, whereas the servant had to triple knot some of the pieces of armor in order to have them fit well over Thean’s much slimmer frame. Micah handed Thean his own wooden shield and sword. The equipment felt unnatural in his hands, and he found himself unsure of how to properly grip them. He tried to mimic how Anselm held the sword and shield, but still didn’t believe he was doing it quite right. From the sidelines, Eloise sat on a bench, curiously watching her brother and this strange new boy prepare to spar. Anselm stepped closer to Thean, then drew back one of his feet at an angle, raising the shield to protect his torso and face. Thean imitated the same movement. “On the count of three!” Anselm called out, then leapt forward, crashing his sword onto Thean’s, who was only barely able to side-step the sudden movement to avoid its full impact.

    Fuming, he took a few steps back. “You didn’t count at all!” Thean argued, now constantly moving his feet so as not to be caught off guard again. Anselm shrugged, matching Thean’s steps equally.

    “No one actually counts in a real fight,” the prince claimed before swiping his sword forward again. This time, Thean was able to catch the blow with his own sword, diverting Anselm’s weapon with a wild swinging motion. The prince was able to recover more quickly than he had anticipated, driving his shield into Thean’s own. Thean stumbled clumsily, barely able to maintain his balance. Anselm did not seem bothered by his opponent’s struggles, as he continued to rain down on Thean’s shield with consecutive strikes of his sword, with scarcely a second between each blow. “Come on, fight back!” the prince cried. “You’re making it too easy.”

    “And you’re going too fast, Anselm!” Eloise cried from where she sat, though her brother ignored her remark. Thean gasped for air, raising the shield. Each strike knocked a little more breath out of him, and he had nearly forgotten about the sword in his other hand. Although he knew rationally that the fight was merely meant to be a sparring match and nothing more, the prince’s relentless movements had made him feel cornered.

    And so, Thean instinctively turned to what he could always depend on when he felt trapped: magic. “Stabit mora!"  Thean cried, and a wave of energy washed over him. The spell was one meant only to momentarily halt another’s movement; he hadn’t meant to do anything more, he just wanted Anselm to give him a break. Instead, to his horror, Anselm’s feet left the ground and he flew back, landing with a hard thud.

    Thean heard his own wooden sword and shield drop to the ground. Panic flooded him, and he felt as though he should run, but remained rooted to the spot where he stood. Micah rushed over to Anselm, kneeling down to where he still lay. “Sire! Sire, are you alright?” he asked loudly, beginning to run his hands over the prince to check for wounds.

    To Thean’s relief, Anselm began to sit up, clearly conscious. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he muttered, pushing his servant’s hands away.

    With his attention unwanted from the prince, Micah turned his head towards Thean and began to stalk towards him. “You!” Micah said, pointing his finger accusingly. “How dare you use magic against the prince?” Thean felt a thrill of fear at the sight of the angry servant approaching. The way Micah’s hand was raised brought back all too familiar memories of handlers who had looked similarly angered at Thean’s presence.

    Without sparing another thought, Thean darted away, sprinting across the field fast enough that his knees burned at the sudden movement. He ran down the hallways, backtracking from when Anselm had led them to the practice field, barely avoiding the numerous flustered servants and knights he passed. Thean threw open the door to his chambers and slammed it just as quickly behind him. Only when he sat down on his bed, breathing heavily, did he realize he still wore the training armor. Wanting to push away the impending thoughts of panic, he tried to focus on the task of removing the armor, only to find that his hands were shaking.

    Thean was afraid, that much he could surmise about his current state; but he wasn’t just afraid of how his magic had unintentionally harmed Anselm, and how that would affect his stay in the castle. No, he was more afraid of how the use of magic had made him feel. All his life, magic had been a last resort Thean had relied upon only in desperate circumstances in which he feared for his or his family’s safety. The after effects of feeling lightheaded, nauseous, and weak caused by the runes littering his body had deterred him from using magic when not absolutely necessary. However, when Thean had used his magic to stop Anselm, he hadn’t felt weakened as he had expected, but strengthened. In that small space in time before he had realized the negative effects of the spell, he had been exhilarated by the power surging through his body. He was ashamed to admit to himself that performing that spell had felt good and right, despite its violent outcome.

    With the training armor off and in a pile on the floor, Thean lay back on his bed to stare at the ceiling above. Despite his panic, he was able to quell his thoughts and slow his breathing. He tried to think of nothing at all. This was yet another skill he had acquired from his life in the mines; the ability to be awake but remain in a relative daze. The hard labor of searching for ore was physically demanding but mentally tedious, and so Thean had learned early on that he had to silence his mind to avoid going insane as some slaves did periodically. With the unfamiliar environment surrounding him in the castle though, the task proved more difficult than it had when he was mining.

    After some time of trying and failing to calm himself, a knock came at the door. Thean sat up, fully expecting to find a knight ordering him to leave the castle immediately. Instead, a servant came in carrying a tray of food. She placed it on the round table near the door, curtsied, and exited wordlessly. Thean approached the tray slowly, perturbed by its presence. Why were they feeding him? Why had no one come in to punish him yet? Whenever a slave had upset one of the handlers in the mines, it had often resulted in a meal being withheld.

    Thean took the tray and placed it on the floor by the foot of his bed. There were two chairs around the small table, but they seemed foreign to him. He was so used to sitting on the floor of a cave or on rocks whilst eating, that the infinitely comfortable sensation of sitting in a chair was somehow uncomfortable to him. Inspecting the meal, Thean realized he had no idea what he was looking at. There was some sort of meat, but it wasn’t any kind he had ever eaten before; most of the time the stews in the mines had been prepared with squirrel or some other kind of forest vermin. The only part of the meal Thean vaguely recognized was an orange pile of mush. He grasped a portion of the yams in one hand, preparing to taste it and not wanting to use the unnaturally clean utensils provided.

    Stupid yams, Thean thought, remembering how Anselm and Eloise had stared at him when he had not known what the dish was. In a fit of frustration, he flung the yams at his door, watching with horror as that same door opened. Queen Guinevere poked her head through the door just as the yams hit it with a thwack! She watched, eyes wide, as the yams slid to the floor, leaving an orange streak in their trail. Only once they reached the ground did she turn an inquisitive gaze to Thean.

    “I, um…” he started, but realized he had no suitable explanation for the strange sight.

    Gwen held a hand in the air, shaking her head in amusement. “No need to explain, I don’t like yams much either,” she said, and gracefully slid through the door, sidestepping the orange pile. Thean realized he must look odd sitting on the floor when a perfectly good chair was available, but he did not want to get up, even in the Queen’s presence.

    “Are you here to send me away?” Thean asked, wanting to get the matter of hand over with. He pressed his back against the foot of his bed and pulled his knees to his chest. He wanted to appear as small as possible; maybe then his problems wouldn’t seem so big.

    “Send you away?” Gwen repeated, walking over to the boy. Thean expected her to sit down in the chair, but instead she hitched up her dress and sat down next to Thean on the floor, crossing her legs at her ankles. “Why would we do that?”

    “I hurt Anselm,” Thean said, surprised any explanation at all was needed. “With magic,” he clarified. The Queen’s relative calm somewhat frustrated him further; he wished she’d just show her anger towards him outright so that he wouldn’t have to guess what his punishment would be.

    “He’s fine, Thean, truly,” Gwen said softly. She reached to put a reassuring hand on Thean’s shoulder, but he leaned away from the touch. Her hand instead settled onto the space in the floor between them. “He has a few bruises, but nothing more than what he usually gets from practice. This time the bruises just happened to come from a different source.” Thean was relieved to hear Anselm hadn’t suffered any significant injuries, but did not let himself revel in the feeling. He had harmed royalty; surely that was unforgivable? Gwen peered at the numerous emotions that skittered across Thean’s face. Wanting to banish his unease, she continued, “Arthur’s more mad with Anselm than anyone else. He made it clear that our children weren’t to push you too hard with play until you had a chance to rest.”

    Thean nodded; though he couldn’t understand why the King wasn’t upset with him, that at least meant he could continue to stay at the Castle for the time being. “Is Anselm mad?” he asked. The prince had understandably appeared flustered at being thrown by magic, but Thean hadn’t stayed long enough to further gauge his reaction.

    “He’s frustrated because he doesn’t think he won that fight, but nothing beyond that,” Gwen said, a twinkle in her eyes. “Thankfully, neither he nor his father are good at holding grudges.”

    “Micah might be,” Thean said, his voice soft as he remembered the fear he had felt at the servant’s anger.

    “Micah?” Gwen repeated, her confusion evident at the mention of the servant’s name. “If he raised his voice at you, it wasn’t personal, Thean,” she said sympathetically. “Servants can get quite upset if they think their master has been harmed. Your father was the same way whenever he thought Arthur had been hurt.”

    At the mention of his father, Thean turned his head up towards the Queen. She had a wistful look on her face, as though lost in a bittersweet memory. Though many of the tales his father had told Thean centered around his and Arthur’s adventures, Merlin had always talked highly of his time with the Queen, going as far back as when they had both been mere servants in the castle.

    Snapping out of her reverie, Gwen said to Thean, “I’ve been meaning to show you something.” She stood up and held out a hand to help Thean up, which he accepted. Glancing at the mostly untouched platter on the floor, along with the sloppy pile of yams, she added, “You should eat afterwards, though.” Thean nodded, stifling the embarrassment he felt at the vegetable-provoked anger the queen had seen him displaying minutes ago.

    He followed the Queen until they reached a door she stopped in front of, and Thean marveled at how she knocked before entering, only prying the door open when a soft voice responded, “Come in!” The inner chambers beyond the door resembled that of the main room in Gaius’ house; shelves filled with herbs and bottled remedies, and several potions currently brewing on the many tables scattered across the room. Thick tomes were either propped up regally alongside the shelves, or opened to desired passages, their pages curled from frequent use.

    “Helena, Rupert,” Guinevere addressed the two figures in the room. Helena curtsied, while the young man Thean surmised to be Rupert bowed. Thean was surprised to see Helena in the castle; he had assumed she was just a standard healer, not the Court Physician. Rupert appeared to be in his teenage years, and so Thean guessed him to be Helena’s apprentice. Just like my father was to Gaius, Thean thought, and it occurred to him these were perhaps the same chambers his father had resided in all those years ago.

    The boy glanced around, as though expecting to see his father round a corner, grounding herbs with a mortar and pestle as Rupert had just been doing before the Queen’s arrival. “I was hoping to show Thean around Merlin’s chambers,” Queen Guinevere explained to the waiting physicians. Thean did not even try to mask his surprise; it had been over a decade since his father had stepped foot in Camelot. Surely his chambers had been remodeled into something else?

    “Ah, yes, of course,” Helena replied, smiling at Thean. “It’s good to see you again, Thean. I’m glad Gaius was able to remove your runes; he’s always been an expert at that.” Thean only managed to nod and smile back, unsure how to talk to the physician whose services he had denied. He wondered in embarrassment if she remembered how he had stared at her back in the woodwork camp.

    Guinevere beckoned him forward and they walked together to the end of the room, where she unlatched and opened a door that creaked from lack of use. Light streamed in through a small, high window, dust floating in its wake. On the bed lay a striped blanket, folded neatly as though someone had only made it just the other day. Buckets filled with a variety of brooms, dusters, and sharpening tools indicated that the room had belonged to a servant. On the wall were a few drawings, one of a simple tree, another of what appeared to be some type of rune; Thean did not recognize it from any of the harmful ones that had been on his body just the other day. Despite the fact that likely no one had slept in the room for ten years, it looked well kept; there was some dust on the chest at the foot of the bed, and the dresser beside it, but not an unreasonable amount.

    Thean turned slowly in a circle, taking in the sight. He felt an ache of sadness take over him; he had always known that his father had called Camelot home, but standing in the room he had dwelled in made it seem so real. Unlike Thean and his siblings, their father had always had a place to call home; he just had never been able to return to it.

    Gwen studied Thean, trying to gauge the various emotions running across the boy’s face; none of them seemed joyful. She had hoped the visit to Merlin’s chambers would comfort the boy, but now that she was here, she realized that Thean may be unable to make the connection between the man that had inhabited these chambers, and the man he called his father. That Merlin, the one who lived in the mines of Medora, no longer had any of the possessions in this room.

    “When your father became Court Sorcerer, Arthur offered to give him new and larger chambers more typical of an advisor,” she began, if only to fill the sad silence that persisted between her and Merlin’s son. “Merlin refused. He didn’t want to leave Gaius. And when your father was…” She trailed off. “When he was gone, Gaius couldn’t bring himself to renovate this room. Everything here is almost the same as when your father was last here. Whenever Gaius visits the castle, he always spend some time here, tidying up and keeping it nice for when your father returns.”

    Thean nodded; the relative cleanliness of the room made sense then. “That’s so kind,” he said softly, awed at the idea of Gaius still returning to this room after so many years of Merlin being gone.

    Guinevere nodded, glad Thean had something positive to hold onto in this room. She did not mention to him how Arthur avoided this room as if it were diseased, along with the physician’s chambers in general, out of guilt. Whereas the room was a place Gaius could reflect on happier times, for Arthur, it served as a reminder of who was missing from it.

    Thean strayed over to the bookshelf in the corner of the room, running his fingers curiously along their bookends. “Most of those are spellbooks,” Guinevere explained. “You can read some of them, if you want.” At this, Thean’s hands fell from the edges of the books as though he were no longer interested. He looked down at the ground in shame.

    “I don’t know how to read,” he admitted, his voice hardly a whisper.

    Gwen felt disappointment at her failure to realize such an obstacle. Of course the boy didn’t know how to read; handlers hardly took the time to educate their slaves to do more than the most menial of tasks. “I’ll teach you, then,” she said, not even having to consider the offer. Thean looked up at her and offered a small smile in response. She grabbed the spellbook Thean’s hands had lingered on the longest, and placed it gently in an empty bucket. “We can start lessons tomorrow,” she said, and Thean nodded.

    “I’d like that,” he murmured, and his smile grew bigger. Gwen’s heart seized; it was bittersweet, to see how much Thean resembled his father. The boy’s smile reminded her of so many conversations in shared jokes about Arthur, advice on servant duties, and finding their way through situations as dangerous as they were ridiculous. As she took in the boy’s presence, it dawned on her that while he certainly appreciated the new clothes he had received, they were entirely new and unfamiliar to him.

    Kneeling down, she picked up the key beside the chest at the foot of the bed and unlocked it. Before Merlin’s magic had been known throughout the castle, he had stored various sorcery-related items in the chest. It was only in his last year in Camelot that he had no reason to hide his talents anymore, and instead used the chest for storage of clothes. Gwen sighed as she took in the sight of the familiar suede jackets, blue and red tunics and neckerchiefs. Even after his appointment to Court Sorcerer, Merlin had stubbornly insisted on wearing the same clothes he had always worn unless attending an important meeting or banquet. Otherwise, he had only accepted having multiple copies of the same red and blue outfits.

    “These were your father’s clothes,” she said, and Thean knelt down beside her. It was hard to picture his father in the cheerful shades of red and blue before him; the outfits provided by the handlers were often in dark shades of black, brown, and occasionally green. Gwen carefully picked up one of the red neckerchiefs, gazing at it fondly. “He always wore one of these,” she said. “Sometimes the other servants made fun of him for it, but he didn’t care.” Turning to Thean, she gently wrapped the cloth over his head, adjusting it until it rested comfortably around his neck. “It suits you,” she said, chuckling softly.

    Thean looked down at the neckerchief. It was warm and comforting, like the blankets that covered the bed back in the guest room he occupied. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the edges of the cloth, and raising it to his nose inhaled deeply, taking in the faint smell of herbs and leaves. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he thought he detected his father’s scent there too, recognizing it from nights when he and his siblings had huddled near their parents for warmth.

    “Can I have this?” he asked the Queen, half-expecting her to deny his request. He had never had anything that was truly his own before; even the clothes provided by the handlers were eventually replaced after a year or two, when they were too tattered to cling to his frame. Once, he and Ava had tried to build a makeshift doll out of an assortment of twigs and rocks, but only a few nights later it had been stolen while they were asleep by some unknown child in the mines.

    To his relief, Gwen nodded her head. “Of course. I think your father would be happy to let you have it.” She stood up, wincing at her sore joints as her knees popped. She hadn’t sat on any floor this frequently since Anselm and Eloise were much younger. Thean seemed to have a habit of sitting on the floor, though, and she did not want to make him feel odd for his ways. “Is there anything else you’d like?” she asked Thean. She was happy that the boy felt comfortable enough to ask for something, when until now he had not dared to ask for anything.

    Thean glanced around the room, but his eyes turned back to the chest, and on an impulse he lifted one of the blue tunics out. He held it out in front of his chest with both hands; it was far too big for him, yet he still wished to have it. He looked up at Gwen, and she nodded. Thean gently placed the blue tunic into the same bucket that held the spellbook, and carried the bucket as he followed the Queen out of the room. He stole one last glance over his shoulder at his father’s old chambers before closing the door, wishing that one day he could see his father standing in that same room.

    When Thean arrived with the Queen back in his own chambers, he noticed with surprise that the mess of yams had been cleaned up, and the pile of training armor was also now absent. His lunch tray lay still untouched on the floor where he had left it. “I’ll be seeing you for dinner, Thean,” Guinevere said. Thean tried to meet her gaze, but failed and swallowed nervously instead as the Queen exited the room. He had hoped he would simply be taking his meals in his room from now on, and did not want to think of having to sit through another dinner with the royal family, with all of his ignorance on their ways evident just from the way he ate. Thean especially did not want to see Anselm after their incident that morning. He had no doubt the prince did not think well of him anymore.

    The growling of his stomach interrupted his worried thoughts, and he set to eating his now cold lunch. Although he had skipped breakfast, he was used to having an empty stomach. Even the hunger that he felt now was nothing in comparison to what he had endured during the worst winters in the mines. This hunger was lighter and served simply as a gentle reminder to eat, rather than an urgent and cripplingly painful protest. This allowed Thean to fully enjoy the rich and unfamiliar tastes of his lunch. Though he was tempted to use his hands, he tried to practice with his fork and knife, especially when cutting into the cylindrical meat on the plate.

    When he had finished his meal, Thean sat on the floor, unsure what to do with himself. He was so used to always having a task before him, or at least being near his siblings or parents to chat before going to sleep. Never before had he had a whole day ahead of him without any objective forced upon him. Thean couldn’t even remember a time when he had been totally alone, without anyone to supervise his actions and chastise him for slowing down. Being able to sit on the floor when the sun was still in the sky, with his hands unmoving at his sides, had certainly not been allowed in the mines. What had his father done in his spare time? Merlin had often complained to his children about the lack of respite the King had given him, but there had been occasional times when he talked of calm nights spent conversing with Gaius or getting lost in a book.

    Reading, Thean thought, his eyes turning to the spellbook still in the bucket. If only I could read. His admission to Guinevere had been embarrassing, but he had been comforted by her offer to teach him. At least he had that to look forward to.

    Thean curiously picked up the book and began to turn through the pages. To his delight, amidst the unfamiliar symbols that he guessed to be words, there were a multitude of small hand-drawn images portraying what the described spells could produce. Some were beautiful depictions of flowers sprouting from the ground, while others were detailed images of grotesque looking wounds. Thean’s eyes lingered the longest on a section in which bright images appeared above campfires, like shadow puppets made of embers. There seemed to be notes written in blue around an image of a dragon made of embers, and Thean surmised the handwriting of his father. A cluster of thick notes encircled the image of a dragon above a fire- Thean remembered his father telling him of how he had used that spell to reveal his magic to the king.

    The book was large enough that by sunset, Merlin’s son had only skimmed through half the pages. He was on a section with an image of a man standing in a boat, his hands spread out and a gust of wind billowing behind him, when a knock came at the door of Thean’s chambers. Thean expected a servant, but was surprised to see none other than the King of Camelot himself entering the room. Thean stood up suddenly from where he had been sat leaning against the bedpost with the spellbook. Regaining some of his composure, he bowed quickly to the king. He tried to think of what to say, whether to apologize about hurting Anselm or avoiding the topic, when he realized his spellbook lay still open in front of him.

    “I, uh…” Thean began, but found himself unsure of what to say. The fact that he had a spellbook just after harming the prince’s son with magic may not look good on his part.

    The King strode over slowly, staring down at the book as well. “Water spells,” he murmured. “Merlin used those quite often to heat buckets of water for baths. Sometimes he heated them too much, though,” Arthur said, his eyes unfocused by a distant memory. Noticing the still nervous look on Thean’s face, he offered the boy a small smile. “It’s alright, Thean, Guinevere told me everything. Anselm shouldn’t have pushed you to train with him in the first place, I told him to let you rest for a while.” Arthur shook his head in exasperation as he mentioned his son. “And I’m glad to see you’re putting some of Merlin’s stuff to use. I almost missed seeing those neckerchiefs of his,” Arthur added, trying to gauge the boy’s silence.

    Thean nodded shyly, but still refused to meet the King’s eyes. Though Arthur spoke in reassuring and soft tones, Thean couldn’t help but worry that perhaps he was more disappointed with Thean than he was admitting. After all, Thean hadn’t been exactly warm and inviting towards the King these past few days, and now he had gone and used magic on his son in what should have just been mere swordplay. “C’mon, dinner should be served soon,” the King said, heading to the door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Thean followed.

    En route to the dining hall, Arthur was stopped by a messenger. They talked briefly of agriculture on the outskirts of Camelot, until the King dismissed the messenger. Bowing respectfully, the messenger said, “Have a good evening, Sire; you as well, Master Thean.”

    Thean startled at the words; he knew that he was likely talked of in the castle, but had been surprised the messenger instantly knew who he was. He must still look out of place despite wearing clothes from the castle. That wasn’t what really bothered him, though; it was the way the messenger had addressed him. Master Thean, as though Thean were superior and the messenger inferior. It felt so wrong; Thean had done nothing to earn his place in the castle, he was here only by his father’s past connection to the King.

    “No,” Thean heard himself saying, surprised at the loudness of his voice. The messenger paused, having taken two steps to depart from them. “Just… Thean. Just call me Thean, please,” the boy stammered out.

    The messenger studied Thean for an uncomfortably long moment before nodding and bowing again. “Have a good evening then, Thean,” he said, and quickly strode down the hallway in the opposite direction of the dining hall. Arthur took a moment to study the boy as well, before clapping him on the shoulder and resuming their walk to the dining hall.

    Thean stayed close behind the King as they entered the room; the Queen and their children were already at their respective seats, with Anselm and Eloise talking over each other in an attempt to vy for their mother’s attention. The chatter diminished as Thean and the King took their seats. Eloise was the first to break the silence as she stared inquisitively at Thean and asked, “Why are you wearing a scarf? It’s almost summer.”

    “It’s not a scarf, it’s a neckerchief,” Thean explained, self-consciously adjusting the garment around his neck. His gaze flitted between the princess and the prince, trying to determine their current attitudes towards him. Anselm’s gaze was unreadable and relatively neutral, although Thean couldn’t determine if he was only remaining calm due to the presence of his parents.

    Eloise, meanwhile, did not seem to hold any sense of accusation as she studied Thean. “Oh,” was all she said, and the silence was thankfully broken by the sound of a servant beginning to lay out the night’s meal before them. Thean stared at the bountiful food, once again feeling a mixed sensation of confusion and wonder. While the food in the castle was certainly the best he’d ever had, at times he almost longed for the familiar plainness of a simple husk of bread and a small bowl of broth.

    “Ah, what a nice spread,” the Queen said, smiling appreciatively at the food set before her. “It’s been a while since we’ve had pike. And the green beans are delicious this time of year.” As Guinevere continued to comment on the dishes of the night, it dawned on Thean that she may be doing so for his benefit. Without her remarks on the dishes, he’d have no idea what he was eating, resulting in perhaps a repeat of the yams incident the night before. Not for the first time that day, Thean felt a surge of gratitude for the Queen. Though he’d heard of Gwen’s compassion in his father’s tales, being the recipient of her kindness made it all the more clear why his father had been such a steadfast friend of the Queen.

    Once Gwen had commented on the majority of dishes of the night, the conversation turned to Arthur reminding his children to attend history lessons the next day, which elicited a multitude of complaints from the prince and princess. The King deflected each of their remonstrations, describing the importance of such lessons being a “duty” that the royal family had to uphold. Thean did not pay much to conversation at hand, instead focusing on his meal. The fish was thankfully less difficult to cut into than the chicken of the previous night, and he was pleased to notice that the knife and fork felt a little less awkward in his hands. Halfway through his meal, he glanced up to see a bowl of a now familiar orange dish near Anselm, and instead of the annoyance he had felt at their sight during lunchtime, his curiosity rose.

    “Pass the yams, please,” Thean said on an impulse.

    Just as they had the night before, the royal family fell silent at the memory of the troublesome past of the otherwise innocent dish. Thean was about to take back his comment by muttering a ‘never mind’ when Anselm reached for the dish to pass it across the table to where Thean sat. “Thanks,” Thean responded as he partially stood from his seat to receive the bowl, meeting Anselm’s gaze in the process. A truce seemed to pass between the two boys during the short moment when both held the bowl.

    “Yeah, of course,” Anselm replied in a tone softer than he usually spoke. The edges of his mouth tilted up in a lopsided smile. As Thean sat back down in his seat, he glanced at the Queen and King sharing a knowing smile from their opposite ends of the table. The royal family resumed their conversation, albeit in a more relaxed tone than before. Thean raised the first spoonful of yams to his mouth.

    They were delicious.

    *****

    Once he found the way back to his room, Thean was of the opinion that the day had been eventful enough as it was, and felt quite ready to collapse into bed and be engulfed by dreams of his family. He paused at the sight of the nightclothes still untouched at the edge of his bed; they looked as soft as the blankets beneath them, but Thean felt weary at the thought of changing into yet another set of unfamiliar clothes. Walking to the bucket he had brought from his father’s room, Thean picked up the large blue tunic.

    After carefully unwrapping the neckerchief and placing it in the bucket, he then changed out of his white tunic and into his father’s old blue tunic. The garment was quite baggy on him, as expected; the sleeves went past his hands, and the ends of the shirt reached the middle of his thighs. Though the fabric was subpar and thin from years of use, the fact that his father had once worn this shirt made Thean feel infinitely more content in it than he would have in the nightclothes. Keeping on the same brown pants he had worn throughout the day and making a mental note to change into a new pair in the morning, Thean blew out the candles in the room and settled into bed. He wrapped the numerous blankets around himself, pretending instead that they were the arms of his siblings and parents. As he drifted closer to sleep, it became easier to imagine that he was back in the caves.

    The peace of sleep was interrupted by a scuffling from somewhere within his room. Thean’s eyes opened; the unidentifiable sound frightened him, as it was that of someone who was trying and failing to stay quiet. He glanced out the window to see the moon still in approximately the same position it had been when he went to sleep, thus not much time could have passed since he first closed his eyes. Another shuffling sound was heard, and this time Thean was able to trace the noise as one coming from the small door at the corner of his room. He had not paid much attention to the door when the Queen had first showed him to his chambers, but now he chided himself for not investigating earlier. He had assumed it to be only for storage, but the strange sounds coming from it seemed to suggest otherwise. With a start, he realized the knob of the mysterious door began to turn. Thean leapt out of bed, holding his open hands before him in preparation for the unknown threat.

    “Who’s there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

    “Thean?” came a familiar voice. Thean was only able to place it once it continued to talk. “Let me in! The door is locked from the outside.” A frustrated kick from behind the door confirmed the voice’s anger at being unable to enter the room.

    “Anselm?” Thean whispered in disbelief. With some hesitation, he opened the door to see the sight of the prince standing in ivory nightclothes behind it. An unlit hallway stretched behind him. With a huff, Anselm entered Thean’s room, striving purposefully forward until he could sit comfortably on the edge of his bed.

    “I’ve used the servant hallways before, but this is the first time a door’s been locked from the outside,” he explained, as though this would quell all the questions Thean had. He turned his head to the very confused dark-haired boy. “Micah never leaves me alone till he thinks I’m going to bed, and the guards don’t like seeing me out of my chambers at nighttime, so they’re the only way I can get around without being followed.” Anselm paused a moment. “Sorry if I woke you,” he added as an afterthought.

    Thean shook his head, not even trying to hide his befuddlement. Only just that morning, he had knocked the prince off his feet, and now the boy had come to his room willingly in the middle of the night. It was too much to comprehend. “Why are you here?” Thean finally asked.

    Anselm seemed to perk up at the reminder to describe his reason for sneaking around. “I wanted to show you a cool place,” he said, walking back to the entrance of the dark servant hallway. “You can only access it through these,” he said, gesturing past the small door.

    Thean gazed into the darkness hesitantly. He was used to the dark; in the caves, on some nights of the new moon, he couldn’t see his own hand if he held it in front of his face. At least then, though, Thean knew every nook and cranny of the caves by memory, so the darkness had not fazed him. The shadowy servant hallways seemed much more menacing due to their unfamiliarity.

    Anselm began to stride through the entrance, glancing back at Thean. “Are you coming?” he asked.

    Thean nodded reluctantly. It seemed to be a habit of the royal family to ask him to follow them without really giving him an option to decline. A small part of him wondered if Anselm was going to play a trick on him as revenge for using magic earlier, but banished the thought. Unless he was a better actor than Thean realized, the prince seemed too genuine to be capable of such deceit.

    As they walked further from the moonlight of Thean’s chambers, he had to rely mainly on the sounds of Anselm’s breathing and footsteps to know he was going in the right direction. There were several turns throughout their journey, and the hallway was much more narrow than the standard hallways of the castle.

    “Elly and I first discovered these a year ago,” Anselm said as they made their way, and Thean was grateful for the sound of his voice amidst the blackness. “We got tired of being told to go to bed around a certain time, and so we found a way through these hallways to go back and forth between each other’s rooms so we could stay up and play together some nights. Not many servants use the hallways anymore. My dad never liked the idea of the servants not being allowed to enter through the same doors as everyone else, so he changed that tradition when he became king.”

    There was pride in his voice as Anselm described his father’s treatment of the servants. The King seemed to have changed from his days of throwing goblets at Thean’s father.

   The prince finally paused in his journey, placing a hand against Thean’s chest to indicate he should stop as well. Anselm rapped his fingers against various parts of the wall until they produced a sound more hollow than when he had hit the preceding areas. Satisfied, he stretched a hand above his head until his fingers wrapped around some sort of latch, and then tugged. Dim light flooded into the servant hallway from a square just big enough for a person to squeeze through. Anselm went first through it, scrambling and shifting until he could drag himself upwards through the opening. Remaining crouched down, he then turned back to grab Thean’s arms and help the other boy up. It took a moment for Thean to realize the short surface above his head was not a ceiling, but instead the bottom of some sort of stone table. The view in front of Thean, meanwhile, was of thin stone pillars and tall candelabras covered in cobwebs.

     Anselm moved out from under the table and turned around to survey what lay behind it, with Thean quickly following. Windows on one side of the room allowed moonlight to stream in, the light glistening on rows of wooden benches that faced the table from which they had emerged. The outer ring of what could have once been a large wooden door lay at the opposite end of the room, but was now filled with bricks. The room was fairly small, but the ceiling was high, and on it were numerous depictions of men and women alike with their hands outstretched and golden threads of light surrounding them.

   They’re doing magic, Thean thought. The feeling in the air seemed to agree with his conclusion; it felt as though some force was gently tugging on him, encouraging him to raise his hands and perform a spell, any spell.

    “What is this place?” he asked Anselm, although he felt as though he might already know the answer himself.

    “A place of worship for the Old Religion,” Anselm responded. “My grandfather- Uther- must have covered the entrance during the Great Purge, but I guess he didn’t know about the entrance through the servant’s chambers. I’m not even sure how long that entrance has been there, it might have been built separately by a servant.” Anselm’s eyes lazily wandered the room; he seemed visibly relaxed here, as though it was his own chambers. “You haven’t seen the best part, though,” he said, striding past the benches and to another door on the windowed side of the room.

    The prince opened the door to reveal a small clearing covered in grass and spotted with blue flowers. The night sky was visible above; the gray stones of the castle bordered each side of the clearing. Training armor and wooden shields and swords similar to the ones Thean and Anselm had used earlier lay in a heap on the grass, with a doll gently resting beside them, indicating that Anselm and Eloise had both visited this place before. What caught Thean’s eyes the most was a raised stone bowl at the end of the clearing. He approached it and peered in curiously; the water was nearly black, making the moon and stars reflected in it appear all the more bright. Thean felt a sense of calm flood over him as he observed the still water.

    “So, what do you think?” Anselm called from where he still stood by the door.

    “It’s beautiful,” Thean murmured, and he had to make a mental effort to tear his gaze away from the reflection of the night sky. He turned back to Anselm, trying to focus. “But why did you take me here?” he asked.

    Anselm walked forward until he was only a few paces from Thean. “When you used magic on me at the training grounds, I realized something,” Anselm began. Thean opened his mouth to apologize, but the prince continued speaking anyway. “I may only fight with a sword and shield, but my opponents won’t always do the same. I could face people with magic- people like you- one day, and they might not hold back like you did.” Thean winced at what the prince had said- people like you.

    “Prince Anselm…” Thean began, unsure of what he even intended to say.

    “Anselm,” the prince replied. “Just Anselm is fine.”

    “Anselm,” Thean repeated, and thought back to how he had similarly stopped a messenger only hours before for the same reason. “I’m still not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”

    The prince sighed impatiently. “I want you to fight me using magic so I can learn to defend myself against it,” he clarified, squaring his shoulders.

    Thean blinked, dumbfounded. “You what?” he asked. Anselm raised an eyebrow, as if to say Do I need to repeat myself? “I mean, aren’t you afraid of me?” Thean asked. The prince’s lack of a strong reaction to what had happened in the morning bothered him. “Aren’t you afraid of magic?”

    Anselm knitted his brow and frowned. “I know you won’t actually try to hurt me,” he said. “I’m only as afraid of magic as I am of swords and shields. They’re either weapons or nothing at all, depending on who’s using it.” The prince’s straightforward answers confused Thean even further. How can he trust me so much? He wondered. I don’t even trust myself that much. And that was just the problem.

    “I’ve hardly ever used my magic until these past few days,” he explained. “I’m not even sure what I’m capable of doing myself.”

    Anselm smiled at the boy. “You’re Merlin’s son,” the prince said confidently. “You can probably do tons. This way, you can learn how to defend yourself too.” Thinking that the problem was entirely solved, Anselm picked up a heap of training armor, shields, and swords, dropping the pile at Thean’s feet. “C’mon, we don’t have much time if we want to sleep at all.”

    The prince began to strap on his own set of armor. Thean hesitantly followed, but his fingers stumbled clumsily over the string. He tried to observe the way Anselm was making knots, but the other boy’s fingers moved too fast for his gaze to follow. Once Anselm noted the other boy’s struggles, he wordlessly bent to begin tying the fabric to Thean’s knees. The boys made their way to the center of the clearing, swords and shields in hand. Anselm began circling Thean and striking at his shield, albeit more slowly than he had been earlier in the day. Thean realized gratefully that perhaps Anselm had paid some heed to the King’s warning to not push him too hard. Even with the slowed pace, Merlin’s son struggled to keep up, and fell into the pattern of using his shield far more than his sword.

    As his stamina decreased, he remembered that Anselm had wanted him to use his magic. The gentle tug he had felt earlier near the altar was still there. He focused on it, and felt an energy rise and center within him like a loose string pulled taut. As Anselm took a step forward, Thean murmured, “Offendimus.” The prince’s knees locked into each other, pulling him to the ground. Noting momentarily that Anselm appeared relatively unharmed, Thean seized the moment to rush forward with sword and shield hand.

    Anselm quickly leapt back to his feet and raised his shield deftly to block Thean’s wild swings, laughing in surprise. “Nice one!” he cried with a grin, swiping his own sword back in retaliation. Thean allowed himself to grin back; unlike earlier in the day, he had felt a better sense of control over his magic. The two boys continued sparring for several more minutes, with Thean occasionally using spells to create faults in the prince’s otherwise fluid movements. Each time, Thean tried to take advantage of the opening to strike with his sword, and each time, Anselm recovered even more quickly than the last.

    Only when neither were able to catch their breath did they drop their swords and shields to the ground. Anselm laid back down on the grass, the training armor still wrapped around his elbows and knees. Thean laid down a few feet to his right, as the ground suddenly looked like a welcoming place to rest. Once his breathing had slowed down somewhat, Thean glanced up at the sky, reflecting on the strange turn of events that had led him to this clearing. He heard Anselm’s confident words echo in his head: You’re Merlin’s son. As though that fact alone made Thean simultaneously powerful and trustworthy.

    Thean wasn’t quite so sure he was worthy of such faith. Merlin was wise and brave, and his son didn’t doubt that. Ava had often displayed her father’s wisdom, and Clo had shown his father’s ability to withstand danger with a smile still on his face. Thean, meanwhile, didn’t believe himself to share either of those traits. Sure, he certainly looked like Merlin, but he thought their similarities might stop there. Sometimes he worried he was too much like his mother- timid and quiet, unwilling and unable to be of any real use when it mattered. He loved his mother, of course- she cared for him and his siblings deeply, but when a handler got too rough with them or gave too little food for their evening meal, she never said anything. She kept her head down and her mouth shut. Only Thean’s father had ever seemed to talk back to the handlers when it truly mattered.

    Thean’s reaction to when the Knights of Camelot had liberated the woodwork camp had only solidified his lack of faith in himself. He had grown up his whole life hearing of the bravery of Arthur and his Knights. And yet, he had run. He had tried to run from some of the only people aside from his family that would be willing to help him. When Thean thought now of what might have happened had Arthur not chased after him, he shuddered. And despite the presence of the panting prince beside him, loneliness overwhelmed Thean. He missed each member of his family for different reasons: his mother, for the lullabies she sang them at night; his father, for the light in his eyes when he told his tales; his sister, for the way she understood what he meant without words; and his brother, for the goofy grin he always gave Thean when they were reunited after a long day of mining.

    As he gazed at the stars above and thought of his family, he sent out a silent question to them: What does the sky look like where you are?

Chapter Text

Arthur

    There should have been word by now. 

    That was the first thought Arthur had each morning when he woke up, and each night when he went to bed. Whenever a patrol was sent to scout out a slave camp, the leader was instructed to send a message back to Camelot to notify the king of the completion of their mission and impending return. Such messages were kept fairly cryptic and devoid of any exact details on the objective or location of the knight’s mission in case a messenger was intercepted.

    Sir Leon had been on many patrols prior to Arthur assigning him the Medora mountains, and knew the protocol. Thus with each night that passed without any messages received whatsoever from Sir Leon’s patrol group, the King’s concern deepened. He found his thoughts drifting with worry during council meetings and meals. At that present moment, he only dimly heard his son eagerly discussing a new sword movement Sir Percival had taught him that morning. Across the table, Thean listened to Anselm’s tale politely. 

     A week had passed since Thean’s arrival in Camelot, and while it had not been without initial incident, the boy seemed to be slowly adjusting to his new circumstances. The fire and spite Arthur had seen in the boy’s eyes when they'd first met had dimmed to calmer embers. Somewhat surprisingly, Anselm seemed to have taken quite a liking to the boy regardless of Thean’s prior use of magic on him in swordplay. While Anselm had not practiced any swordplay with Merlin’s son since that day, Arthur had often seen the two near each other in the halls before and after meals, with Anselm explaining various people and areas of the castle and Thean listening on. And while Thean was still relatively quiet during their meals, he seemed to have relaxed more into accepting his time with the royal family, even allowing himself to smile and laugh in all the right places of their conversations. 

    “Dad?” Anselm’s voice asked, breaking Arthur from his thoughts. “Elly and I are going to show Thean around the ramparts now, is that okay?” The ramparts of the castle were quite breathtaking and extensive, and were commonly shown to guests of Camelot for the beautiful views they offered. 

    “That’ll have to wait until later, Anselm,” Arthur said. Anselm and Eloise began to protest, but the King continued, “Lord Clyton is arriving in the castle soon. I’m sure his son will want to practice swordplay with you.” Lord Clyton held lands in Camelot responsible for potato farming, and was coming to discuss a recent blight on his area. 

    For once, Anselm seemed displeased at the mention of swordplay; he sank back into his chair with a dramatic groan. “Nigel’s the worst, ” the prince complained. “He hardly ever gets a hit in, and when he does, it’s way too hard.” 

    “He always tugs on my braids,” Eloise added, wrinkling her nose at the mention of the noble’s son.

    “Then don’t let him hit you,” Arthur replied shortly, stabbing at his pork. “And don’t let him tug on your braids,” he said to Eloise, earning him a meaningful look from Guinevere. He usually wasn’t so curt with his children, but the past week had been wearing his patience thin.

    With his children still grumbling behind him, the King exited from the dining hall and headed to the throne room. That was often the best place for him to be when he was anxiously expecting news; he knew that was where messengers were lead to report, hence his presence there ensured the quickest reception of messages. The past few days, he had been spending inordinate amounts of time in the throne room. The ancient feel of the place was also somewhat comforting to Arthur; his forefathers before him had made most of their major decisions in that room, allowing Arthur to feel less alone when he was faced with the same task. 

    As he sat on his throne, absentmindedly skimming statistics on the recent shipment of new shields for the army, his gaze strayed to one pillar in particular midway through the room. He remembered the familiar sight of Merlin standing in front of it. His servant had taken to the habit of remaining at that spot whenever he and Arthur were the only ones in the room aside from the guards. The King recalled then a particular instance when he had been sitting on his throne long past midnight, rifling through reports of an increase in bandits in the forests of Camelot. He had glanced up from the corner of his eye to see Merlin standing at that same middle pillar, his chin drooping towards his chest and a glazed expression on his face. 

    “Shall I get you a blanket and pillow?” Arthur had called out. Merlin’s head snapped back up, nearly hitting the pillar behind him. He looked at Arthur in confusion before shaking his head and murmuring something Arthur couldn’t make out. “Speak up, Merlin,” the King had said in exasperation. “I don’t understand why you always stand over there, you’re hardly useful if we can’t hear each other.” 

    Clearing his throat and straightening his back, Merlin replied matter-of-factly, “I stand here so I can be equidistant between you and the entrance at all times.” 

    “Equidistant?” Arthur repeated slowly. Usually the language Merlin used did not include such words. 

    Merlin turned his head slightly to meet Arthur’s confused gaze. He raised one eyebrow. “Ah, so you can hear me just fine, huh?” his servant had said, the beginnings of a laugh in his tone. Arthur had only released a sigh, dismissing Merlin soon after before he had the chance to fall asleep on his feet. 

    The throwing open of the doors to the throne room startled Arthur from his memories. With guards on either sides, a man Arthur initially didn’t recognize entered; he was only able to make out their identity from the long and dirty blonde curls.

    “Sir Leon?” Arthur heard himself gasp out, standing from his throne to approach the knight. Leon’s red cloak only hung from his back in shreds; sweat and dirt stained his face, and his cheeks appeared more hollow than when the King had last seen him. Bags lined his eyes, indicating several nights with little to no sleep. 

    Sir Leon bowed, grimacing in pain as he rose. “Sire, I…” the knight began, but paused to take a deep breath, swaying where he stood. Arthur reached out a steadying hand to the man’s shoulder, and Leon covered it with his own, nodding gratefully. “I apologize for the delay,” he said breathlessly. His mouth opened and closed several times, and he looked up at Arthur with guilt gleaming in his eyes. “We were spotted, my lord,” he finally sighed. 

    The King tried to hide his dismay, knowing that Leon fully understood the gravity of the situation and was evidently in turmoil over it. “Explain what happened, Sir Leon,” Arthur said gently, trying to maintain a calm and level voice. 

    Taking another deep breath, Sir Leon continued, “We approached from the eastern side, as that was where there appeared to be the fewest guard posts. We tried to keep our distance and stay in the undergrowth, but alas, one of the archers spotted us somehow and…” The knight paused to swallow. “Five of the seven men that accompanied me were lost. Sir Heldon was struck by an arrow in the shoulder, but it did not pierce too deep; he and I managed to take cover and remained where we were for some time. They scoured the forest for us. We often heard them just behind…” Leon trailed off. He was rambling more than typical, lost in the memory. Like Arthur, the knight had seen many men die by his side, but that never took away the grief that accompanied their deaths. “All our horses had been killed or ran off from fright, and so we had to travel on foot. I would have sent word otherwise, Sire, I…” Once again, the knight’s voice faded, and he hung his head. 

    Arthur raised his other hand so that he was gripping both Leon’s shoulders. “It’s alright, Leon,” he said. “You did what you could; I do not blame you for the outcome. Tell me, where is Sir Heldon?” 

    Leon seemed to relax somewhat at the King’s reassurance. “He is being treated by Helena for his wounds,” he reported. 

    Arthur nodded. “See to it that you visit her now as well,” he said. Sir Leon did not appear to have any large wounds, but he was covered in superficial cuts and bruises, and clearly exhausted. 

    The knight bowed and made his way to exit, but paused at the door. “My lord, what do you plan to do?” he asked. 

    Arthur sighed as he settled back into his throne. “We will march towards the Medora mountains at first light tomorrow,” he said. He had made the decision as soon as Leon had concluded his story. 

    Sir Leon’s eyes widened. “Sire, is that truly wise?” he asked. In other lands, knights were expected to listen to their kings without question; here in Camelot, however, Arthur had tried to encourage his court to challenge his decisions. “The camp was guarded on all sides, and we have no idea of the layout within the mines.” 

    Arthur nodded; all this he had considered, and strategically he knew the move to invade so soon was unwise. But when he thought of waiting even longer, he pictured quiet Thean, who despite his welcome into Camelot still seemed lost without his family. Furthermore, the thought of sending another small patrol to scout out the mines at the risk of death made his stomach churn.

    “I do not wish to risk the lives of the slaves there any longer,” the King declared. “There is no telling what measures the handlers may take to prevent invasion, but I will bring a quarter of our army to ensure the mission’s success.” Leon seemed disarmed by the certainty in the King’s voice; usually he didn’t make such quick decisions without a council meeting first. Finding nothing else to say, the knight bowed once again and exited the throne room. 

    Arthur allowed himself to sink back into his chair, tilting his head towards the ceiling, and close his eyes. There was so much to think about all at once, and he found himself struggling to focus on what to prioritize. He would have to ready the army, choose which knights to accompany him,  and leave Guinevere and his advisors with instructions on what to do in his absence. And he would have to tell Thean- who, at that moment, was being dragged by his collar into the throne room by none other than Lord Clyton himself. The boy stumbled over his feet as he tried and failed to wrench himself from the large man’s grip. 

    “Lord Clyton,” the King said. “Unhand him. What is the meaning of this?”

    He did not try to keep the anger from his tone; seeing Thean handled so roughly by the lord banished Arthur’s ability to maintain a civil facade. Lord Clyton reluctantly relaxed his grip on Thean, who quickly took several steps away from the larger man, casting a glare in his direction. 

    “My lord, this boy,” Lord Clyton began, pointing a finger accusingly at Thean, “Used magic on my son!” He made this statement as though it were the most outrageous occurrence imaginable. “Nigel was behaving himself perfectly on the training field when this urchin humiliated him!” The lord was practically sputtering in fury. 

    Arthur held up a hand to silence him; only then did Lord Clyton take a deep breath to calm himself. “I am certain any damages Nigel sustained were only to his ego and nothing more,” the King began. “And I will ensure a situation like this will not happen again. Now please, leave me for now. I will meet up with you to discuss the blight later.”

    Lord Clyton’s jaw worked at the King’s stern tone, and he seemed to consider protesting, but instead made to leave. After bowing in Arthur’s direction, he turned to Thean and placed a hand on his chest, shoving the boy backwards. “See that you stay away from my son,” Lord Clyton hissed. Thean balled up his fists, but said nothing. 

    “And see that you stay away from Thean, Lord Clyton. He is under my protection. Any harm to him will have ramifications,” Arthur called from where he sat.

    The addressed man turned a confused eye to his King, before realization dawned on his face. The lord must have assumed from Thean’s still underfed appearance that he was nothing more than the son of someone of low importance in the castle, and certainly of little worth to the King of Camelot. In a way, Lord Clyton was a living relic of Uther’s reign, when those not of noble birth could be treated harshly without disapproval. Wordlessly, the lord exited the chambers with a look of bewildered dismay still on his face. 

    Thean shuffled on his feet as the door closed, his eyes shifting nervously across every place in the throne room except where the King sat. His shirt was rumpled where the lord had recently grabbed and shoved him. Arthur sighed and ran a hand down on his face, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. “What exactly did you do, Thean?” he asked quietly. 

    “Nothing,” Thean mumbled defensively. Seeing Arthur raise an eyebrow, he swallowed and continued, “Well- I guess I did do something, but only ‘cause Nigel was making fun of Elly!”

    “Did Anselm put you up to it?” Arthur asked. His son had always been particularly protective of his little sister; he was allowed to make fun of her, but no one else was. 

    “No!” Thean said, but his voice was suddenly too loud to sound truthful. Perhaps reaching the same conclusion, Thean admitted, “Well… he might have given me the idea.” 

    “And what idea was that?” Arthur asked, genuinely curious. 

    “I may have made the ground by Nigel slippery with mud,” Thean admitted slowly. 

    “Where did you learn that spell?” Arthur knew Guinevere had been teaching Thean to read using one of Merlin’s old spellbooks, but he doubted she had taught him the incantation of a spell like that. She had told the King she was only going over the simplest of passages with Thean. 

    “My Pa told me about it,” Thean said, and smirked slightly. “He used it on you once.”

    Arthur straightened at that revelation, and a memory flitted across his mind of a day on the training grounds when he was still a prince himself. He had kept slipping on the grass despite no rain having occurred the night before, leading to many laughs from the knights he had sparred against, all of whom had no similar troubles holding their ground. Arthur had a dim memory of ordering Merlin to clean the entire training armory that morning prior to sparring.

    What an idiot, Arthur thought then, and chuckled. Only Merlin would risk having his magic discovered just to make Arthur look foolish.

    “I see he taught you well, then. I’ll make sure to watch my feet around you,” Arthur said wryly, and Thean’s shoulders seem to relax at the jest. “Please refrain from using your magic on visiting nobles if you can, though. It does create some trouble for me.” 

    Thean nodded vehemently, his relief at not being yelled at evident. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said, and Arthur winced at the formality in his voice. Thean only used such terms when he feared punishment, and it saddened Arthur to realize how often the boy seemed to anticipate disapproval from him. 

    “That’s alright, Thean,” Arthur said. “Actually, I wished to discuss another matter with you.” Arthur hadn’t been planning to tell Thean of the new developments with the mines so soon, but with the boy now standing in front of him, he decided to seize the opportunity. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to attend dinner with his family anyway, as he’d likely be tied down preparing for the next day’s journey. 

    Thean perked up, straightening his back. “What is it?” he asked. Merlin’s son had not asked for news of his family directly during his week since arriving in Camelot, but Arthur knew his curiosity hadn’t diminished. Each time an advisor interrupted a meal to whisper something in Arthur’s ear, he had noticed Thean subtly leaning forward in his seat, tilting his head slightly in their direction.

    “Sir Leon and his patrol just returned,” Arthur began, and the boy’s eyes widened at the news, a million questions in them- and hope, too. Not wanting to crush that hope, Arthur decided to omit the grim details of what had transpired during the patrol’s mission. “I am leaving with my army to liberate the Medora mountains tomorrow. Should I find any of your family, I will send word-” 

   “Take me with you,” Thean interrupted, stepping forward and staring at the King. Arthur realized it was the longest time the boy had looked him directly in the eye. 

    “Thean, you know I can’t do that.” 

    “I know the mines better than anyone! I have them memorized,” Thean protested, stumbling over his words in eagerness. “I can help! I know the woods around there too, I can lead you through them, please. Please let me help.”

    The determined look on the boy’s face made Arthur feel nostalgic despite the gravity of the situation. How many times had Merlin looked at him that same way, when Arthur had insisted his servant stay behind instead of following him into danger? And how many times had Merlin ignored his orders and followed him anyway, with or without his knowledge? What Thean said was true as well; the boy had grown up in the mines and undoubtedly could navigate them without issue. Sir Leon and his patrol had not gotten close enough to even inspect the entrances to the mines. 

    “Alright," Arthur said softly. "You can come."

    “Really?” Merlin’s son asked, surprised delight spreading across his face. 

    “But you are to stay by my side at all times, and you are to follow orders. You will not go one step towards the mountains without my permission,” Arthur said, allowing a commanding tone to enter his voice once more. “We leave at first light tomorrow, so make sure you’re ready then.” 

    Thean was nodding so quickly now that Arthur feared the boy would make himself dizzy. “I will be, don’t worry,” he said breathlessly, and bowed to leave before the King could change his mind. “I won’t let you down,” he added, his dark blue eyes meeting the King’s. The intensity of his gaze matched that of his father so much that Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat as the boy exited. 

    “I know, Thean,” Arthur murmured to himself as the doors slammed shut. 

    *****

    “Arthur, have you lost your mind?”

    The King sighed; he expected as much from Guinevere when he had seen her stern look during the advisor’s meeting. It was long past midnight when he and the Queen were able to rid themselves of the many questions asked by his councilmen concerning his departure at dawn. The round table had practically exploded with protestations when Arthur had finished recounting the unfortunate events Sir Leon’s mission, and immediately again after declaring his intent to march for the mountains in the morning. Most of the complaints involved the safety issues of the King himself leading the army, as well as worries over him leaving the kingdom again so soon after returning from the previous liberation mission. Arthur had tried to dismiss them all with logic, but could tell from the general disapproval of his council that it was clear they were aware their King’s motives were partially driven by emotion. He had not been this impulsive since the very beginning of his reign. 

    “What exactly gave it away?” Arthur asked sarcastically as he allowed himself to fall back onto his bed horizontally, spreading his arms at his sides. He watched through his upside-down view as Guinevere sat herself on the opposite side of the bed, crossing her arms and turning her back to him. 

    “How could you tell Thean he could go with you? He’s just a boy, Arthur,” Gwen said angrily, and turned her head in Arthur’s direction. “He’s hardly Anselm’s age, and you would never take him on a journey like this.” 

    “Anselm can hardly tell north from south yet,” Arthur replied dryly. The skill his son had in swordfighting did not equal that of his navigational skills. The prince seemed to know the castle well enough, but was overwhelmed by the vastness of being in an open forest on hunting trips. “Thean, however, knows the mines by heart. He lived in them longer than most slaves manage to survive.” 

    “Then take someone from the Chapel who knows the mountains!” Gwen insisted, her voice tightening in frustration. “I’m sure there are many who’d want to help the King that freed them.”

    Arthur stared up at the canopy of his bed. He had considered the option of instead requesting a freed person from the Chapel, but hesitated to ask a near stranger for such a task. And besides, Thean’s connection by blood to Merlin made it easy to trust the young boy far more than he could ever trust another freedman, no matter their age.

    But really, it was mainly another reason that had prevented him from choosing anyone else over Thean. “Do you really expect Thean will just sit on his hands in the castle while my knights and I ride out to find his family? There were so many times I told Merlin to stay behind where it was safer, and he never-” 

   “Thean is not his father, something you seem to keep forgetting,” Gwen replied harshly. Arthur sat up in bed and turned to look at her. Rarely did the Queen verbally lash out in anger. She seemed to regret her words, as she quickly continued, “I mean- yes, he looks like Merlin, and they are similar in some ways, but…” Guinevere’s face contorted in obvious distress. “He’s just so small, Arthur,” she sighed. “And there’s no telling what will happen on the mission.” 

    Arthur nodded; his wife’s anger clearly came from a place of fear, something he himself was not immune to either. He placed a hand gently on her knee, and was grateful when she did not resist the movement. “I know,” Arthur said softly. “I don’t know what will happen on the mission either,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m going to keep him close to me. I’ll protect him, I promise.” 

    Gwen met his eyes, a question in hers, and Arthur felt his shoulders sag. He thought again of that awful day many years ago. I was supposed to protect him, too, Arthur thought, and grief at his failure to do so crowded his mind as he remembered the many times Merlin had protected him.

    The King of course had not realized all those occasions until Merlin had admitted his magic, and slowly recounted the instances he had used magic unbeknownst to Arthur in order to save him or another member of Camelot. It nearly became a ritual that every time the Knights of the Round Table embarked on a patrol, hunting trip, or other mission, and there was a lull in the dinner conversation at night, Merlin would begin a tale of how he had saved Arthur’s ‘royal backside’ countless times with magic. This would elicit sarcastic remarks from Arthur of how he would have been fine without Merlin, but he never fooled anyone into thinking he truly believed that. With each tale that Merlin told, Arthur assumed it would be the last, that surely he would run out of similar stories eventually. He never did, though. The King often wondered how many more Merlin would have told had he not been captured. Sometimes, Arthur thought part of Merlin’s magic had still remained in Camelot, protecting him from afar; each time a stray arrow came close to his head only to land a few inches away, Arthur’s thoughts turned to his manservant. 

    I’ll find you, old friend, Arthur repeated in his head as he fell asleep. He had thought the same line many nights before, but never with as much conviction as he did then. 

*****

    In the morning, Arthur drafted a letter to a woman he had not contacted in many years. He gave it to one of the fastest men in his employ. “Ride all day if you have to,” he told the messenger, who bowed and accepted the instructions solemnly. 

    When Arthur stepped through the doors of the courtyard, the prevailing silence was interrupted only by the murmurs of the gathered Knights of the Round Table and their accompanying healers and servants. The rest of the army was to meet them at the gates of the citadel to avoid overcrowding in the streets. At the bottom of the steps, Thean sat gazing at the small crowd, his chin in his hands and his knees playfully shifting side to side. He wore an olive green tunic, brown pants, black riding boots, and- Arthur realized with a pang- Merlin’s old red neckerchief.

    As the King descended the steps, Thean turned and stood up, straightening his back in an attempt to look taller. Arthur nodded to him in greeting. “Are you ready, Thean?”

    Thean gave a relieved smile and nodded in return. He had perhaps anticipated the King ordering him not to accompany the mission.

    The boy’s eyes suddenly shifted to something beyond Arthur’s shoulder. “Wait!” Arthur heard the familiar voice of his son call out, and turned to find him racing towards the courtyard in his nightclothes. 

    “Anselm, what is the meaning of this? We said our good-byes last night,” Arthur called out as the prince approached them, panting. Anselm did not appear embarrassed of his current disheveled state, so the King had the decency to feel embarrassed for him. His son’s somewhat unruly behavior was well known in the castle; Arthur tried not to be hard on Anselm as Uther had once been on him, but he worried whether his son would ever learn the decorum demanded of a prince. 

    “I wanted to give Thean this,” Anselm explained, holding out a wooden training sword. Thean took it carefully from him. 

    “Oh… thanks,” Merlin’s son said, confused at the gesture. 

    “Yeah, no problem,” Anselm said, shrugging. “You’re pretty rubbish with it, but maybe it’ll help somehow.” 

    Thean gave a rare grin at the mock insult, and put the wooden sword easily through the belt loop in his pants. “Yeah, maybe,” he replied, the smile still evident in his voice. 

    Arthur felt a warmth spread through his chest at the sight of the two boys in front of him. Whatever shortcomings Anselm had, one thing he certainly did not lack in was his mother’s kindness. The King put his hands on the prince’s shoulders and bent down to meet him at eye level. “Alright now, Anselm, go back to bed. And look after your mother and sister. Don’t give them too much trouble while I’m gone,” he ordered, though his tone was light. 

    “Sure, Dad,” Anselm murmured with a fairly neutral look on his face.

    His son had come a long way from the days when he had cried in the Queen’s arms as his father departed for a mission. However, Arthur could see a hidden fear in Anselm’s eyes. He wanted to reassure him, tell him that everything would be okay- but his son was old enough to know that such reassurances carried more comfort than truth. Instead, he gave the prince a squeeze on the shoulders before heading to the middle of the courtyard to where his readied horse stood. Sir Gwaine helped Thean to sit astride Arrow, and then swung up behind the boy before leading the horse to walk alongside Arthur’s. The formation was the same as it had been on the journey that originally brought Merlin’s son to Camelot. 

    As the small group exited through the castle gates, Helena rode up to the King’s other side. “Sire, I will have to stop at Gaius’ house for supplies on the way,” the Court Physician explained. “I was going to go tomorrow had it not been for our journey.”

    Arthur nodded; he was aware of the sudden nature of their mission having inconvenienced many, and was unsurprised Helena was one of them. The hardworking woman had been insistent on accompanying the journey, however, and had assured the King that her apprentice Rupert could hold his own during her absence, as he had during the prior liberation mission. Helena had been in the castle for six years, and Rupert had been with her for the last half of those. Though Arthur had no qualms with the duo of physicians, they always came to him, not the other way around. When he needed their services or advice, he sent a messenger to have them meet him in his throne room.

    He had scarcely set foot in the physician chambers since Merlin had disappeared. On the rare occasion that he had to, he stubbornly looked only at either of the physicians, his gaze never straying to the door at the other end of the room. Even after all these years, it was still too painful. 

    “Very well,” Arthur replied shortly. He wasn’t sure how Gaius would react to being awakened at the crack of dawn, or to the news of their mission, but the King could hardly tell Helena not to stop for fear of reproval from the old man. 

    It didn’t take long for the group to make their way to the old physician’s quarters, as only a few citizens of Camelot were in the streets at such an early hour. Arthur disembarked from his horse with Helena at his side. He had to knock three separate times, each louder than the last, until Gaius finally opened the door, bleary-eyed and confused.

    “What in the name of… Oh, good morning Sire! Hello, Helena,” Gaius corrected his annoyed tone once he had recognized them. Taking in those gathered behind them with his gaze lingering on Thean the longest, Gaius’ confusion turned to concern. “Is something the matter, Sire?” 

    “We’re departing for the Medora mountains today,” Arthur explained, and was unsurprised when the old man’s bushy eyebrows rose even further. “Helena needed to stop for some supplies.” 

    “Yes, yes of course,” Gaius said, and stepped to the side agreeably. “Come in, both of you.” 

    “That won’t be necessary,” the King replied. “I don’t wish to get in your way.” 

    “Not at all,” Gaius said lightly, and his eyes narrowed. “I insist, Sire.” Arthur nodded reluctantly and entered the house, noticing Sir Elyan trailing behind him. Even with the most trusted of Camelot, his knights still took precautions. “You know my house almost as well as I, Helena,” Gaius said, smiling at the woman he had trained. “I picked up some yarrow just yesterday, I’m sure that’ll come in handy.” 

    “Thank you, Gaius,” Helena said, giving the old man’s arm a friendly squeeze. She began busying herself with expertly navigating the shelves, placing desired bottles and herbs in the large satchel she had brought with her. Gaius took the opportunity to turn his attention to Arthur, who found himself feeling a tad nervous. Gaius had known him since birth, and thus felt more comfortable being honest with the King than others. Arthur knew the disapproving look the old man gave him then all too well. 

    “I understand the importance of the mission, Sire, truly,” Gaius began. “But surely it is unwise to take Thean? He’s hardly had a week to recover.” 

    Arthur nodded; he expected to have such a reaction from Gaius, as he had from Guinevere the night before. “I was hesitant as well when he asked to come,” the King admitted. He decided to omit the fact that he had actually given in to the boy’s request quite quickly. “But Gaius, he knows the mines by heart. Such knowledge could help protect my knights and the slaves from harm during the mission.” 

    Gaius’ frown deepened. “And who will protect him?” 

    “I will,” Arthur said, slightly offended by the question. He had hoped the old man would have a little more faith in his ability to take care of a 10 year old boy. “I will do everything in my power to keep him from harm.” 

    Gaius’ eyes wandered the King’s face. “I know that, Arthur,” he said softly. Even after all these years, the retired physician only referred to Arthur by name during important conversations. “I just hope that will be enough.” 

    Arthur could only grimace. When he had given Thean permission to come on the mission, it had almost felt natural. The boy’s happiness had dispelled most of the doubts he had. It had felt similar to the many times he had relented to Merlin coming on quests prior to knowing the man had magic; he had allowed a presumably defenseless servant to accompany him then. Maybe that was why it had been so easy to let a vulnerable young boy join their journey now.

    Wanting to escape the dark spiral of his thoughts, Arthur changed the subject. “I don’t believe we’ll find Merlin in the mines,” he admitted. “Thean believes he was taken to another camp. When we interrogate the handlers, though, they should be able to give us information on where he was sent.” 

    Gaius nodded, turning his gaze to where Helena was gathering the last of his potions. “That’s what I expected, sire,” was all he said, his voice sounding tired from more than just the early hour. Arthur and Helena took their leave shortly after, with Gaius waving as the group departed, his gaze frequently flitting to the horse that carried Gwaine and Thean. 

    As they made their way through the slowly awakening streets, Gwaine began talking about everything and nothing at all. “Your horse already looks tired, Percival!” the knight jested. “It can’t be easy carrying a giant all morning.” 

    Percival seemed unbothered by the taunts per usual. After all, he’d had a decade to get used to them. “At least mine doesn’t have to listen to mindless chatter all day,” he shot back. 

    “Arrow loves my intelligent conversation,” Gwaine protested. “Whinny if you agree, Arrow.” Surprisingly, the horse obeyed and gave a loud whinny, making Arthur wonder if the knight had taken the time to teach the horse the trick. Thean burst into delighted laughter, with the rest of the knights following suit. Arthur turned his head to take in the sight of the joyful look in the boy’s eyes. Thean met his gaze, but remained smiling. Despite the gravity of their mission, Merlin’s son seemed more relaxed than Arthur would have expected. Perhaps the boy was feeling more hopeful than he had in the past week at the prospect of being reunited with his family. 

    The sun that had shyly peeked above the horizon in the courtyard was hidden by clouds when the group arrived at the city gates. The impressive sight of a sea of Camelot knights greeted them. Since allowing commoners to become knights, their army had tripled from the size it had been during Uther’s reign. Many of the gathered knights smiled and bowed their heads respectfully as Arthur passed to come closer to the forefront of the crowd; some he recognized as regulars in the castle, others had been called to the citadel from distant parts of Camelot for the mission.

    One of the changes Arthur was most proud of was his enforcement of at least a few knights being available to each village within Camelot, even the smallest ones. This was in order to protect them from the bandits that had once infested the land. His strategy had seemed to work, as the number of thieves had decreased considerably since the widespread dispersal of the knights. A few unarmored men and women dotted the crowd, with their scarlet robes indicating them as sorcerers of Camelot. 

    Sirs Percival, Elyan, and Leon spread to different sections of the crowd, organizing the knights into smaller groups. A few clusters of knights would go ahead of the King and Sir Gwaine to scout out the area ahead, while the rest of the army would remain behind him. As the large crowd entered the forest, faint rumbles of thunder were heard. Spring had not yet released its grip on the world, and was determined to storm on.

    Arthur could almost hear Merlin saying that he had a “funny feeling” and that the rain could be a “bad omen.” For many years, Arthur had assumed these protestations of his servant were due to him growing up with superstitions common to villages outside of Camelot. However, upon learning of Merlin’s magic, he reflected that perhaps these instincts of his friend held more weight than he had once thought. 

    By noon, small drops of water had turned into a downpour. Gwaine uncloaked his cape and draped it over Thean’s head, who gratefully accepted it. When the rain finally began to die down, Arthur sent a nearby servant to warn the sorcerers to begin covering their tracks. Though they were still in Camelot, Arthur didn’t want to take any chances. Thean turned his head to Arthur once the servant had rode away, Gwaine’s cloak now only draped around his shoulders. “Can I help?” he asked quietly. Arthur nodded, seeing no issue with this. A week was certainly enough time for the boy to have recovered from his runes. Thean’s eyes shifted from blue to gold as he murmured, “Adruo. ” The ground that had been stirred up by Arthur’s and Gwaine’s horses shifted to its original undisturbed form, and the sparsely crushed leaves straightened out as though they were never touched. 

    Gwaine let out an amused breath. “Not even the bugs will know we were here,” he said, grinning down at Thean. Thean relaxed into a proud smile as his eyes faded back to blue. 

    They stopped for a break around midday, then continued heading north. The rain came and went intermittently, and Thean mirrored the weather patterns with adjusting the cloak either above his head or around his shoulders. The group only stopped once the sun had begun its decline.

    Before Thean and Gwaine could disembark their horse, Arthur turned to them. “We will not be eating dinner here,” Arthur said to them, as the servants bustled about to prepare several large fires. 

    “Why not?” Thean asked. He had spent an entire week getting three meals a day at regular intervals, and knew a departure from such a schedule was unusual for the people of Camelot. 

    “The three of us will be heading to another village. There’s someone I’d like us to meet with there,” Arthur said, and turned his horse to head back into the thick of the forest. Thean raised an eyebrow curiously, but said nothing. A few guards he had informed of the departure followed behind as Arrow trotted alongside the King’s horse. 

    Arthur was slightly worried of losing his way; he hadn’t been to this place since before Anselm was born. He only was sure that he had led them in the right direction when they reached an opening in the trees on a hill, showing the old sight of the quaint barns and cottages gathered below. As Thean gazed at the village below, Arthur asked him, “What do you think?”

    Thean glanced up at Arthur, then shifted his eyes back to the village, seeming to puzzle over something. “It kind of looks like… what I’d imagine Ealdor to look like,” the boy admitted. 

    “Huh,” Arthur said. “Interesting. That’s because it is Ealdor.” 

    Thean’s jaw slowly dropped. “What?” he asked, the word barely a breath. “It is? That’s really…” Thean shook his head as though that would rid him of his confusion. “The person you wanted me to meet…” 

    Arthur nodded. “Hunith,” he said softly. “Merlin’s mom. Your grandma.” 

    The boy’s eyes flitted across the village below. Distant calls signaled the coming of dusk, with parents warning their children to finish up their games and come inside.

    “Do you think she’ll want to meet me?” The words came out in a whisper. Thean looked quite sad at that moment, and the reaction puzzled Arthur. He had expected some form of happiness, or for the boy to at least be grateful to the King for taking him. Then again, Thean rarely seemed to react to most situations as Arthur would predict him to. 

    “Of course she will,” Gwaine protested, tightening an arm around the boy as if to protect him from his own hesitancy. 

    “I’m not my father though,” Thean said, the words sounding heavy on his tongue. “I’m not the one she’s been missing.” 

    Arthur swallowed at this. It was something he had himself considered, but after realizing their path would cross so close to Ealdor, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to update Hunith on the many new revelations about her son’s whereabouts. He should have sent a letter sooner, but he’d fallen into the habit of not contacting the now aging woman as regularly as he had in the first few years after Merlin’s disappearance. Arthur had dreaded drafting those first few letters of little to no updates on the capture of her son. The very first letter had of course been the worst, as well as the responding letter that had clearly been tear-stained.

    As the years slipped by with no word from her son, Arthur had considered stopping by the village in person to apologize to the woman whenever a patrol was close to the village. Guilt had always stopped him. He thought that by entering Ealdor without Merlin, he’d be admitting to himself and Hunith that her son would likely never return.

    But that fear no longer plagued him as Merlin’s son sat on the horse beside him. “She would have missed you if she knew you exist,” Arthur said simply, because he knew it to be true. “She’ll be glad to meet you, Thean, truly. You’re her grandson, whether or not she was aware of that before today.”

    Thean nodded, absorbing the King’s words. He continued to stare at Ealdor, but now with a more resolute look to his gaze. Arthur clicked his tongue to motion the horses down the hill. By the time they reached the edge of the village, a small crowd of children and adults alike had gathered at their arrival. The red capes of Camelot must have been unmistakable along the hill, even in the faint light of dusk.

    “King Arthur, King Arthur!” one of the younger girls called out, rushing forward fearlessly. “Will you teach me some sword work?” 

    Arthur chuckled, smiling down at the girl as he disembarked his horse. “Perhaps another time. We’re only passing through,” he said. The girl frowned in disappointment, but was dragged back into the small crowd by a mother already admonishing her to not run away like that. 

    Thean and Gwaine had also disembarked, with the younger of the two glancing nervously at the curious eyes of the people of Ealdor. A door to a cottage further down the path opened, and the messenger Arthur had sent out earlier approached and bowed. “Sire, I have just informed the lady of-” 

    The lady the messenger was referring to promptly rushed out of the same cottage, hitching up her skirts and running faster than a lady of her age usually could. Hunith stopped briefly when she was a few paces in front of King Arthur and his guards. Her eyes wildly searched those gathered before landing on Thean. She rushed forward once more then, nearly tripping in her haste. Pausing in front of Thean, her eyes never leaving his face, she knelt down, uncaring of the dirt that now touched her clothes. Her hands went to cup either side of the boy’s face, and Arthur could see in the fading light that they shook.

    “Hello,” her grandson said hoarsely, his own emotion clear in his voice. Hunith let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. Wordlessly, she took the boy tightly into her arms. 

    Faint murmurs ran through the crowd as the woman and boy remained clutching each other tightly. 

    “Is that-” 

    “But it can’t be, how did he survive?” 

    “Hunith said he was still alive, but I never thought-” 

    “Do you think he has magic too?” 

    The few times Arthur had been to the village before, the peasants had mostly seem captivated by his presence alone. Now, all their eyes were trained on the boy who was the image of his father, and the woman who was only just now letting him go and standing up. Her hands still holding onto Thean’s, she turned her eyes to Arthur and the few knights that had followed.

    “Come inside, please, you all look soaked,” she said, trying to maintain some politeness despite the extraordinary circumstances. 

    “Thank you. The weather wasn’t too kind to us, my lady,” Sir Gwaine spoke up. Hunith turned to him questioningly, her eyes shifting from the red cloak still wrapped around Thean’s shoulders to the uncloaked knight. “Gwaine,” he introduced himself, extending a hand that she gently shook, keeping her other arm on Thean’s shoulder. A smile of recognition spread across her face. 

   “Gwaine,” Hunith repeated. “Merlin always mentioned you in his letters.”

    Merlin hadn’t written to his mother at all in his first year in Camelot. Arthur hadn’t realized this until he had the chance to ask Merlin if Ealdor had remained undisturbed by bandits shortly after his first visit to the village. 

    “I’m not sure, Sire,” Merlin had replied, carefully sorting through freshly washed clothes he had brought up. 

    “How can you not be sure?” Arthur had asked. “Surely you must have had contact with her since last month.” 

    Merlin glanced over his shoulder then, raising an eyebrow. “Not everyone has messengers at their beck and call, Arthur,” he replied, dropping the pretense of titles in exasperation. “Sending a message myself costs more than my life savings.” 

    Though his servant had phrased it as a joke, the truth of the statement made Arthur wince. “Then write up a letter already and I’ll send for a messenger,” Arthur said decidedly. “I’d rather not have to teach a bunch of farmers how to hold a sword again,” he added carelessly, not wanting Merlin to begin joking again about how he cared. 

    “Yes, Sire,” Merlin replied, trying to keep the delight from his voice.

    That pattern had continued several times over the years, with Arthur pretending to have forgotten Merlin’s inability to send messages to Ealdor on his own and then ordering him to write a letter to be sent. Though Arthur always claimed the letters were to ascertain that no bandits had plagued the village, Merlin quickly realized that was only a false pretense. 

    “Thank you,” Merlin had once said when he handed over a letter for Hunith shortly after Arthur’s coronation. “You don’t have to do this, but… I appreciate it.” 

    Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re spewing even more nonsense than usual today, Merlin,” was all the King had said, waving his grinning servant away. 

    As Hunith led them into her cottage, Arthur noticed a pile of letters in Merlin’s handwriting stacked neatly on a nightstand by Hunith’s bed. He felt a pang at the sight, wondering how many times Merlin’s mother had read through those letters. She no doubt had them memorized word for word.

    Hunith beckoned them over to a wooden table closest to the fireplace with benches on either side, and promptly set a bowl before them full of a sliced fuzzy pink fruit Arthur had never seen before. “These are called peachberries,” Hunith explained to Gwaine, Arthur, and Thean. The guards remained diligently by the door of the cottage. Turning her gaze to Thean, she said with a sad smile, “The Simmons family grows them every year. They were your father’s favorite.”

    At this, Thean hesitantly grabbed a piece of fruit and took a bite out of it. “It’s wonderful,” he said as juice from the peachberry ran freely down his chin. Arthur and Gwaine followed his lead in sampling the new fruit, finding the taste was somehow simultaneously sweet and tart. 

    “I can cook some oats for you,” she said to the group. “It’s not much, but…” Hunith moved her hands in an unsure motion. 

    “We’d be glad for it,” Arthur said, offering her a smile. She nodded, still looking concerned, but gave Thean’s shoulder one last squeeze before heading over to the cooking pot above the fire. The King worried she may remember his not-so-subtle distaste for her cooking the few times he had visited Ealdor. He made a silent promise to try and finish at least a few spoonfuls of the meal this time. 

    Thean continued to eat the fruit with more eagerness than he had ever displayed in the dining hall of Camelot. “Like father, like son,” Gwaine commented in good humor, and Thean smiled sheepishly in response. 

    “Better than prunes?” Arthur asked. 

    Thean nodded quickly. “Much better,” he agreed, reaching for what must have been his tenth slice. 

    Hunith had the oats cooked within a few minutes. As Arthur raised a spoonful to his lips, he was pleasantly surprised that the dish was far more flavorful than he remembered from his past visits to Ealdor. Specks of garlic, parsley, and pepper dotted the oats. The village had fallen into the hands of a much kinder lord after Cenred’s fall. Arthur had heard reports of the peace leading to prosperity within the land, but he hadn’t realized such good fortune would have befallen the farming village of Ealdor as well. Outlying villages used to be of little concern to the rulers of the land.

    “It’s very good, Hunith, thank you,” Arthur said, and he hoped she could tell he was speaking genuinely. 

    “You would give the cooks at Camelot a run for their money,” Gwaine added as he dug into his own serving. Thean as well dug into his own generous bowl with as much eagerness as he had approached the peachberries. After a week of using utensils, he seemed more comfortable with them. Hunith watched on, seated across from the boy and next to Gwaine. Even when the King and knight spoke, her eyes hardly left Thean’s face, as though she were afraid he would disappear if he were out of her sight for too long.

    “I trust the messenger informed you well of our purposes,” Arthur continued, and wished his voice didn’t sound so stiff. There was so much he wanted to say, and so little time. They would have to return to the camp before the moon had risen too high, otherwise his army would grow uneasy. 

    Hunith nodded. “He only just finished telling me about Thean when you arrived,” she explained, and Thean paused to glance up from his bowl at the mention of his name. “And he told me all about the Medora mountains. I know Merlin probably won’t be there, but if you find his family… that would be wonderful.” Hunith glanced down at her own bowl of oats, though she seemed rather uninterested in them. The shock of finding out her son was likely alive and had children, one of whom sat before her, must have rocked her. 

    “Should we find them, we’ll stop here on the way back,” Arthur promised. Across the table, Gwaine raised a questioning look towards him. His men had already been hesitant to let him depart from them once; they likely would not be happy about it happening again. “I’m sure Thean would like that as well.”

    “Thean,” Hunith repeated. “Did your father ever tell you the story behind your name?” 

    Thean shook his head. “No, he said it was just a common name to these parts,” he said.

    “Well, yes, it is quite common here,” Hunith agreed. “But the name was made popular due to a story your father loved as a child.”

    The aged woman stood up to retrieve a worn book from her nightstand, and placed it on the table in front of Thean. On the front was the outline of a man tracing rivers on a large map before him. The pages curled at their corners from years of use.

    “The Travels of Thean the Wandering,” Hunith said, reciting the title above the image. “It’s about a man who sets out to map the entire world, and all the adventures he has while doing so. Your father made me read parts of it every night to him, even after we had finished the book.”

    As Thean took in this knowledge, Arthur felt a pang of sorrow as he realized why Merlin may have never told Thean the root of his name. The main character in the book was free to traverse the globe, whereas Merlin’s son had until recently been restricted to a small and miserable corner of life. Perhaps Merlin had named his son not due to his Ealdor roots, but in the hopes Thean would one day be as free as his namesake. 

    The sound of a child’s voice outside Hunith’s door interrupted his thoughts. Hunith stood to open the door, causing the guards to grumble in protest. A young boy stood outside the cottage in the gathering dusk, a panting older girl running up just behind him.

    “Dalan!” the girl called, and gave him a light cuff around the ear. “Stop running off like that!” 

    “I just wanted to ask if he’s really Merlin’s son,” the boy retorted, glaring at the girl. “Maybe he can show us some magic! You wanted to see the knight use his sword anyway, don’t pretend.” 

    The girl’s cheeks flushed red and she opened her mouth to argue, but Hunith spoke before she could. “Dalan, Anuth, they’re not staying for too long, so now’s not a good time,” she explained gently. 

    “It’s okay,” Thean piped up, and pushed his nearly finished bowl of oats aside. “I’ll just show them a few tricks.”

    Arthur was surprised by the boy’s sudden confidence, as well as by the requests of the children. From the way Merlin had described the village, they had been quite wary of magic when he had grown up there. Perhaps Camelot’s acceptance of magic had spread beyond its own borders. 

    “I’ll go with you, little man,” Gwaine said, following Thean as he made his way out of the cottage. “You said you wanted to see some swordwork?” he asked Anuth as they exited, who gaped up at the knight in awe.

    Hunith hesitantly let Thean and Gwaine pass by, remaining in the doorway to watch over them, and Arthur soon joined her. More children and a few curious adults watched as Gwaine demonstrated the flashiest of moves once ensuring no one was too close to him. Thean, meanwhile, made his way to a small torch secured by a pillar, with the boy named Dalan following close behind. Thean’s lips parted and his eyes flashed gold as embers swirled to form a rabbit that leapt from the torch and circled around Dalan before dissipating. Dalan laughed in delight, and several other children broke from the crowd that surrounded Gwaine to witness the magic. A crowd formed between the two makeshift performers, glancing continuously back and forth so as to witness both the swordwork and the magic. 

    “All these children grew up hearing stories of the sorcerer from our village who served the King of Camelot,” Hunith murmured wistfully. “It’s so different from when he was a boy.”

    There was something in her voice Arthur couldn’t quite place- was it regret? She had sent her only son to a distant land to protect him from his own home. Though he had gained fame for his abilities, he also had to bear much misfortune. And if Merlin had never gone to Camelot, he might still be free today. 

    “I’m sorry,” Arthur said. He found himself unable to meet her eyes, though he could see in the corner of his vision that she had turned to look at him. 

    “You have nothing to be sorry for, Arthur,” Hunith murmured. The kindness in her voice then was too much, and Arthur released an unbiddened and bitter laugh. “In all these years, I never blamed you. I doubt Merlin has either.”

    Arthur bowed his head. It would be easier if she was angry with him, if she yelled at him for his failure to find her son. Yet he knew not to expect such a reaction from Hunith; she had always displayed the same amount of compassion as Merlin.

    “News is slow to reach here, but we’ve heard of the liberations for many years now,” Hunith continued. “I know you’ve tried to find him, even after all this time. I’m grateful for that.” 

    Grateful, Arthur’s thoughts echoed. The word was not one he had expected. “I’m going to keep trying,” he said, and met her gaze. Her eyes were a lighter shade of blue than her son’s, but equal warmth lied within them. 

    “Of course you will,” she replied, and smiled. “You’re just as stubborn as Merlin.” Her attention then strayed to Thean, and her face turned solemn despite the joyful sight of the boy now producing a horse from the embers to the delight of the village children. “I wonder what he’s seen, what he’s heard,” she murmured, as though half to herself. “You will take care of Thean, won’t you? No matter what happens?” Hunith asked, turning to the King. 

    Arthur nodded. “You have my word,” he said softly. 

    He couldn’t promise the return of her son, but at least he could promise the safety of her grandson. Hunith nodded, seeming satisfied by the answer. In the middle of the village several children were leaping on Gwaine, who had thrown his sword to the side and was letting himself be taken down by the children, yelling in mock anger.

    Thean, meanwhile, had just produced a twirling dragon from the torch. Arthur realized with a start that it was the same spell Merlin had used to reveal his magic to the King after the Battle of Camlann. He had recoiled then from his friend, unable to speak or look at the man he thought he knew. The children of Ealdor, however, jumped up and down in excitement at the glimmering image of the small dragon soaring above their heads. 

    With the dusk fading into night, parents began to call out to their awestruck children to return home. After much protest, the crowd reluctantly broke apart, allowing Gwaine and Thean to cease their performances. Gwaine was finally able to get up from the ground where he had been pinned by eager children, shaking the dirt from his armor. Thean, meanwhile, allowed the flame to rest back into its original non-animal form, and then headed over to where Arthur and Hunith had stood watching.

    “The children haven’t seen magic like that since a group of druids passed through a few years ago,” Hunith remarked, smiling down at her grandson. “They probably will be talking about what you showed them for weeks.”

    “I learned them from one of Pa’s old books,” Thean explained proudly, beaming at the compliment. “Queen Guinevere helped me read them.”

    Hunith raised an amused eyebrow in Arthur’s direction. Allowing magic users to not be executed in Camelot was one thing, but having the Queen of Camelot herself help teach a young boy to read magic just proved how far the land had come since its days of persecution. 

    “That dragon trick was one of your dad’s favorites growing up,” Hunith said softly. Arthur felt a twinge of guilt at this; he had long since made peace with convincing Merlin he wasn’t bothered by his magic despite his initial display of grief. However, hearing Hunith describe Merlin’s favor for the dragon’s spell reminded Arthur of how strongly he'd reacted to his revelation. Merlin had clearly been distraught while admitting he was a sorcerer, and had tried to use a spell he held dear to show the King that there was beauty in his abilities.

    And Arthur had turned away from him. 

    “We must be going soon,” Arthur said suddenly, surprised to hear his own voice. While it had been his own idea to visit Ealdor, he was overcome by the need to get away from the village. There was too much here, too many memories bittersweet and covered in a coat of pain. 

    Thean’s shoulders slouched at the King’s words. The boy had shown an inordinate amount of happiness during the short time they had been in the village. The way he ate and interacted with the children there was much more different than how he had acted in the castle. In Camelot, Thean had always stayed close to the walls, as though not wanting to be noticed by too many people at once. In Ealdor, he had willingly gone to the center of the village and performed magic openly in front of many children. 

    Hunith held up a hand in a gesture indicating they should wait there. She disappeared into the cottage for a moment, then reappeared with a handful of peachberries in one hand, and a small wooden object in the other. She offered both items to Thean, who took them and held them close to his chest, his thumbs running curiously over the wooden object. As Arthur squinted to see it better, he could make out the faint shape of a dragon.

    “That was a gift from Balinor, your grandfather, given to your father when they met briefly,” Hunith explained, her eyes distant with memory. Arthur had heard the story of how the dragonlord had been Merlin’s father on one of their long nights of revelation shared by a dimming campfire. The way his friend had cried at the dragonlord’s passing had made much more sense then, and he had chided himself for how he had told Merlin then to never cry for another man. How naive he'd been to his friend's woes.

    “The last time Merlin came here, he gave it to me,” Hunith continued. She reached her hand over, and gently wrapped Thean’s hand around the dragon. “I want you to have it.” 

    Thean began to glance back and forth between Hunith and the dragon in his palm. “No,” he said, shaking his head in confusion. “He gave it to you. You should have it.” 

   “Trust me, Thean, I want you to have it,” Hunith murmured. She raised the back of her hand to caress the side of Thean’s face, and the boy did not stray from the touch. “I think it’ll help you know that… you’re never alone. One day, when the time is right, you will be a dragonlord as well. But you won’t have to face the task on your own; the spirits of your forefathers will be with you.” 

    The mention of Thean being a dragonlord puzzled Arthur, though he tried not to let it show during this heartfelt moment. When Merlin had told Arthur the story of Kilgharrah and Aithusa, Arthur had asked him if there were any other dragons he should know about as an exasperated joke. Merlin, however, had responded with a solemn silence and a vague answer about Camelot not having to worry about dragon attacks from then on.

    What use would a dragonlord be if there were no more dragons?

    With their departure evident, Hunith pulled Thean towards her for one last hug, carefully kissing the top of his dark hair and running her fingers through it lightly. Arthur hadn’t known Merlin when he was Thean’s age, but he could tell from the way that Hunith gazed at her grandson that he must closely resemble how Merlin looked as a young boy.

    After reluctantly letting go of Thean, she turned to Gwaine and Arthur. “Thank you,” she said. “I wish you all the luck on your mission. Take care of yourselves.” Thean slowly made his way over to Arrow, Gwaine helping him up.

    When they were just starting to leave, Hunith tried to maintain a brave smile for the sake of her grandson. As they ascended the hill leading away from the village, Arthur made the mistake of stealing one last glance back at Ealdor. Hunith remained rooted where she had stood when they left. The smile had slipped from her face, and as her eyes met Arthur’s, he could almost hear the emotion in them: Please. 

*****

    The next day and night fell away in another rainy haze. When the third day of the journey dawned, an oppressive heat settled upon the backs of the traveling knights and healers. Those who had previously grumbled about the forest floor made slippery from rain now longed for the cooling drops in the late spring heat. The red cloaks of Camelot hung limply on sweating backs, and numerous stops had to be made to allow horses and people alike to quench their parched mouths.

    The setting of the sun brought much relief with a promise in the air to return to a lower temperature. The travelers, though anxious for the mission ahead, were comforted by the knowledge that they would be upon the Medora mountains by the next morning. More guards were sent to the perimeters of the group than the previous nights in case any handlers strayed farther than normal from the mountains. The large group stayed in a thick part of the woods to ensure that they weren’t spotted, even though the peaks of the mountains could just barely be seen on the horizon. 

    Small fires were made, and a modest stew of barley and carrots bubbled in pots across the makeshift camp. As he sat in front of one of the fires, Arthur scanned the crowd for that familiar shock of black hair. Usually, Thean watched patiently and silently as a meal was prepared. He seemed rather fascinated by the cooking process, to the point that he tuned out all of the noise around him while a servant worked in front of him.

    Uneased by the boy’s absence, Arthur stood from the almost finished stew to search. The sight of Gwaine laughing with a healer caused his stomach to churn at the realization Thean was not at the knight’s side either. He tried to fight down a momentary panic; he had reassured Guinevere that he would keep Thean at his side at all times, and here he was unable to find the boy after only a few days. For the most part, he had kept his word to the Queen and rode alongside Gwaine and Thean at all times. The relative peacefulness of their journey had allowed him to lapse into a false sense of security. 

    The King finally spotted the boy sitting on a tree branch on the outskirts of camp. He was periodically throwing pebbles at a tree twenty feet away, the soft sounds of their ricocheting reaching Arthur’s ears. As he approached, Thean startled, whipping his head around and reaching for his wooden sword, which had remained in his belt for the entire journey. Arthur held up his own hands calmingly, and tried to stifle a bemused laugh. “I’m not sure if your sword is as sharp as mine,” he said. 

    Thean’s grip relaxed, and he turned back to the task of throwing pebbles. Seeing that as an invitation, Arthur sat down next to the boy, grimacing at the stiffness of the log. He was beginning to long for the cushioned chairs of Camelot.

    “Stew should be ready soon,” Arthur commented, for lack of anything better to say. 

    Thean didn’t take his eyes off the tree, starting it down as though it were his mortal enemy. “I’ll get some later,” he muttered, punctuating the sentence with a particularly large pebble launched forward.

    Merlin’s son had seemed in relatively good spirits since setting off from Camelot, but his mood had taken a turn that night. Whereas the previous evening Thean had listened intently to the fireside tales of the knights, now he insisted on isolation. The manner reminded Arthur of how Merlin would remain at the edges of camp before the nights of battles as well. 

    “It’s okay to be nervous, Thean.”

    “I’m not nervous!” Thean replied quickly, tossing another stone forward. This one was the first to miss the tree since Arthur had spotted the boy. Dropping his handful of pebbles in frustration, Thean added, “I just worry this will all be for nothing. My family might not be there anyway.” 

    Arthur nodded; it was the same worry he had every time he was about to liberate a camp, that the effort would be worthless if Merlin wasn’t there. He always chided himself for thinking that way, as he knew he was still helping countless people. Yet his repeated disappointment at confirming his friend’s absence consistently clouded his ability to feel proud.

    “If your family isn’t there, then we’ll keep looking."

    “And what if we don’t find them?” Thean asked, and turned drooping blue eyes to Arthur. He suddenly looked much more tired than he had when they'd last talked. “What if we never find them?”

    The King grimaced. He wanted Thean to stay in Camelot at least until his parents and siblings were found, but the possibility that such a day would never come weighed heavily on Arthur’s mind, as it clearly did on Thean’s. 

    “Thean, there will always be a place for you in Camelot,” Arthur said softly. He had only known the boy for a little over a week, but already knew that he couldn’t bear the thought of Merlin’s son being elsewhere now that he knew him to exist. 

    Thean turned away from the King. “I appreciate that, my lord, but… Camelot is not my home,” he said defeatedly. There wasn't any accusation in his voice, just sadness. 

    Arthur tried to stop his own sadness from reaching his face. He shouldn’t be surprised Thean felt that way; the boy hadn’t spent enough time in the castle to feel comfortable there, and was still surrounded by vastly unfamiliar people and mannerisms.

    “I understand. But it can become your home, if you wish it to be,” Arthur murmured. He was hoping for some response from the boy to acknowledge that he had heard the King’s reassurances, but Thean only stared distantly into the trees. Arthur patted Thean’s shoulder, grateful he didn’t flinch beneath the touch, and simply said, “Come to the fire when you’re ready; I’ll make sure they save a bowl for you.” With that, Arthur began to head back to the camp, and smiled to himself when he heard Thean stand and begin following him. 

    He remained by Thean throughout the night, always keeping an eye on him whenever he had to talk to another knight, healer, or sorcerer. When he laid down on a bedroll to Thean’s right, he saw the boy holding his wooden sword and dragon figure close to his chest. 

*****

    One of the guards roused Arthur before first light, as he had requested. Across the camp, more guards were shaking and calling out to their groggy comrades to awaken. Arthur placed a hand carefully on Thean’s shoulders, gently patting until the boy awoke, blinking in confusion. “It’s time,” was all Arthur said, his own mind still fuzzy from sleep. He then shook Gwaine awake a little more roughly. 

    To the King’s relief, those around him shook off the cobwebs of sleep faster than he had. Horses were readied, and pieces of dried fruit were passed around, although most were too nervous to eat much, Thean included. The boy and Gwaine rode alongside the King, as they had been throughout the journey. After an hour of trotting through the forest in a nervous silence, Thean turned to look at Arthur. “I’m starting to recognize the trees here,” he whispered. “We’re not far now.” His eyes were wide in the dim light of dawn, blue circles in a pool of white. Arthur wondered what must be going through Thean’s mind as he returned to a place he had only just escaped.

   'Camelot is not my home.’  He had said it just the night before. What did that make the mountains? Did Thean really consider this place of so much suffering home, or had he never considered anywhere safe enough to earn such a title? 

    Arthur held up a hand to signal the end of the procession. In neat unison, the majority of the knights disembarked from their horses, along with a few of the sorcerers. Some knights still remained on horseback alongside the healers. One group remained directly behind Arthur on foot, while Sirs Elyan and Percival each led their groups on either side.

    They approached the western entrance to the mountains, as that was where Thean believed the least guards to be. Most of the slaves were concentrated there in one main cave for sleeping, with only a few huts of handlers dotting the mountainside below. More handler outposts were scattered within the caves beyond the main slave cavern. The plan was to utilize the sorcerers to stop the arrows that launched towards the knights of Camelot whilst overwhelming the handler huts along the western side. Then, they would evacuate as many slaves in the main area as they could before proceeding to clear the caves deeper in the mountain. Arthur wanted to do this to avoid any handlers from lashing out at slaves in desperation, but also in the hopes of Thean reuniting with his family before any harm could befall him or them. If Thean found his family members, he may be more willing to stay behind instead of venturing deeper into the mountain. While Arthur knew the boy’s directions would certainly be helpful, he was hesitant to lead him directly into such danger unless necessary. 

    The mountain peaks reached higher into the sky, and faint outlines of the huts Thean had described grew closer. “It’s quiet,” Thean whispered, the first to speak since the group had started out on foot. Arthur was tempted to hush the boy, as he grew fearful of the mountain appearing so large before them. Yet he knew Thean must be troubled to have broken the tense silence.

    “It’s hardly dawn,” Gwaine murmured. “The handlers probably didn’t wake their own lazy asses up yet.” 

    “No,” Thean insisted, his voice now a harsh whisper. “They would have at least started waking us up by now.”

    The way he said ‘us’ made Arthur wince. In some sense, Thean still considered himself to be amongst the slaves in the mountain. 

   “We might be able to hear as we get closer,” Arthur said, trying to calm the frayed nerves of Merlin’s son. Thean nodded, but looked doubtful. The trees began to thin out as they reached the steps of the mountain, the windows of the huts now gleaming in the pink light of the morning. 

    Arthur’s stomach seemed to register the smell even sooner than his nose. For a second, he allowed himself to think it must be the scent of a hunted animal left to rot. But he had seen too many battles, and tread across the aftermath of too many slaughters, to not truly recognize what hung in the air. 

    It was the smell of death. 

    He heard the knights shift uneasily behind him, the clinking of shuddering chainmail giving away that they were also figuring out what he just had. Arthur looked down at Thean in a panic, who was still slinking along beside him in the undergrowth and appearing even more concerned than before. His eyes suddenly widened, and Arthur followed his line of sight. Ahead of them, just where the trees broke, lay a bare-chested man with an arrow in his chest. Where the blood did not cover his skin were several blue and black runes. 

    Arthur felt his hand reach for Thean’s shoulder and squeeze it, taking his green tunic in his fist. He wanted to drag the boy away from the sight, but it was too late, Thean had already seen it. A runaway slave, just an accident, Arthur thought, until his eyes landed on yet another body further up, this time of a younger woman. No arrow poked from her chest; instead, the opening of what was likely a sword wound stained her ragged clothing. 

    And suddenly, Thean’s shoulder was not beneath his hand. Arthur stared dumbly at the fistful of olive fabric he now held; the boy had ripped from his hold so quickly that part of his shirt had snapped off.

    “Stop him!” Arthur cried out, his voice strangled and unreasonably loud given their need for secrecy. But Thean was already far ahead, racing past the first downed slave they had seen without so much as a glance down.

    Arthur surged forward, and another sorcerer raced beside him. “Offendimus!"  the man hissed. Ahead, Thean tripped and landed on his hands, but scrambled back up as quickly as he had fallen. Arthur cursed; the boy seemed to recover from spells as naturally as he cast them. The cacophony of knights racing behind him sent Arthur into a panic he had never felt in a liberation before. Sure, they had often raced headfirst to invade a camp, not fully aware of what they would face, but Merlin’s son had never raced before them. 

    The panic evolved into a sickening sensation. There were more bodies like the first one Thean and Arthur had seen. Many more, in fact; it was all Arthur could do to not stop running after Thean entirely, as the gore and stench overwhelmed his senses. Some seemed to have died of arrows and sword wounds, while others simply lay gazing sightlessly at the sky, felled by an unknown force.

    Ahead of him, Thean’s sprint had slowed to a stumbling jog as he navigated the maze that resembled an uncovered graveyard. Flies buzzed, flitting around the corpses, the only greedy mourners that appeared to have visited them so far. Whatever this was, it hadn’t just happened; the extent of decay indicated otherwise. 

    His sword and shield raised, Arthur ran on upwards, expecting an attack at any moment. None came. It was as Thean had said earlier; aside from the sound of the flies and the now horrified Camelot troops, the mountains were silent. 

    And then a guttural cry was heard, and Arthur watched as Thean fell to his knees, not visibly hurt but overcome with some emotion. The boy had reached the opening to what he assumed to be the main cave. The bodies had thickened there, with one lying every few paces. Despite the burning in his legs from the incline, Arthur struggled onward to reach the boy, who continued to emit horrified screams. Whatever the boy had just seen, Arthur had to protect him, had to reverse the damage that had been done. 

    When he finally reached Thean, he found he was unable to extend a hand to comfort. Instead, he stared down at what Merlin’s son had been screaming at: a woman with red locks of hair and a tan and torn dress. Dirt covered her, with only a few spots clean enough to reveal pale and freckled skin amidst the black runes. With a ringing in his ears, Arthur tried to make out what it was that Thean was screaming. At first the boy’s cries had been an unintelligible sound, but now his lips parted to form one word.

    “Ma.”

     It’s nice to meet you, Arthur found himself thinking, an echo of what he’d never be able to say to her. An angry red gash extended across her torso. 

    The woman was dead.

Chapter Text

Thean

    In the late fall, a white fog would settle over the Mountains of Medora. It came suddenly and without warning, at times following what was just a few hours before a clear night sky. He and his siblings would try to predict which morning they would wake up and be unable to see the outside world. Their mother would claim that it was the gods’ way of letting the forest animals know it was time to hibernate away from the impending cold. 

    Thean’s mind felt as though the fog from the Medora mountains had settled over him. Though the forest around him was teeming with the buoyancy of a new summer, he was stuck in a neverending autumn. And so, like the creatures of Medora when faced with a decaying world, he tried to hibernate. He scarcely remembered much from the day they had found his mother, other than the color red- he had hid within Gwaine’s cloak during the burial process. He did not want to see his mother again, nor any of the other slaves he had grown up with. After dimly registering the news that none of the bodies appeared to belong to children, nor anyone resembling his father, he tuned out all other noise. 

    The following days and nights of the returning journey slipped by with little to distinguish one from the other. Each was the same; he would be asked by knights and healers alike how he was, and he wouldn’t respond. When offered stew, he would hold the bowl and stare at it. Only on the third day did he relent and finally manage a few small bites of bread. Other than that, he only partook in proffered water, as not even his numb haze could stifle the thirst induced by the hot weather. 

    When he did sleep, dreams of his mother plagued him. Her face was always turned away from him, staring into the distance at someplace he could not see. Thean did not try to call out to her. He knew it would be no use. Even when she was alive, she would get a far-away look on her face that only time could banish. His father would sit closely to her then, his shoulder gently pressing into hers, and match her silence. 

    In Thean’s dreams, his mother sat alone. 

    Their return to the castle was brisk, with few stops in between. Thean still rode on the same horse as Gwaine, with the King riding alongside them. Arthur continually glanced at them over his shoulder, obviously trying to be subtle, and just as obviously failing. Whereas Gwaine was constantly asking Thean if he was hungry, thirsty, or tired, the King was relatively quiet towards the boy, for which Thean was grateful. He wanted to talk to Arthur as little as he wanted to talk to anyone. 

    When they arrived in the courtyard, the gathered castle inhabitants met them with curious eyes. Queen Guinevere looked concerned at the downcast look of the group, but her children rushed forward eagerly to greet their father. Eloise leapt into Arthur’s arms just as she had the first day Thean had arrived in Camelot. Her father received her happily, but the smile on his face seemed forced. As Gwaine helped Thean off of Arrow, Anselm walked towards them.

    “Thean! How was…” the prince trailed off as the boy turned to face him without meeting his eyes. “What happened to you?” Anselm asked softly, a tinge of fear in his voice. 

    Thean was dimly aware of Gwaine’s hand on his shoulder. “He needs to rest,” was all the usually verbose knight said, and led Merlin’s son through the courtyard and down the winding hallways until they reached the guest chambers. As Gwaine strode into the room, Thean remained in the doorway. The knight stared at him uncertainly, at a loss for words. “You should lie down,” he murmured. Thean looked at the bed for a moment before he felt his feet take him forward. He curled up on his side, turning away from the knight and closing his eyes. Sleep seemed far away, but staring at the bright sunlight streaming through his window felt unnatural. He lay there like that for a long time, trying to relax his breathing to mimic the sounds of rest. Eventually, he heard the door to his room open and shut, signaling the exit of Gwaine. 

    Food was brought to and from his chambers. The sun rose, and it set. Thean would count the number of times a meal was quietly brought to his room: 1, 2, 3. A small twinge of relief would pass through him each time the third meal was brought, as it signaled he would be left alone for a while afterwards as the castle settled into sleep. 

    He had visitors. Usually they would sit on whichever side of the bed he faced when they initially entered. Helena would stop by and leave him sleeping draughts, and talk to him softly. Most of what she said pertained to getting him to eat more, but sometimes she urged him to speak. She said talking would help. He didn’t believe her; there was nothing he wanted to say anyway. 

    Eloise knocked on his door one night. “Thean?” she had called out. “The cooks made a few yam dishes for tonight. I know they’re your favorite. You should come eat with us.”

    Thean squeezed his eyes shut then. He didn’t want to crush the faint hope in her voice, but he was too tired to speak up, nor could he stand the thought of sitting through a meal with the royal family. Though far different in social standing, they reminded him of what he did not have. 

    “I know you’re sad,” Eloise had continued in response to his silence. Though the door was unlocked, she still had not entered. “I made you something. It’s not much, but I hope you like it.” A soft scratching sound ensued as she slid an object under the door. “Good night, Thean,” she murmured.

    When the sound of her footsteps receding down the hallway grew distant, Thean unwound himself from the sheets of his bed. They were slick with his sweat, and his feet were unsteady on the floor. He did not know how long it had been since he’d walked more than the few paces needed to take him to his chamber pot. Hesitant hands reached down and picked up the stitched fabric Eloise had slipped under the door. The stitchwork was no bigger than the palm of his hand, but it was more expertly done than the fabric he had seen Eloise give her father when Thean had first arrived in Camelot. The princess must have spent some time on the gift then. A dark blue flower sat amidst a field of vibrant green, and Thean recognized the shape of its petals from the flowers in the small clearing at the temple of the Old Religion. Eloise had accompanied them during only one of their nightly sparring routines, but had appeared quite at ease in the clearing, apparently having visited it many times before with her brother. 

    Carefully grasping the gift with both hands, Thean carried it over to his dresser and leaned it so that he could see it from where he lay on his bed. He propped it up with the wooden dragon figurine given to him by Hunith. He wondered if Ava would like sewing; she had always had more patience than either of her brothers. The thought then led Thean to wonder if he would ever get to ask her, and he felt the fog that had thinned for a moment creeping back up on him. He dragged his stiff legs back to bed, and lay there for several hours more. 

    He slept at night sometimes, but would occasionally only find the solace of rest during the day. The stars outside of his window reminded him too much of when he would look at them with his family. His father would trace the constellations with an outstretched hand, telling the tales that accompanied each. He would claim such heroes and gods were watching over them. Thean had believed him, once.

    His mother would usually remain silent at night, a contrast to the rise and fall of chatter from his father. She would gaze at Merlin sometimes with a small smile on her face as he talked to their children, trying to distract them from the woes of the day and the dread of the morning ahead. When the workload grew particularly rough, she would comfort them not with words, but merely with her presence, pressing her body up against theirs just a little more closely to help them fall asleep. Only on nights that her children seemed in relatively good spirits did she allow herself to grow distant as her mind drifted to a place Thean could not follow. 

    Anselm visited Thean several times, but only at night, and always by knocking on the servant’s door. Like Eloise, he never entered, merely talking through the entrance without stepping into the room. When he lay awake in bed, Thean was able to hear the shuffling of feet before the knocking, drawing in a deep breath in preparation of hearing the disappointment in the prince’s voice.

    “Whenever you want to practice again, let me know,” Anselm would say. “I’ll be ready.”

    The prince would stand there for several moments more, as though anticipating his friend would leap from bed and claim he was ready. Only when it became clear that Thean would not rise that night, as he hadn’t the many nights before, would Anselm turn away and head back down the dark corridors to his own chambers. 

    Amidst the haze, an irrational fear clung to Thean. Children’s parents had died in the mines from disease, leaving them alone to fend for themselves. Those that lost their parents managed to scrape by throughout the summer, but by winter, they usually died without an adult advocating for them to be given more food. Thean’s father would try to aid the orphaned children as best he could, but in the end, even he would turn away from them in refusal to give up what little food his own family had been given. Though trays of food were brought to his chambers in the castle each day, Thean couldn’t help but wonder if he’d die by winter just as the children without parents in the mines always had. 

    On particularly bad days in the mines, Thean thought he wouldn’t survive another season even with the aid of both his mother and father. A few months before his family had been separated, a handler had beaten him for working too slowly. He and his mother had been assigned to the same mining area, and the beating had occurred openly in front of her and all of the other gathered slaves. None of the others around him had said anything; when he had glanced back towards his mother, her back was facing him, diligently scraping her chisel as though nothing of importance was happening. 

    When they had exited to the main cavern for the night, the rest of their family had not yet returned. Thean curled up in a ball, his back stinging, angry tears pricking his eyes. He heard his mother settle down next to him and place a hand gently on his shoulder blade, carefully avoiding the areas that had been injured. Thean shifted away from the touch. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked flatly. 

    Her fingertips traced circles around his shoulder, unbothered by his efforts to shrug her off. “My sweet,” she murmured. “They would have just beat you harder.” Thean swallowed back a protest; he knew that she was right, but he didn’t care. Even if the beating would have become worse, he still wished he had heard her voice calling out bravely against the harm inflicted on her son. The humiliation of being publicly punished might have abated had he not felt so alone. 

    The visits Thean tried to pay attention to the most were those of the Queen. She usually came once a day, with a book in her hand. She’d read him stories, carefully selected ones which mentioned little about children and mothers, and instead told tales of fictional places and heroes. Sometimes, she’d try to raise the book to Thean’s line of vision to show him what a word looked like in an effort to continue their lessons in reading. Thean tried to focus, truly, but the mental effort to read was too much. He preferred to just lay and listen passively to her stories, relieved when he was able to get lost in a fictional world if only for just a moment. 

    Though he never thanked her, for he still did not care to speak, he was grateful for the times when he could bask in her presence. When his eyes drifted up to her calm face as she spoke the words of the heroic tales, he realized he might know more about the Queen than his own mother. The tales his father had told Thean and his siblings ranged from when Guinevere was a servant and all the way up to when she had become Queen. His own mother’s life was a blank page, devoid of any detail from before she had arrived in the mines of Medora. Thean wasn’t even sure how much his own father knew, despite being the person his mother was closest to. And if Thean was never reunited with his father, he would never know. 

    Thean feared his mother would always remain a person only partially known to him. She’d stay in his memories as a face, a voice, a presence, and nothing more. 

    He considered himself lucky when a night passed without a dream of his mother. Usually, the dreams were just of her turned away from him, but sometimes they were more grimly vivid. Thean tried not to remember her as he last saw her, brown eyes poised lifelessly towards the sky with flies feasting on her open wound. He tried to tell himself that that was not her, just a hollow encasing of the person that had once been there- but then he remembered how her red hair had curved in familiar slight curls, and could not deny that the body belonged to the same person who had once sung him lullabies. 

    Usually the numbness prevented any strong emotion from rising up inside him during waking hours. The only time Thean truly felt a sense of anger was when the King visited. He knew that was unfair, and could almost feel the guilt rolling off the King in waves when he’d sit silently on the edge of Thean’s bed. Yet Merlin’s son couldn’t muster the effort to comfort a man when he himself felt so far from peace. It was so much easier to feel anger than sympathy. Thean tried to just remain quietly on his side and wait out Arthur’s visits, but during one visit a week after their return, he hadn’t been able to contain his anger. 

    Arthur had asked how he was, and as usual, Merlin’s son had remained silent. “Anselm and Eloise miss you,” the King had said then, sitting carefully down on Thean’s bed so as to avoid the boy’s feet. The comment was one meant to get a reaction, however small, but Thean refused to take the bait. He shut his eyes tightly then, though they both knew he was not asleep. “Thean…” Arthur began. “I want you to know… how very sorry I am.” 

    That was when Thean had felt something snap. A part of him wondered throughout the week why the King had avoided directly addressing the result of their journey, but now he realized he did not want to hear it. He did not care what the King was sorry for- the death of his mother, the way Thean had found her, or their inability to find the rest of his family. No matter what the King was apologizing for, his words wouldn’t change anything. Even royalty could not order anyone back to life once they were gone. 

    Though his eyes were closed, he felt the warm shift beneath his eyelids. A loud bang startled both he and the king, and Thean realized he had somehow slammed his chamber doors open, the resulting crash from the sound of it hitting the inner wall. He hadn’t said a spell, but the magic had happened anyway. Merlin’s son felt faintly surprised by the action; his instinctual acts of magic had always come from a place of fear before, never of anger. The King did not seem to care which emotion had spurred the act of magic, standing quickly from the bed.

    “I’ll leave now,” Arthur said, his voice sounding smaller than it ever had before. Thean watched as his red cape disappeared, the door closing softly behind him. He lay there, trying and failing to process what had happened. His magic hadn’t given him that same surge of energy he had felt since the removal of the runes; the warmth he had felt in his eyes hadn’t reached the rest of his body. 

    Aside from the setting of the sun and the rise of the moon, Thean had little to track the passing of time with the exception of the rising heat. Summer was upon the castle. In the mines, he had loved summer. The darkness of the caves kept he and his family comfortably cool during their work, and shortages of food were uncommon due to the bountiful prey of the forest. Ava and Clo had wanted to be picked for firewood collecting so that they could observe the flowers and creatures of the forest. Thean claimed to only accompany his siblings on such chores to watch over them, but he had enjoyed seeing the sites of the forest more than he cared to admit. The natural beauties his father described in his stories seemed in reach when outside of the caves. 

    The window of his chambers faced out onto one end of the courtyard. Through the glass he could hear the chatter of a constantly busy outside world. Boisterous voices sometimes carried laughter that broke the silence of his room. Though the visitors to his room were always solemn, outside of his solitude, the majority of the castle carried on cheerfully. 

    On a particularly warm night, Thean thought of the cool stone floors of the caves as he fell asleep. In his dreams, he was greeted with the presence of the same floors, though they felt much colder than he had remembered them to be from summers past. 

    When he stood up, he was greeted with a darkness uninterrupted by the shadows of other figures. He navigated to the corner where he and his family slept, but no one lay there either. Desperately, Thean traced his fingers along the wall. He and Ava had begun carving shapes into the walls from a young age, often based on the stories their father told. With Merlin’s guidance, they had outlined the shapes of dragons and other mythical creatures. Clo had joined when he was old enough to grasp the large rock needed for the task. 

    The wall beneath Thean’s fingers was perfectly smooth. The pebbles on the floor that were usually pushed out of the way to make for more comfortable sleep lay in untouched piles.

    The cavern looked as though no one, not even Thean’s family, had ever dwelled there. 

    He woke up cold. The summer heat usually made him wake up with his back dripping in sweat, and so his present shivering was disconcerting. The moon hung low in the sky, indicating it was still before midnight. He found himself swinging his legs over his bed without thinking. He didn’t know where he wanted to go, but he knew he didn’t want to remain in his chambers anymore. 

    Thean wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he last left his chambers- two weeks? Three? Servants had come to his room diligently to change him into new sets of clothes when he allowed them, empty his chamber pot, and provide meals. Having no need or desire to exit his room, he had remained mostly in bed. 

    The outer hallway greeted him with interspersed torches. Though dim, their flames made him squint. He had always shook his head when servants asked if he wished candles to be lit; throughout his life, he had existed in darkness during the night, and saw no reason to see his chambers clearly when he had often kept his eyes closed while awake or asleep in the past weeks. 

    The emptiness of the hallways confirmed that most of the castle had gone to rest. Some guards would no doubt be patrolling, but other than that, Thean’s aimless walk should remain uninterrupted. He wasn’t sure whether he was happy or not about that. 

    His memory of the castle’s layout had faded somewhat during the time that had lapsed from the journey to the mountains and his voluntary isolation. He trailed close to the walls, trying to note any identifying markers at each turn so he could find his way back to his bed when he wished. After a few minutes of walking, carefully avoiding the hallways in which he heard the murmurs of guards, he came upon a corridor with multiple archways. The beginnings of the training grounds stretched beyond in silence, undisturbed by the usual ringing of metal against metal.

    A figure stood leaning beside one of the openings, and Thean began to shuffle backwards, but in his haste was louder than he wished. The man’s face turned towards him, and he recognized the light brown hair to be Gwaine’s. The knight had visited Thean only once or twice in the past few weeks. He hadn’t even sat down on Thean’s bed as the Queen and King had, but instead only asked how he fared before exiting. Merlin’s son had almost longed for him to stay, but Gwaine seemed as unwilling to remain in the boy’s silence as Thean was to speak.

    The knight stood up straighter, walking slowly until he could clearly see the boy in the moonlight. “Thean?” he asked, his voice slightly shocked. “Are you alright?” Merlin’s son had not been seen outside of his chambers for weeks, and now he stood at near midnight in a place of the castle he hadn’t frequented before. 

   “‘M fine,” Thean said, scrambling for an explanation. “I just wanted to see the King.”

    The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could fully process them. His voice sounded hoarse; it had been the first time he had spoken since the return journey. Now that he was outside of his chambers, he could not bury his mouth in a pillow. Did he really want to speak with the King? He wasn’t quite sure. The King may not want to see him after his last visit. 

    “Arthur?” Gwaine asked, his eyebrows settling deeper into his forehead. “Well, sure, I can take you to his chambers, if that’s what you’d like.” 

    Thean nodded, trying to hide his mounting panic. He had never requested to see the King before, certainly not at night. The King saw those who he wished to see, not the other way around. The walk to the royal chambers proved far quicker than Thean had hoped, and by the time Gwaine knocked on their door, he still had no plan as to what his explanation for the late night visit would be. 

    A befuddled “Enter” called out from behind the large double doors. Thean remained in the hallway as Gwaine stepped into the room, bowing swiftly. Smoke hung in the air above a bedside candle, signaling the Queen and King had just laid to rest. Their lightly colored nightclothes agreed with the same conclusion.

    “I’m sorry to disturb you my Lord, my Lady, but I met with Thean in the hall just now and he wished to speak to you.” The words sounded oddly formal. Sir Gwaine had never been much one for formalities, and his choice to use them further proved his own uncertainty about the situation. 

    “Thean,” Guinevere called out from where she and Arthur still sat upright in bed. “Of course, come in.” Her voice was soft with tiredness and concern. 

    Thean ventured further into the room, momentarily stunned at its size. He had thought his own chambers to be as luxurious and spacious a place as one could rest, but the royal chambers were thrice the size of his own and infinitely more decorated. He had to walk past a large and ornate table before arriving at the canopied bed upon which the King and Queen sat.

    “What is it, Thean?” Arthur asked. He did not seem angry, to Thean’s relief. Though his own emotions towards the King were still uncertain, he did not want to purposefully upset the man who let him reside in the castle. 

    “I…” Thean began. He found his gaze, which usually remained rooted on the floor, flitting between those of Gwen, Arthur, and Gwaine. So many eyes trained on him all at once, each holding questions beneath. “Um…” 

    Perhaps noticing the boy’s unease, Arthur said, “Sir Gwaine, I’ll see to it Thean is taken care of. You’re free to go.” The knight blinked in surprise, but hastily bowed and exited without protest. As he walked past Thean, he glanced down and offered a small smile of reassurance. 

    With the closing of the door behind him, Thean tried to focus on what he should say. “What is it that troubles you?” Guinevere asked, shifting in her bed in preparation to rise if needed. 

    “I was just in my chambers and,” Thean swallowed nervously. “I didn’t want to be alone in there anymore.”

    That was the heart of the matter, then. It had been easier to sleep in solitude that first week in the castle with the hope that he’d be reunited with his family eventually. But with each passing week, all the spaces beside him only filled by sheets and blankets felt emptier. He felt silly admitting this in front of the King and Queen, but their faces held no ridicule as they studied him. 

    “You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to be,” the Queen said, and stood up from her bed. Thean was confused at the movement as she gestured back towards the bed with her hands, still standing beside it. A moment passed before it dawned on him what she was offering. He began to mouth a protest, but she murmured, “It’s alright, Thean.”

    He expected her to continue, but she left her reassurance at that. The simplicity and openness with which she made the offer was calming. 

    Thean’s feet carried him to the Queen’s side of the bed, and he gently raised himself up, trying not to disturb the carefully tucked in sheets as he settled between the two main pillows. The King had shifted back down to his left, flat on his back, his head turned slightly in Thean’s direction. No disapproval lay in his eyes when Thean glanced up at him. He only gave a small nod. 

    Guinevere got back into the bed and began to gently arrange the sheets and blankets over Thean, one by one. They were made of a light fabric to not burden the King and Queen with the summer heat, but still held a comforting firmness. The blankets mattered little to Thean, though; rather, it was the sound of breathing by him, and the faint physical warmth of the King and Queen’s bodies that made him ache with the memory of laying down beside his family for so many years. 

    To his horror, he found himself letting out ragged breaths that did not at all match the calm breathing of the King and Queen. His vision began to blur, and streams of water stained his cheeks. Humiliation closed his eyes; he had not openly wept since the day he had found his mother, and now here he was in the royal chambers, crying in the King and Queen’s bed. I’m going to stain their sheets. The thought was so ridiculous and pitiful that it elicited another sob from his mouth. 

    A hand pressed gently against the back of his head, in the area where his hair just met his neck. In embarrassment, Thean had turned his back to the King, and so he realized that it must be Arthur gently patting his dark hair. He tried to focus on the contact. They weren’t mad at him; they would have kicked him out of the chambers by now if they were. Guinevere settled closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, making small circles in a way similar to how Thean’s mother had once done. She began murmuring words of comfort; he struggled to hear what precisely she was saying, but her tone was enough to hold onto. 

    The fog had begun to lift.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    The King of Camelot felt a thrill of excitement as the first snowfall began outside of his chamber windows. 

    The beginning of the winter season was generally accompanied by a sense of dread seeping through the stone walls of the castle. Fires were continually lit to ward off the impending chill, and servants would bustle frantically about to store enough food supplies to last the upcoming months. Even the prince and princess would be in low spirits, as Anselm would have to carry out his sword practice indoors on the chillier days, and Eloise’s horse riding lessons were delayed until the snow melted. 

    This winter was different, however. Before the rationing began, a feast would be prepared on the night of December 1st, the first of its likes to grace the castle. Arthur had come to the decision many months before, during the princess’ own feast in celebration of her eighth birthday at the end of summer. To his surprise, Thean had been willing to attend the event, and had appeared in the celebratory hall with his clothes neater than they had looked in months. The boy had remained relatively silent throughout the affair, but his eyes were wide with wonder as entertainers used both magic and wits alike to perform tricks for the princess’ pleasure. Towards the end of the evening, Arthur had wandered to where Thean stood taking in the table full of sweets in front of him. A plate was grasped in one of the hands at his side, but he looked overwhelmed by the amount of options.

    “I’d recommend the almond cakes,” Arthur said, and Thean glanced up at him in surprise. “They were your father’s favorite,” he added, nodding towards the dish. Thean hesitated for a moment before placing a portion on his plate. After that initial decision, he gathered enough courage to take portions of several other desserts. Arthur suppressed a grin at the now overburdened plate; Merlin’s son hadn’t shown that much initiative to eat in a long time. “I suppose now you understand why Eloise was so looking forward to her birthday,” he murmured in amusement. Thean gave the smallest smile and nodded, taking his first bite of the almond cake. Another bite after that quickly confirmed his favor for the dessert.

    Wanting to hear him speak, if only for a moment, Arthur then asked, “When’s your birthday, Thean?” 

    Merlin’s son lowered the morsel he had raised to his mouth then, and shuffled slightly on his feet. Arthur felt a twinge of disappointment at his sudden discomfort; it was so hard to predict what would spur the distant look to return to Thean’s eyes, and often the questions Arthur thought were the most innocent caused the greatest unease.

    “I’m not sure,” Thean said quietly. “We weren’t able to keep track of exact days in the mines, only the seasons. Ma said Ava and I were born on the first snowfall of winter though, so whenever that came, we considered ourselves a year older,” he concluded, his appetite suddenly lost to memory. 

    “Would you say December 1st is a good estimate?” Arthur asked, the beginning of an idea forming in his mind.

    Thean’s brow furrowed, then relaxed. He gave a small nod. “Yeah, I suppose so."

    “December 1st it is, then,” Arthur said, patting the boy’s shoulder. Thean smiled at the gesture, still befuddled by the gleam in the King’s eyes. 

    After weeks of silence following the death of his mother, Merlin’s son had begun to slowly unravel his grief. When Arthur thought back to that dreadful month, he realized the turning point had been the night Thean had first come to the royal chambers. He had cried in full then, and wept more quietly for several nights after as he lay under the covers of their bed. The King and Queen did not mind, though; they were simply relieved Thean was showing any emotion at all, and that he felt comfortable enough to do so in front of them. 

    Arthur had felt wretched from grief and guilt alike upon returning to Camelot. Thean had lost his mother, and Arthur hadn’t been able to stop him from finding her in such an ghastly state. And Merlin lost his wife, he had realized with an ache. Perhaps Merlin and Lea had never been able to formally state their love of each other through marriage, but the way Thean spoke of his parents clarified that that was how they regarded one another. The idea that Merlin may not know his wife was dead was both a blessing and a curse, for he may not yet be suffering the same grief Thean was undergoing. However, that only meant that if Arthur ever managed to reunite Merlin with his son, the news of Lea’s death would have to be told. 

    Arthur tried to bury his turmoil so that he could at least function during the day. At night, the stifled emotions would rear their ugly heads as he lay awake. Some nights he could still hear echoes of how Merlin’s son had screamed in the light of daybreak, crying out for his mother as if that would summon her back to life. Only when Thean began coming to their chambers at night was the King able to find some semblance of peace. If Thean could forgive Arthur enough to be comforted by his presence, then perhaps the King could forgive himself one day. 

    The routine of Thean coming to their chambers towards nightfall continued without interruption for two weeks after that first occasion. Eventually, Guinevere didn’t even have to reassure the boy that it was alright; instead, she would simply sit up in bed and pat the space between her and the King, a welcoming smile on her face. Thean would often look sheepish when he glanced up at Arthur as he settled into the bed. So when the boy cried, Arthur would repeat the process of gently patting the back of Thean’s head in the hopes that he would realize there was no judgment for the nightly visits. He had once done the same for Anselm, back when his son would come to their chambers after nightmares. The instinct to reach out and comfort Merlin’s son in the same manner had overtaken the King the first night Thean cried in their bed, and the movement had felt as natural as it had with Anselm. 

    The princess herself still sometimes came to her parent’s bed for comfort. Arthur had encouraged independence in his own children, but he never wanted them to feel ashamed for seeking out their parents. His own father had rarely shown such warmth during his childhood, and Arthur did not wish Anselm and Eloise to suffer through the same lonely nights he had as a young boy. 

    Towards the end of the first week that Thean slept between them, the princess had visited the royal chambers as well with the same goal. Thean had startled when he saw her figure standing at the end of the bed, the brown curls of her hair tilted to the side in curiosity. He began to shuffle to make his way off the bed, but stopped when he heard the princess giggling quietly. “Scoot over, Thean,” she whispered, and crawled into the bed to lay between him and Arthur. As Arthur wrapped his own arm around his daughter, he saw her repeat a similar action towards Thean, placing her small hand lightly on his shoulder. 

    The first night that Thean hadn’t come to their chambers, Arthur had gone to check on the boy, unable to suppress his worry. To his relief, Thean had simply been sleeping soundly on his bed. In the moonlight, Arthur could see that the boy had wrapped himself in the worn fabric of one of Merlin’s old blue tunics.

    After that, Thean still came to their chambers, but no longer every night. By the time the leaves began to fall, he was only visiting about once a week. Always the King and Queen shifted to create a space for him, a wordless acceptance passing between the three of them. 

    Thean’s visits to the royal chambers began around the same time he resumed eating meals with them in the dining hall. Arthur was never certain whether he’d see the boy each time he sat down to eat; some days, Thean would arrive punctually for all three meals, while on others he’d come for none. Relief would pass through the King and Queen each time they saw the dark-haired boy sitting across from their own children as they entered the large room. Anselm and Eloise always seemed to talk more excitedly in Thean’s presence as well. Anselm would invite Thean to venture to the ramparts to watch over the busy courtyard below, while Eloise would recommend some of the books she had read most recently. 

    Throughout his isolation, the Queen had continued her lessons with Thean whether he was responsive or not. As his silence subsided, the boy’s will to learn more words grew, until he was nearly reading passages on his own in front of the Queen. With his fervor to read becoming known, Arthur had granted him access to the castle library so that the boy could visit at his own whim. Both magical and fictional books were there, and Merlin’s son was free to take either back to his room. 

    Once, when Thean had been focused on cutting a tough piece of meat, the princess had asked him to pass the dish of green beans to her. The bowl lifted from the table and floated towards Eloise until it landed by her plate. Glancing up at the sudden silence of the royal family, Thean’s face had turned pink at the realization of what he had done. To his relief, Eloise had simply clapped in delight before eagerly scooping green beans from the once again stationary dish. 

    The day after that, Anselm had asked Thean to pass a dish to him. When Thean had reached for the dish with his hands, the prince protested, “No, do it with magic.” Merlin’s son had glanced at the King and Queen then. Arthur had raised his eyebrows in expectancy, and the Queen broke into a grin. Thean’s eyes had flashed gold, and Arthur had marveled at his ability to perform magic so silently, as Merlin had often done. Eloise had again clapped her hands, and Anselm beamed at Thean when the bowl landed in front of him. 

    As he watched snowflakes swirl down, the King smiled at the thought of his children’s attitude towards Merlin’s son. He wondered whether the boy had ever had friends outside of his siblings, whose whereabouts were still unknown. After the discovery of the slaughter in the Medora mountains, Arthur was hesitant to send out further scouting patrols in fear that a similar event may occur. When he pondered over why the slave handlers had carried out such devastation, the only conclusion he could come to was to spite Camelot’s legacy of freeing camps. Though the slaughter was horrific, the amount of bodies did not match the approximate populations of the mountains described by Thean and other previous inhabitants of the mountains. The handlers must have transferred even more slaves upon spotting Leon’s patrol, and then killed those they did not have time to otherwise get rid of. Fortunately, no children had been spotted, so at least Thean could cling to the hope that his siblings might still be alive. 

    Upon hearing of the slaughter, Queen Mithian had sent King Arthur correspondence regularly about suspected slave holdings within Nemeth. While she had been trying to lessen the number of camps within her realm for several years, her fervor for the task had increased since that horrid day. Just a few days ago, she had even extended an invitation to Arthur to visit Nemeth himself to discuss future strategies of combining their forces to free all of Albion from slavery. Arthur had accepted the invitation without hesitancy. The winter weather would usually prevent any expeditions out of Camelot, but the quickly growing cold of the season spurred a sense of urgency within him to free as many slave camps as possible. Though he knew Merlin had somehow survived winters as a slave for many years, Arthur worried Thean’s siblings, Ava and Clo, may not be as capable of facing the season without the aid of the rest of their family. For all he knew, the two may not even have each other for support, as the handlers seemed to have no qualms about separating families. 

    Once he reached the decision to journey to Nemeth, Arthur had to decide who would accompany him. While his typical cohort of advisors and knights would of course follow, the King of Camelot also desired another to join him. 

    When Anselm heard the offer, he did not appear excited. Rather, he was hesitant. The usually rambunctious prince had rarely left the citadel, and had never stepped foot outside of Camelot. The citadel of Nemeth was thankfully close to Camelot’s borders, so they wouldn’t need to journey too far before reaching sanctuary, but the land was still relatively unfamiliar. When Anselm did speak after a lapse of silence, he asked a question.

    “Can Thean come?”

    Arthur was surprised that that was the first question Anselm asked, but not surprised by the question itself. As Thean had gradually ventured further out of his room towards the end of summer, he and the prince were seen more often together than apart. Sometimes, when Arthur came to his son’s chambers, he’d see Thean sitting beside Eloise as she stitched a new pattern, the two listening as Anselm demonstrated a new sword move or complained about one of the visiting noble’s sons. Arthur had tried to get his children to mingle with the few other children their age that dotted the castle, but the prince and princess both complained of the others being too stuck-up. It was a fair assessment. Growing up in the castle had given Arthur a blind overconfidence that lasted till the beginning of his reign, and though of somewhat lower social standing, the children of other nobles within the castle shared that same blindness. He considered it a miracle, or perhaps the effects of his wife, to be the main reason his own children had thankfully not acquired as much arrogance as he once had. 

    Arthur was hesitant to agree to Anselm’s request. Thean had stayed exclusively within the castle throughout the summer and fall, only stepping outside when Anselm invited him to watch a sword match (to Arthur’s knowledge, the two still hadn’t fought together with swords since the very first week Thean had come to Camelot). With a steady supply of food, and occasional visits from Helena and Gaius to check on the boy’s condition, there was no need yet for the him to long for the outside world. Furthermore, the memory of how Thean’s last venture outside of the castle was still all too fresh despite the change of seasons. 

    “I’ll ask him if he wants to,” Arthur relented. “If he doesn’t, though, we’ll respect his wishes.” Anselm nodded solemnly, absorbing the words without protest. He had seen how Thean still grieved, and though he had often pressured his hesitant friend into doing what he was initially reluctant to do before, journeying out of Camelot was another matter. 

    By asking Thean what he wished to do, Arthur had hoped to show the boy that he wasn’t confined to the castle if he didn’t want to be. He wanted the boy to know that he wasn’t a captive anymore, albeit in better circumstances. Though he wanted to keep Merlin’s son under his watch to ensure his safety, he knew one day Thean may wish to have more independence if he continued to remain under the King’s care.

    The conversation ended up being shorter than Arthur had anticipated. When Arthur informed Merlin’s son of the upcoming journey, and his ability to join them if he so wished, Thean had answered with a question first just as the prince had: “Why do you want me to come?”

    The boy sounded uncertain. On their journey to the Mines of Medora, Thean would have been of use if circumstances had required them to navigate the inner paths of the mountains. The King’s duties in Nemeth, however, would only be to negotiate military moves with the Queen, negotiations which Thean doubted he would be allowed to partake in. 

    Seeing no way to sugarcoat the truth, Arthur said, “Anselm wants you to.” Realizing that was open for misinterpretation, Arthur added, “I want you to come too, Thean, but only if you want to come.” 

    Thean nodded slowly, then turned back to the book he had been reading before Arthur had entered his chambers, casually turning a page. “Anselm wants me to come, huh,” Thean murmured, half to himself. He glanced up at the King for a moment. “I will go to Nemeth.” 

    Arthur had nodded, a mixture of fear and relief flooding through him simultaneously. Despite not wanting to repeat his past inability to protect Thean, he still was glad that he’d at least be able to keep an eye on the boy during the week that he’d be away from Camelot. 

    Ever since Thean had sprung into his life, a pervasive worry remained in the pit of Arthur’s stomach for the boy. Maybe it was because he looked so much like Merlin; maybe it was because his small and slow smile reminded Arthur of a friend he had missed for so long, and maybe it was because he felt he owed a debt for his failure to protect Merlin. Whatever the reason was, he knew he didn’t want Thean to be out of his sight for too long, just as he felt for his own children. 

    Eloise was still too young to go on the journey, but with Thean turning eleven and Anselm nearly twelve, the boys were both reasonably old enough to accompany him. He wanted Anselm to witness the process of visiting an ally, and learn how to properly handle himself away from the familiarity of Camelot. Nemeth had been a steadfast ally throughout Arthur’s reign, and he hoped to have that continue when Anselm took the throne. 

    A timid knock, followed by a sniffle, shifted Arthur’s gaze away from the window of his chambers. As he opened the door, he had to tilt his head down to see the visitor. There, standing before him, the princess was trying and failing to hold back tears. “Elly,” Arthur murmured. He knelt down, ignoring the complaints of his joints, to come to eye level with his daughter. “What’s wrong?” 

    Eloise raised her hands towards her father, a small pillow in her hands. Arthur marveled at the nearly expert stitches; he knew little of sewing, but could admire a skilled piece when he saw one. The main fabric was a dark purple. Within the center of the work lay three figures shrouded in simple tunics. Two were of the same height, a blue-eyed boy and a brown-eyed girl, both with dark hair. The leftmost figure was a somewhat shorter boy with red hair and eyes the same shade as the other boy. Though the eyes were represented only by succinct dots of color, and the hair only a few lines of yarn, the representation of the children was unmistakable. “I mucked it up!” Eloise cried, her hands tightening around the edges of the upraised pillow in frustration. A vertical tear separated the dark-haired boy from the girl and boy beside him, white cotton peaking out slightly. “I wanted to include his mum and dad too, but I ran out of space. He’s going to hate it,” Eloise continued defeatedly. 

    Arthur ran his fingers lightly down the side of the pillow. The fabric was plush and smooth. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Eloise, this is amazing. Thean’s going to love it.” 

    Eloise’s quiet weeping halted. Her father always complimented her own work, but she didn’t think he had ever used the word ‘amazing’ to describe what she’d made before. “Really?” she asked, hope peeking through her voice. “But it's torn…” 

    “I’m sure Yula can fix it,” Arthur said. Yula was the head seamstress of the castle, regularly making dresses tailored specifically to Guinevere’s fit. “She’s fixed many a stitch for your mother under tight timing.”

    Eloise nodded, her eyes widening. “I’ll go to her then!” she exclaimed, her mood already brightening. She quickly pecked her father on the cheek before scampering down the hall, a few stray pieces of cotton flying out of the pillow in her haste. 

    Arthur chuckled at the sight of his quickly disappearing daughter. The fresh memory of Thean’s depiction on the pillow made him wonder where the real-life boy was. He strode quickly through the halls to the boy’s room, hoping to find him quietly reading. However, the room was empty. A red neckerchief lay on the bedpost. He must be wearing the blue one then, Arthur thought to himself. While all of Merlin’s old shirts proved too big to be worn for anything aside from nightwear, Thean had taken to wearing one of Merlin’s old neckerchiefs nearly every day during the fall and winter. 

    As Arthur stepped away from the doorway, he spotted the blond head of the prince strolling through the hall. “Anselm!” he called out. His son turned to him, a smile spreading across his freckled cheeks. “Have you seen Thean?” 

    Anselm nodded- he seemed to always know of the dark-haired boy’s whereabouts. “He was heading towards the kitchens just a moment ago, I think,” Anselm reported. 

    Arthur was unsurprised. Aside from reading, Thean had also picked up the habit of lingering in the kitchen. To the cook’s relief, the boy didn’t seem interested in sampling the royal dishes in between meals; instead, Thean would simply watch, just as he had done during preparation of meals on their journeys outside of Camelot. The first week that Merlin’s son had begun inhabiting the kitchen, the chief castle cook, Bertha, had complained directly to the King. The irritable woman had always had a short patience with Merlin, and her countenance towards lingerers in the kitchen hadn’t changed in the past decade. “Just let him stay if he wants to. He’s not disturbing your work, is he?” Arthur had said to Bertha after hearing her describe Thean’s favoritism toward the kitchen. The cook had sighed, but curtsied and exited, woefully accepting the King’s request. 

    “Did you think of a gift for Thean?” Arthur asked, knowing his son had been unsure of what to get for Thean’s birthday ever since they started making plans for a celebration two weeks ago. 

    “Yeah. I’m not sure if it’ll be any good though. Whenever I ask him what he wants, he just shrugs,” Anselm sighed, rolling his eyes. His gaze flicked back to his father for a moment, his eyebrows rising with curiosity. “What did you used to get Merlin for his birthday?”

    The question disarmed Arthur, for the answer was bleak and uncertain. I don’t even know when his birthday is, Arthur thought, but couldn’t bring himself to tell Anselm that. Birthday celebrations were generally only a luxury afforded to those of noble birth. Arthur hadn’t even known Guinevere’s birthday until he had started courting her. He had never even wondered when Merlin’s birthday had been; the thought had flitted across his mind once or twice after Merlin had been taken, but he didn’t want to ask. The day would only signify loss instead of celebration. “Nothing,” Arthur answered honestly. 

    Anselm’s eyes widened slightly. “Why not?” he asked, taken aback. The customs around birthdays had relaxed somewhat since Arthur’s reign. His children knew of their servants’ birthdays, and would at least acknowledge the days when they came about, even giving small gifts once they were old enough. And knowing how long Merlin had been his father’s servant, it seemed strange to think they had never gotten each other anything throughout the years. 

    “It just wasn’t done back then,” Arthur muttered, wanting to rid himself of the conversation topic. Amidst Anselm’s confusion was also a tinge of judgment, and the King did not want to face that. “Make sure you’re in the Festivity Hall soon. I’ll go look for Thean,” Arthur said, and strode past his son en route to the kitchen. 

    Warmth seeped through the hall leading to the oven-filled room, and the mixed smell of roasting potatoes, boiling stews, and hints of nutmeg and cinnamon sung along the walls. When Arthur was a small child, he had sometimes walked by the kitchen to peek inside. He had rarely gone in himself, though- back then, his father considered it improper for him to socialize too much with those who served him. 

    In the kitchen, Bertha was calling out orders to her assistants. “Don’t overcook the string beans! They’ll go dry,” she barked. Then, she made her way over to Thean. The boy was moving a small knife up and down in a swift motion across a portion of parsley. “Smaller pieces, Thean,” she declared, though her voice had gone slightly softer. After a few weeks of Thean watching the kitchen attendants silently, an assistant had taken it upon themselves to teach Thean some of the simpler tasks. Bertha had been beyond agitated at this, but when she saw that Thean was not completely useless at chopping vegetables, she had begrudgingly allowed him to learn the ways of the kitchen. Sometimes, when a servant spread out a meal before the royal family, they would comment on a dish that Thean had contributed to. Merlin’s son would smile then, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. 

    “I’ve never seen anyone make their own birthday meal before,” Arthur chuckled from where he stood in the doorway, having been unnoticed by the bustling cooks. 

    “Arthur!” Thean exclaimed in surprise, looking up from his task. The edges of his mouth twitched up in a small smile. 

    “My Lord!” Bertha cried, throwing narrow eyes at Thean as she curtsied to the King. Usually, only Arthur’s family called him by his first name. The assistant cooks paused in their duties to pay respects to the King. 

     Arthur held up a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m just here to collect Thean,” he said. “I didn’t realize he mistook celebration for work,” Arthur continued, though with mirth in his voice. 

    Bertha shook her head in exasperation, relaxing her rigid stance at the King’s nonchalance. “I told him to leave it to us, but he wouldn’t listen,” she muttered. “Though he did speed up the process of getting water to boil,” the cook added after a moment of consideration.

    “If all your pots are boiling now, I trust you’ll be able to handle the rest of the preparation without him?” Arthur asked cheerfully. 

    Bertha straightened; though there was jest in the King’s words, she didn’t want to suggest in any way that her kitchen was incapable. “Yes, Sire!” she said, nodding quickly before calling out more orders to the assistant. “Go on, Thean,” she added, waving a hand when the boy still stood steadfast by the pile of parsley he had cut. 

    “Okay,” Thean grumbled, dragging out the word in reluctance. The tone of his voice was strikingly ordinary that it surprised Arthur as the boy walked towards him. So often during his stay in the castle, Thean had shown little resistance to the whims of other people. Aside from when he had insisted that Arthur take him along on the journey to the Medora mountains, the boy rarely made an outward stand for himself. Even such a small act of defiance as complaining about being ordered by the cook made Arthur wonder if perhaps Thean had found some semblance of belonging within the castle.

    “Are you ready?” he asked of the boy. Thean was wearing one of his standard outfits, a faded green tunic, his father’s old blue neckerchief, brown pants and shiny black boots. Merlin’s son was starting to look the average size of a now 11 year old boy. His height was still somewhat stunted from years of malnourishment, but a steady supply of meals had helped fill his previously sunken features. 

    Thean nodded, though his hand strayed up to fiddle with his neckerchief- a nervous habit Arthur had noticed. “I think so,” Thean murmured. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”

    “You don’t have to do anything specifically,” Arthur said. “The feast is for you, Thean- you can do whatever it is you want to do there. And if you only want to sit and eat, that’s fine too.” 

    Thean gave another slight smile at the King’s reassurances, and the two continued on to the celebration hall in a comfortable silence. There, they were greeted by the welcoming cheers of the gathered knights. Arthur had only invited a small group for the celebration, not wanting to intimidate Thean with more people than needed. Aside from the Knights of the Round Table and the Royal Family, Arthur had invited Rupert, Helena, and a handful of servants that had regularly visited Thean throughout his time in Camelot thus far. 

    Gaius had been invited as well, though Arthur had been unsure of whether the aged man would be able to make the trek to the castle in the increasing snowfall. To his surprise, the retired physician greeted them quickly after Thean walked through the door. “Hello, my boy,” Gaius said to Thean with a warm smile. Merlin’s son quickly closed the distance between himself and the elderly man, wrapping his arms in a hug. Gaius had only been to the castle a few times since Thean had arrived in Camelot, but had always made a point to visit Merlin’s son, speaking in soft tones with him about how he was and giving tips on his increasing use of magic. 

    After greetings were made, the Royal Family took their seating at the head of the hall. Thean sat in the very middle, as was customary of birthdays, with Anselm and Eloise on his side, and the King and Queen bordering the children. Many of the dishes Thean was partial to were laid before them: braised leg of lamb, tomatoes stewed with parsley and thyme, and of course, a multitude of yam dishes cooked in every way imaginable: whipped, mashed, baked and boiled. To the birthday boy’s delight, several jars of peachberry jam imported specially from Ealdor were laid before him, with an accompanying letter from his grandmother. While Arthur had dreaded sending Hunith the news regarding Thean’s mother, he had been more willing to send word of Thean’s gradual process of accustoming himself to the castle. Hunith had been unable to make a wintry journey to the castle herself, but insisted on sending the gift of peachberry jam. 

    As the main course was finished, an ensemble of brass instruments began to play hearty tunes. Thean watched the musicians with quiet curiosity, ceasing to pay much heed to the excited chatter of the prince and princess beside him. Arthur had realized with a bittersweet sadness that Thean may have not ever heard music aside from singing before arriving in Camelot. The boy’s captivated fascination with the band that played at Eloise’s birthday had only confirmed Arthur’s assumption. Thean had stood still then in front of the musicians as though transfixed, not joining in with the knights and nobles that danced to the tune behind him. 

    “Come dance with us, Thean!” Eloise exclaimed as she and Anselm stood from their seats. 

    Thean’s mouth worked with uncertainty. “Um,” was all he said. 

    “It’s just three moves, it’s easy,” Anselm encouraged. Thean sighed, but smiled shyly despite himself. Though he knew the King had told him to do as he wished at his party, he didn’t want to disappoint Anselm and Eloise, thus dancing seemed like the only suitable option at the moment. 

    The rhythm of the song denoted it immediately as one that required three dancers per group. Two dancers would be circled by a third. The dancer on the outskirts would move twice around them before trading off with one of the pair to dance in the middle. Gwaine, spurred on by his fifth jug of mead that night, was currently taking on the role typically held by a female dancer, with Elyan and Percival sharing in the ridiculous display. Laughter spilled from the gathered audience, and Arthur took a moment to bask in the cheer that surrounded him. If he could just see another dark-haired man among the gleeful group, everything might be almost alright again. 

    Anselm and Thean took turns dancing with Eloise or circling on the outskirts. Thean’s movements were hesitant at first, and he nearly tripped over the princess’s flowing pink dress several times, his own cheeks turning pink from fluster. As the song reached its middle though, he seemed to gain more confidence until his movements nearly matched the speed of Anselm’s. By the time the last jubilant notes rang out, he was grinning as he sent Eloise into one last twirl. 

    The children moved to one of the banquet tables as dessert platters were laid out. Almond cakes, cherry tarts, and lemon truffles were piled high, many of which were quickly grabbed up by the eager hands of Thean, the princess and prince following his lead. When most of the plates were half-empty, the Queen tapped her spoon against a nearby chalice and stood. 

    “It has been so lovely to see all of you gathered here,” the Queen began, smiling out at the small crowd. Her eyes lingered on Thean. “As you’re all aware, we’re here to celebrate Thean’s birthday.” Thean tried to meet her gaze, though he shifted in his seat in discomfort at being suddenly thrust into widespread attention. “Thean, though you’ve been here in the castle for less than a year, I know I speak for all in this room that Camelot is a happier place with you in it.” She paused for a moment. “If your family were here right now, they’d be very proud of you,” she continued in a slightly lower voice. A glimmer passed through Guinevere’s eyes, and Arthur realized with a jolt that she was on the verge of tears despite her cheerful words. He glanced around the room, relieved to note that no one had yet picked up on the solemn look of the Queen. 

    Arthur rose from his seat, a hand raising his own chalice. “To Thean!” he called, summoning the end of the speech. The knights and other celebrators raised their own chalices, calling out the same words in unison. 

    Thean relaxed back into his seat as each person’s attention returned to their own conversations. He endured the gift-giving process with a tired smile. The King and Queen gave him a generous amount of warmer tunics and boots to prepare him for the upcoming journey to Nemeth. The gift that Anselm had decided upon was a cookbook containing recipes classic to Camelot, ranging from main entrees to desserts. Thean had just begun leafing through the pages, marveling at the detailed step-by-step drawings, when Eloise walked to the front of the table with her hands behind her back.

    “I made this for you,” Eloise began quietly, bringing out the pillow she had shown Arthur before the celebration. Where there had been a tear before between the depiction of Thean alongside his siblings, a thin golden line now stitched together the break, and the pillow appeared adequately stuffed again. “This is supposed to be you, and that’s Ava, and that’s Clo,” the princess continued, her hands hovering over each figure. She placed the pillow in front of Thean. “It’s not much, but…” Eloise trailed off. 

    Thean reached a hand forward, tracing a finger down the golden thread in the pillow, his eyes going back and forth over the figures of his brother and sister. “Thank you so much, Elly,” he said softly, inciting the nickname that usually only the royal family called her by. The princess beamed at Thean’s rare show of outright affection. 

    With the birthday boy laden with his new gifts, and even the boisterous prince and princess showing signs of tiredness from the night’s festivities, the celebrators began to stream out of the hall, stopping at the head table to bid farewell. As the King spoke quietly with Sir Leon of when to hold a meeting the next day, he noticed Gaius handing a worn brown book to Thean and murmuring some quiet words. Arthur didn’t think much of it then- Gaius surely had tons of books on magic and lore alike, and it wasn’t surprising that he chose to give one to Thean on his birthday. 

    Several nights later, the King cursed himself for his own obliviousness. 

*****

    The castle had been busy that day, servants and knights traveling to and fro down the halls, calling out to each other in coordination for the journey to Nemeth the following morning. The group was going to be a small one- aside from Thean and Anselm, only the Knights of the Round Table and a handful of advisors were to come along. To ensure the safety of the Camelot travelers, Queen Mithian had not informed her people of their visit. They were to enter the citadel through the back and enter the castle immediately. Though relations were on good terms between the monarchs of Camelot and Nemeth, the citizens of the citadel were divided in their opinions on Camelot’s many changes in the past decade. Magic was no longer punishable in Nemeth by death, but the land was far more suspicious of outward displays of sorcery. Instead, sorcery was seen as a tool to only be used as a last resort; excessive use was viewed as a sign of corruption of the magic wielder. 

    Arthur had explained all this to Thean in solemn tones. “I know you’ve used your magic in the castle without issue these past few months, but it can’t be like that in Nemeth,” Arthur had said to the boy a few nights before. “It’d be best if you avoid using magic at all until we return to Camelot.”

    Thean had agreed easily enough, though Arthur could tell the boy was hiding his disappointment. Magic had become something Merlin’s son had begun to use without a thought, and it would take considerable mental effort to not use sorcery out of habit in Nemeth. 

    Anxiety had begun to creep its way back into Arthur’s mind the night before their journey as he lay beside the Queen in bed. She breathed softly beside him, already in the sanctuary of sleep. Guinevere would be staying behind to handle the routines of the citadel during his week of absence. With Arthur and Anselm both going to Nemeth, it would be too risky to have any other members of the royal family depart from the citadel. The princess was fuming at being left behind while both the prince and Thean were allowed on the journey, but Arthur had tried to comfort her by giving the duty of watching over her mother. Eloise’s eyes had widened at the task. “I’ll make sure to keep my dagger on me!” she had exclaimed proudly. The princess had begun receiving lessons in self-defense that winter, and nearly considered herself on par with the knights of Camelot. 

    Prince Anselm had been schooled that past week on the somewhat different mannerisms and customs of the court of Nemeth. Camelot’s prince endured the lessons with only a few grumbles of protest. It would be his first journey outside of Camelot’s borders, and even at his young age, he understood the significance of the outing. Much of what he learned he passed on to Thean during mealtime. Though Thean was not of noble birth and therefore wouldn’t be held to the same standards as the Royal Family, he would doubtlessly be at Anselm’s side whenever permitted, and therefore Anselm thought it only responsible to inform the boy of Nemeth customs. 

    As Arthur’s hand extended across the empty space between him and Guinevere, he pondered over Thean’s behavior the past week. It had been more than a week since Merlin’s son had last crept into the royal chambers at night, and though the Queen found it reassuring that the boy was beginning to sleep alone for longer periods of time, Arthur found it disconcerting. Thean’s celebration had gone smoothly, and the boy had clearly enjoyed the festivities and gifts despite being unaccustomed to the attention. The King had hoped Thean would interpret the celebration as finalizing proof that he was a part of the Castle, and that it would strengthen the boy’s trust in him and the royal family. The space where Thean usually lay in their bed made Arthur worry the boy did not yet feel at home in Camelot.  

    Knowing sleep was far out of reach, the King quietly untangled himself from his sheets, careful not to disturb Gwen. He slipped on his boots and made his way aimlessly through the halls. He peeked into the nearby chambers of his son and daughter, comforted by the sight of the rise and fall of their chests. Arthur walked slowly to Thean’s chambers a few halls down, intending to head back to his own chambers afterwards. When he was a few steps from Thean’s closed door, he heard a sound that made him freeze. 

    Weeping. 

    The sobs muffled through the door were unceasing in intensity, unlike when Thean had first cried in the King and Queen’s bed. This crying was unhindered by shame, the kind of weeping a child only emitted when they believed themselves to be alone. 

    Arthur’s hand hovered over the doorknob. He didn’t want to invade the Thean’s privacy, and he had no idea how to comfort the boy. But he wouldn’t forgive himself if he let the crying continue without at least trying to mend whatever had triggered the boy’s sorrow.

    As the door creaked open a few inches, Arthur could not make out what he was looking at at first. The shadows of the room were deep and winding; the red curtains had been drawn closed, only a small sliver of moonlight escaping into the room through the small space between the two drapes. The King followed the white and blue light until his gaze landed on Thean. 

   The boy was on his knees on the floor, his back hunched. Around him were several massive books, the largest of which was opened up to a half-torn page. Directly in front of Thean was a shirt of dark purple- Arthur recognized it as one of the last new tunics Merlin had received. His manservant had only gotten a few chances to wear the garment before he was snatched from Camelot. 

    All this Arthur scarcely had a second to take in before alarm seeped through him: one of Thean’s hands was cradled against his chest. Scarlet dripped down onto Merlin’s shirt in fat drops. 

    The King swung the door further open on its hinges, making Thean straighten, turning with a look of shock on his face. Arthur closed the distance between him and the boy in a few quick strides, kneeling down beside him. He grabbed his arm gently, inspecting the hand; a long gash extended across the palm. It was a clean cut, however, one that had been done with intent. 

    “Who did this to you?” Arthur asked, fury spreading through him. Thean looked scared, only shaking his head, still in a stupor over the King’s sudden presence. At the boy’s silence, Arthur resumed his study of the surrounding objects: Merlin’s old shirt, the books, and at Thean’s side, a…

    A kitchen knife. 

    Now it was Arthur’s turn to shake his head. Thean had been spending more and more time in the kitchen that week; usually the tools were kept under lock and key. Only someone who stayed towards the end of the evening shift would see where they were placed. Just the other night, he had seen Thean disappearing to the kitchen after dinner; Arthur had assumed then it was out of the boy’s wish to help with cleanup, his growing magic skills enabling him to clean dishes at twice the speed of the standard kitchen cooks.

    The knife next to Thean, however, was far from clean. The scarlet gleaming on its edge matched that of the blood on Thean’s palm. Specks of similar color littered Merlin’s old shirt. The sight made Arthur feel sick to his stomach; it reminded him of the patch of Merlin’s bloody tunic he had found the day his friend had been taken from them. 

    The question Arthur needed to ask changed then. “What did you do?” he asked quietly, though there was an edge to his voice now. 

    Thean gasped in air, trying to steady his ragged breathing. “I just had to make sure he was alive,” the boy said, wiping away straying tears in frustration with his uninjured hand. “I wasn’t sure if it would work- you need an object they owned, and the blood of someone related to them. I tried with some of his old neckerchiefs, but I guess since I wore them a lot too, it messed it up.” The boy was blabbering in his haste to explain himself. 

    “Thean…” Arthur groaned.This isn’t fair, he thought petulantly. Arthur had wanted to hope Thean was doing well, that his increasing comfort in the castle showed the boy wasn’t likely to do anything desperate. The self-imposed wound just proved the King had been wrong to assume so. 

    “I felt him,” Thean said, whimpering slightly, though not from pain. “Arthur, I felt my Pa,” he continued, catching the King’s eyes. “He’s alive. He… he said my name.” The boy’s shoulders began to shake again; his hands reached for the purple tunic before him, balling the tunic up in his fists and spreading more blood into it. 

    Alive. A wonderful word, now that Arthur thought about it. Yet he could not focus on the miracle of the revelation amidst the wreck that was Thean’s current state. 

    The book that was open to a half torn page held one image before the break in the paper. Two figures stood apart from another, but between them, a thin thread extended. Above the line hung a drop of blood. As Arthur studied the ends of the book, he realized it was of the same brown color as the one Gaius had handed to Merlin’s son on his birthday. 

    Thean was still searching the King’s eyes, hoping to see the same relief that he felt. But Arthur’s eyes hardened then. He did not know much about blood magic; Merlin and Gaius had only ever told him that spells involving blood of any kind were dangerous. And while he knew from repeated convincing from Merlin that no spell was purely evil, that it was the wielder that determined the intent of magic, fear overwhelmed him at the sight of the bleeding boy before him. He hadn’t felt such fear at the use of magic since Morgana. 

    No, Arthur thought. I won’t let him become like her. Yet the similarities between Thean’s and Morgana’s situation were undeniable- both had been taken into Camelot when they had nowhere left to turn. And just now, Thean had resorted to dangerous magic out of desperation. 

    “You shouldn’t have done this,” Arthur said angrily. Thean recoiled at his tone; Arthur could already see the walls behind the boy’s eyes from when they had first met being rebuilt, layers and layers of forgotten mistrust piling up again. 

    “Why not?” Thean challenged. He thought the King would be happy hearing that his old friend was verifiably alive. “This- this is good news! This means we can find him, and maybe Clo and Ava too!” Surely the King had to see the sense in that? A wound on his hand was a small price to pay for such a discovery. 

    “No,” Arthur repeated, shaking his head vehemently. “There are other ways to find your family, Thean, but not like this- never like this.”

    “What other ways?” Thean pressed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the tunic. “You haven’t seemed to try much since my mom died! You’re just going to let them die like her, aren’t you? You’ve found me, and that’s enough to clear your conscience, huh?” The words tumbled out of the boy’s mouth, unhindered in their honesty. 

    “That’s enough! ” Arthur shouted, his voice rising enough that he faintly realized he may have woken those who slept in neighboring rooms. Thean’s eyes still burned with anger, but his shoulders slouched slightly. Arthur had never yelled at the boy before; he had always tried to remain calm, for he suspected the boy had been yelled at enough in his short lifetime. “We’re taking you to Helena,” Arthur decided, standing up. He reached out a hand to help Thean up, but the boy declined the offer, struggling to his feet on his own. Thean kept the purple tunic wrapped around his wounded hand. 

    “I can heal it on my own,” Thean grumbled, looking to the side of the room, now avoiding the King’s eyes. 

    “And Helena can as well,” Arthur argued, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder to lead him out of the room. He had carried out the same gesture so many times before, but with more comfort. 

    A few guards had made their way to the outside of Thean’s chambers, having been startled by the sound of the King’s shouting. “Nothing to see here,” Arthur said briskly, much to the knights’ befuddlement. He did not want word of Thean’s odd behavior spreading; the castle inhabitants had finally seemed to trust the boy in the past few months. 

    A tense silence persisted between the King and Merlin’s son as they made their way to the physician chambers, with Arthur not removing his hand from the boy’s shoulders, lest he sprint away as he had the first day they met. Rupert was the first to answer their knocks, the lanky physician’s apprentice blinking in confusion. “Thean hurt his hand,” Arthur explained shortly. Rupert’s eyes landed on the bloodied bundle covering the boy’s hand, and stepped aside silently to welcome them in. 

    Helena hurried from her own small room off the main chambers, wrapping herself quickly in a white coat to ward off the night chill. Spotting Thean’s cradled hand, she ordered the boy to sit on a bench, then called out to Rupert to grab various poultices as she gently unwrapped the injured hand. The two physicians worked in a concentrated silence for a few minutes, with Helena murmuring a few healing spells here and there as she bandaged the cut. 

    Only when her work was nearly finished did Helena speak. “How did this happen?” she asked. Thean remained silent, eyebrows furrowed as he watched her hands move across his. 

    “Tell her,” Arthur commanded, eliciting a glare from the boy. 

    Thean stared at the wooden table on which his hand lay as he spoke. “I used a blood spell to contact my Pa,” he admitted. 

    Helena paused, an outstretched piece of bandage cloth hovering for a moment. She continued the wrapping before asking, “Did it work?” 

    Thean glanced up at her, seemingly surprised she did not immediately reprimand him as the King had done. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I reached him- and I think he knew it was me, ‘cause he said my name.” The faintest smile appeared on Thean’s lips at the memory. “He felt… so distant, and it was only for a moment, but he was there.” 

    Helena nodded slowly. “Where did you learn that spell?” she asked. “Nothing in Camelot’s library has incantations for that.”

    Thean shuffled in his seat, his previous openness stumbling at the question. “Well… I didn’t find the entire spell anywhere, but a small part of it was in a book Gaius gave me. The page was torn, but I managed to piece it together from a few other books. Nothing had the whole spell, but a few had parts.” Arthur silently cursed himself; he had thought it would be fine to let Thean have access to Camelot’s libraries, having believed there to be no books containing harmful magic. Upon his return from Nemeth, he would have to organize a group of sorcerers to comb the library for any dangerous books. The task had been done years before, but it clearly had not been done thoroughly enough. 

    Helena finished bandaging, tying off the white fabric that encircled Thean’s hand with a triple knot. “There’s a reason that page had been torn out from the book Gaius gave you,” she explained, her face going solemn. “Blood magic is unstable, for the person who initiates the spell, and the person on the receiving end- especially if only one sorcerer initiates the spell.”

    Alarm made Thean stiffen. “What do you mean? How is the spell unstable?” 

    “If there is another magic wielder close to the initiator or the receiver, they can intercept the connection,” Helena answered. Seeing Thean’s growing panic, she continued, “I doubt anyone did with the connection you made Thean- it was probably too weak. And I’m not sure how the spell affects your father, since I assume he still has runes. You hardly exchanged words with him, correct?” Merlin’s son nodded. “Good. Then he should be alright. But don’t do this again. I don’t know everything about blood magic, but I know Gaius and all other sorcerers I’ve met have advised heavily against it.” 

    Rupert set down a small vial of ointment at Thean’s elbow. “Apply this once a day, and you shouldn’t have any scarring,” he explained to the boy. Thean stood then, weariness dragging down his shoulders. Arthur thanked the two physicians before walking out with the boy following close behind. 

    When they reached Thean’s chambers, Arthur felt another stab of unease: several drops of blood had soaked into the hardwood floors, and the open books of magic still remained in a circle. “I’ll get a servant to clean that up,” he told Thean, who had walked a few paces into the room.

    Thean turned a tired gaze to the King. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked. “Prevent me from going to Nemeth?” 

    Arthur shook his head. “I think that would punish Anselm more than it would punish you,” he sighed. His son would be furious if his friend were prevented from accompanying the journey at the last minute. “I don’t want to punish you, Thean,” Arthur said earnestly. Thean tilted his head down, scarcely seeming to hear the King’s words. Slowly, the boy sat down on the edge of his bed, hunching over to stare at his boots. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Please don’t do this ever again, especially not while we're in Nemeth.”

    Arthur shuddered to think of what reaction the people of Nemeth would have if they heard of such a young boy using taboo magic. He hoped for Thean to respond, to reassure the King that he wouldn’t attempt the stunt again. But silence was all that the boy produced at that moment. 

    “Good night, Thean,” Arthur sighed, closing the door slowly behind him. He headed back to his chambers, though he knew sleep would continue to evade him that night.

Chapter Text

Thean

    He reached for the clothes not with his hands, but with magic. 

    Tunics, scarves, and pants folded neatly into the large brown satchel he had been given to pack for the journey. He sat on his bed with legs crossed, lingering in the feeling of warmth behind his eyes. His magic had felt distant and alien in the first month after his mother’s death, but as the leaves began to fall, his use of spells started to bring him a sense of comfort that outweighed the numbness.

    For a long time, Thean hadn’t understood why his father had talked of magic so lovingly. Sure, magic could accomplish great feats, but the sickening effects Thean used to feel after the smallest actions deterred him from considering spells as any more than a means to survival. With his ample leisure time in the castle, however, he had turned to spell books out of curiosity, spending hours learning even the most rudimentary of tasks. When he’d lie on his bed at night and spot a speck of dust, he’d make it turn the opposite direction of the draft. As the nights grew colder, Thean would light his own fire, resulting in amused looks from the servants that tended to his chambers before he laid to rest. 

    His lessons with Anselm had continued, with the boys eventually taking refuge within the hidden chapel walls instead of entering the frosty clearing alongside it. Eloise began to join in occasionally, obstinate that she could now hold her own despite only just beginning sword lessons. Thean would rely on his magic most of the time, but try some nights to improve his sword work. Anselm could still knock Thean’s sword away eventually, but with each month that passed, Thean was able to hold his own just a little while longer. 

    The prince grew frustrated sometimes at his inability to withstand the uses of magic. “Is there any way I can fight it?” he asked Thean on one of the first nights they had decided to take refuge from the cold inside the chapel. “Can I deflect the magic somehow?” 

    Thean paused, carefully considering the question. “I’m not sure,” he admitted frankly. “I’ve never really been attacked by magic myself. I don’t think you can deflect it if you yourself don’t have magic.” 

    Anselm nodded, absorbing the information. Behind him, Eloise huffed. “It’s not fair,” she pouted. “How come you can do magic so easily, and we can’t?” 

    Thean shifted on his feet, uncomfortable at the question. He had often asked his father the same. “For you, it was destiny to have magic,” Thean had murmured to his father one night when his siblings and mother had already fallen asleep. “But why should I have it, if I don’t have a destiny?”  

    Merlin had smiled sadly at his son, matching blue eyes meeting in the darkness. “Everyone has a destiny, Thean,” he whispered. “Just because yours hasn’t been foretold for centuries doesn’t mean you don’t have a purpose.” 

    Thean was quiet for so long before he spoke again that his father assumed him to have fallen asleep. “But I really don’t seem to have a purpose, Pa,” the boy murmured into the dark. He regretted the words as soon as he saw the smile slip off his father’s face. What Thean had said though, he felt to be true. If his only use in life was to mine for those who gave him just enough to live, was that truly a purpose at all?

    “You do have a purpose, Thean, I swear to you,” Merlin had said then, edging in closer to his son. “You may not have found it yet, but you will.” The words reached his son’s ears and settled into his mind. Though Merlin’s faithful words granted his son just enough peace to welcome sleep that night, the changing tides of Thean’s life made it hard to believe their meaning as the months since he last saw his father fell away. 

    That night in the chapel, though, Thean didn’t think he could explain the concept of destiny to an 8 year old, especially since he himself did not fully understand it. “It’s just something you’re born with, and you can only change that to an extent,” he had said, allowing his wooden sword to drop to the ground in weariness. He sat down against the stone wall Eloise had been leaning against, with Anselm following his lead reluctantly. “Some people are born with magic, some without- some with brown hair, some with blonde. You can try to wear a wig, but it won’t change the color of your hair,” Thean continued, not entirely sure where his analogy was going, but thinking his words made some sense. 

    Eloise glanced at him from where she had been fussing with one of her dolls. “I’d rather have magic than brown hair,” she responded simply, dashing Thean’s hope that she had understood him. 

    When he had begun spending time again with the prince and princess in the late summer, they welcomed him back readily, as though they had been waiting patiently the whole time. Thean was grateful for how normally they treated him. Perhaps it was because they did not know how to face his grief, but for whatever reason, they never mentioned his mother directly. Instead, they’d fill his days with inane chatter of unknown nobles he’d never met, or of their lessons during the day that he himself did not attend. 

    Though at times he only half-listened, he was glad for the distraction. Thean couldn’t remember the first time he smiled, or when a laugh finally escaped unbidden from his mouth into the summer air. Some mornings when he woke up in the King and Queen’s bed, he’d feel a deep sense of contentment, but then a wave of guilt would wash over him before he could comprehend why. His mother’s eyes would meet his as he blinked, and he’d remember why peace was an unwelcome visitor. 

    Yet small droplets of joy did still stubbornly scatter about with each week that faded, confusing Thean with their sudden vividness. The warmth from the furnace within the castle’s kitchen, the way Anselm would grin up at him when he used a new spell, the first time Arthur reached over to ruffle his hair- each was enough to jolt him out of his stupor, if only for a moment. The droplets of joy spread into puddles and pools, and by winter he was beginning to feel somewhat normal, if the life he had then could resemble anything close to the word. 

    But he wasn’t supposed to feel normal. He didn’t believe he should feel any semblance of okay when his father, brother, and sister could be battling the cold alone, and his mother would lay beneath the ground forever near her place of imprisonment, while he was tucked safely into the warmth of his bed in Camelot. 

    And then Thean had tried the blood magic. The idea had come to him when he’d been leafing through the book Gaius had given him the night of his birthday celebration. His father had always been cryptic when discussing the spells that required blood sacrifices, and Thean had not pressed him, though he regretted that now.

    He had spent hours in the week before the trip to Nemeth studying and practicing to perform the ritual. He made small cuts on his upper arm, where the scratches would not be seen, but each neckerchief proved unsuccessful. He'd practiced with several of the neckerchiefs he'd worn throughout the fall, but to no avail, so he reached the conclusion that perhaps he had to find an object only used by his father for the spell to work. Only when Thean visited his father’s chambers under the false pretense of looking through his magic books did he find an old tunic of his father’s that Thean himself had never worn. 

    With the Nemeth trip being just the next morning, he decided to use his hand, as he thought perhaps the prior cuts on his upper arm hadn’t been deep enough. The cut would be more obvious, but he’d think of some excuse. Thean did feel shreds of shame for performing what he knew to be a taboo spell without any communication to the royal family; their celebratory dinner for him had been heartwarming, and he didn't want to go against the kindness they had shown him.

    Yet every time Anselm and Eloise giggled over a shared joke that Thean did not understand, or when the King and Queen walked side by side in the hall in companionable silence, Thean was reminded of what he no longer had. He had to get his family back, or at least whatever was left of it. 

    On his last attempt at the ritual, he’d said the spell several times before he felt his mind soar. He closed his eyes to focus on the sensation, and found himself looking at… himself. The Thean that was not Thean was younger and grinning, cheeks smeared with coal and hair sticking up at odd ends. And then the voice rang out inside his head, reminiscent of nighttime tales and whispered words, more hesitant than usual but nonetheless there.

    “Thean?” he had heard his father call out to him.

    His son tried to call back to him, tried to scream with the exaltation he had felt. But as suddenly as the connection was made, it was just as quickly silenced. 

    Merlin’s son had sat in the dark, overcome with relief at the momentary presence of his father, and angry at himself for not being able to communicate with him further. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, and he let the sobs continue, unashamed of his crying as he had been when in the royal chambers. Though he knelt on the floor then, he no longer felt as if he was in solitude. His father was alive, and that meant somewhere within the vast reaches of Albion, he still had a family. 

     And then the King had barged in and ruined everything. 

    Thean supposed he shouldn’t have been too surprised by the outburst. While Arthur had not been constantly hovering over Merlin’s son, he had always seemed to somehow track Thean down when he needed to. What had surprised Thean was how the King had been so focused on his present, albeit small, hand wound. Why couldn’t Arthur have just reveled in the revelation of his friend being alive, instead of chastising Thean for a spell that had ultimately worked? Wasn’t the gain far greater than the cost?

    After being led back to his chambers by the King, Thean had lain in bed staring up at the ceiling. Usually when he found himself unable to sleep, he’d slip through the hallways and into the bed of the King and Queen. Sometimes they’d be awake and murmur words of comfort, or wordlessly wrap him up in blankets. Other times, when he came in well past midnight, he would still feel calmed by their sleeping presence. 

    That night though, Thean knew he was far from finding solace in their company. So he stayed awake and thought of his father, trying to ignore the anger that churned in his stomach at the memory of the King’s horrified reaction. He wanted to be happy- his father was alive, and he had to hold on to that. 

    Yet when the gray dawn light began to seep into his room, Thean felt a numb gloom spread through him. Despite the evidence that his father was alive, Thean would have to journey outside the castle to yet another strange land due to a promise he had made to the King and prince. Anselm would probably want to keep him company the whole time, and while Thean usually wouldn’t mind, he was hardly in the mood to talk.

    He took to the task of packing as a last exercise in magic, and as a means of distracting himself. All Thean took with him were a few changes of clothes and the pillow depicting him alongside Ava and Clo that Eloise had gifted him the night before. Once he had fit all he could in the luggage, he glanced down at his hand, tracing over the small bump. Helena had used a few spells to heal it, and Thean could perhaps try a healing spell or two himself, but he saw no point. Though he wouldn’t admit it aloud to the King, he wanted to keep the wound slightly unhealed in case he decided to reopen it to contact his father again. Thean didn’t have any solid intention to do that after Helena’s warning, but wanted to keep his options open. Besides, the cut served as a reminder that he was not the only surviving member of his family. 

    The breakfast between the royal family was pervaded by an uncharacteristically tense silence. Even Anselm and Eloise seemed subdued, having been woken up early due to the approaching departure. Guinevere tried to fill the quiet hall with a few pleasantries, asking the boys if they had packed enough warm clothes, and encouraging Eloise to eat more of the fruit on her plate. Thean was grateful when the platters began to be cleared away, and he could finally depart back to his room to grab his luggage. 

    When he reached the courtyard, he was greeted by the sight of Anselm watching an unfortunate horse be loaded down with several satchels far larger than the one Thean carried. “Careful with that one, those swords aren’t made of steel!” the prince called out to a maid, who obediently tied the load down gently. 

    “You’re bringing all that?” Thean asked in shock. Their stay in Nemeth would only take approximately a week, but from the amount of satchels covering the now grumpy horse, one would have thought Anselm was preparing to be away from Camelot for a year. 

    Anselm appeared befuddled at the question. “Well yeah, I can’t very well leave behind my training material,” he said simply. His face split into a smile as he stepped closer to Thean. “If I go a few days without practice, I could become as rubbish as you!” he laughed, punctuating his remark with a light punch to Thean’s shoulder. 

    Thean chuckled despite his mood, reaching out a hand to playfully shove Anselm in return. The smile slipped from his friend’s face then as he grabbed Thean by the wrist. “What happened to your hand?” he asked quickly, confusion etching his freckled features. 

    Thean shook himself out of the grasp; though he knew the prince meant no harm, the quick and forceful way in which he had been grabbed brought back some unpleasant memories. “I just cut it in the kitchen last night,” he murmured, trying to sound casual. After seeing the King’s reaction to his use of blood magic, he couldn’t bring himself to lose the trust of the prince as well. Perhaps Arthur would tell Anselm about it eventually, but Thean would rather deal with the repercussions later. 

    The prince relaxed at that, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, Thean, it’s a good thing you have magic, you’re accident prone enough even with it,” he muttered, but there was jest in his voice.

    Thean let out a forced laugh in response, then hurried over to Arrow. The white horse whinnied in greeting, tail swishing. Despite not having left the castle for two seasons, Thean had visited the stables often enough to see the faithful horse and sneak him carrot peels from the kitchen. He had even rode on his own throughout the courtyard under Gwaine’s watch, and with the knight vouching for him, Thean had been granted the ability to ride Arrow on his own to Nemeth without the assistance of Gwaine. The knight would likely still keep an eye on Merlin’s son under the King’s order, but Thean didn’t mind. He was fond of Sir Gwaine’s jokes, and didn't even mind the way the man referred to him as 'little man,' though he always made a fuss about it in jest. 

    As the boy swung into the saddle easily enough, the Queen approached him to say farewell. “Take care,” she murmured, a sad smile on her face in an attempt to hide her worry. “And take care of Anselm, too,” she whispered, casting a surreptitious glance in the direction of her son, her smile widening into a more genuine one. Thean shared the smile with her.

    “I will, Gwen,” Merlin’s son replied. He had grown used to calling the Royal Family by their first names, and no longer even hesitated to address them in more familiar terms. Thinking that was the end of their conversation, he jostled the reins to encourage Arrow forward.

    After only a few paces, though, he heard the Queen murmur from where she still stood, “Please don’t do anything rash, Thean.” He turned his head to the side to catch her glance, and saw her face reflecting a similar concern to the one Anselm had just displayed towards him a moment before. Arrow was still moving steadily forward, however, leaving Guinevere to become more distant as she stood rooted to the spot and attempted to wave merrily to the rest of the departing travelers. 

    Once out of the citadel, their journey took a different route than Thean remembered from their path to the Medora mountains. The trees thinned out quickly, until more sky could be seen than ground. Light hesitantly trickled forward, the sun glimmering only occasionally over the rims of pearly clouds. With the fresh snow on the ground and the sky above, only the red capes of Camelot served as a burst of color in the white landscape. The air had a bite to it, but with his many layers of warm clothing, the boy wasn’t as bothered by the cold as he had been in past winters. 

    Thean was unaccustomed to such barren territory. Only a few cottages dotted the horizon; the ground was flat, without any ridges as he had been used to in Medora. Though he knew that he was in Camelot and surrounded by trained warriors, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the complete lack of detail in the land around him. There were no shadowy corners to hide in, no trees to stand behind- even the black mark on Arrow’s head was colored enough to give him away if he suddenly had to break from the group. All these thoughts followed without logic, but with plenty of fear. He hadn’t left the castle in so long that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Thean had spent most of his life staying within a relatively small corner of the world. He had adapted slowly to the castle’s walls, and now he was without them. 

    Anselm’s chattering increased with each hour that passed. The prince either didn’t feel the same unease that Thean felt, or was trying not to show it. Gwaine’s horse trotted alongside the two boys, with the King only a few paces ahead. The prince and the knight bounced off each other’s eagerness to speak into the bleak light, and from their conversation Thean could glean that they were in farmlands. That explained the stark lack of trees and houses. Merlin’s son had only read of farms, but he knew much space was required for a profit to be made. Though no signs of plant life could be seen under the layers of snow, Thean tried to match the open land with the pictures of farms he had seen from books within the Camelot library. 

    They stopped at midday for a short break, verging slightly off the road so as to not block it for any potential travelers. Only a few small caravans had passed by them; travel during winter was typically only made in times of emergency. King Arthur’s decision to embark to Nemeth was an exception. 

    Thean quickly scarfed down his hard slice of cheese and loaf. He found himself longing for the warm multitude of dishes that graced the hall in Camelot, and felt a twinge of shame. Had he really become so pampered? His father likely was not even eating a meal at that moment despite the time of day. In the mines of Medora, they had only been given one meal at dawn and one at night, and Thean doubted the circumstances were much better at any other camps- he almost assumed they’d be worse. 

    A blast of cold blinded his vision and stifled his thoughts. The last morsel of bread fell from Thean’s hand as he stood and whirled to and fro, his ears latching on to the sound of laughter in front of him. Wiping the snow out of his eyes, he made out the figure of Anselm nearly bent over in hysterics. Confusion and anger made Thean ball his fists, until he remembered how he had watched Anselm from his chamber windows do the same action towards Eloise in the courtyard, although that time the fight had been with raked piles of leaves instead of snow. The princess had shrieked in laughter then too, and reciprocated her brother’s taunts merrily enough. 

    Thean scooped up a handful of snow, wincing at the sting to his hand as he launched it towards the prince. Anselm easily sidestepped the attack, and returned a throw with much more accuracy, Thean’s outer garments becoming soaked as a result. Merlin’s son ran closer, not fully understanding why. It was cold and uncomfortable and frustrating, but he felt himself still grinning all the same. His smile grew even wider when he finally managed to land a snowball on the prince’s face. Anselm quickened his attacks in response, the two boys laughing breathlessly as they circled each other. Thean’s legs burned as they kicked up the snow before them. 

    Only when he could hear the chuckles of nearby onlookers did Thean stop launching snow towards the prince. He turned to face the newly gathered crowd, receiving one last snowball in the back from the prince, who quickly strode over to Thean thereafter and shoved him playfully in the shoulder. “Better dry off a bit,” Gwaine said, walking up to the boys with two proffered blankets. Glancing at Thean with a twinkle in his eye, the knight continued, “Arrow always gives me attitude if I’m not in top condition when I ride him.” 

    Thean nodded, and he and the prince accepted the blankets gratefully, wrapping themselves in their warmth. “I definitely won that,” the prince said decidedly as they returned to the main gathering place of the group. 

    “Yeah, ‘cause I let you,” Thean retorted. 

    The prince opened his mouth to release a comeback, but the presence of his father halted his words. The King sighed at the now disheveled sight of his son. “Go get a new coat from Micah,” Arthur said in exasperation. “We can’t have Queen Mithian thinking you walked through a river to reach her.” Anselm nodded easily enough and walked over to his servant, not altogether unhappy to get into a warmer set of clothes. That left Thean standing in front of the King alone. 

    “You should probably change too,” Arthur told Thean after considering the boy for a moment, the look in his gaze unreadable. Thean was about to head to his own satchel in silent agreement, when the King’s eyes strayed to his hand. Thean followed Arthur’s line of sight, watching as a few red drops fell onto the white snow beneath. His wound had reopened slightly at one end. Thean continued to stare at the blood dripping lazily from his fingertips, unsure what to say. 

    “Can you fix it?” the King asked softly. Thean glanced up at him then, baffled. “With magic,” Arthur clarified. “We are still in Camelot- for now, it’s alright.” 

    Merlin’s son continued to study the King for a moment, dark blue eyes meeting light blue. Then, one pair flashed gold, and the dripping of red into white ceased. Thean turned his palm over to ensure that the cut had been fully sealed, and realized that even the blood that had stained his hand had been cleaned by his magic. He hadn’t even needed to say a spell- his body had just seemed so willing to stop what was being lost. 

    “You know, Thean, not everything is reversible,” Arthur said suddenly, staring down at the hand of Merlin’s son. His tone was almost sad. Snapping out of his reverie by the calls of the knights to ready the horses, the King strode away then, leaving Thean to stand alone by the small puddle of his blood. 

    After changing into a crimson tunic he had brought and returning to Arrow’s saddle, the journey continued on through the snowy fields. Though the land was initially flat for the first half of their journey, the ground beneath the hooves of the horses began to slope gently downwards. The change in elevation was so slight that Thean scarcely noticed it at first without the guidance of markers on the horizon. Slowly, trees began to dot the land again, rising up from where just before there had only been white terrain. The sun began to peak out from clouds, reflecting on the snow so strongly that Thean’s eyes ached if he stared for too long. The air seemed less frosty than it had at the beginning of their journey, and the ground appeared to agree with Thean’s conclusions: what had been an unrelenting blanket of snow in the morning had become patches, stubborn groups of grass breaking the monotony of white. 

    “We’re in Nemeth now,” the King spoke out suddenly. He had been riding close to Gwaine, Thean, and Anselm. Unlike his son and knight, however, he had remained relatively quiet throughout the journey. 

    “How do you know?” the prince asked. 

    The King gave his son a reprimanding glance. “Did you not listen to your geography lessons at all, Anselm?” Arthur chided. “Look at the trees- their bark travels in a spiral. That pattern is unique to Nemeth alone.” 

    Anselm slouched slightly in his saddle, glumly staring at a nearby tree with obvious disinterest. Thean, meanwhile, marveled at how a detail as small as the bark of a tree could tell where they were. It was comforting to think that small markers could be recognized in otherwise unknown territory. 

    After advancing through the forest in the late afternoon light for an hour, hoofbeats could be heard in the distance approaching from an opposite direction. A dark blue banner rose from the vegetation, carried by a group of knights shrouded in crests of the same color. The knights at the very front of the Camelot travelers had a short discussion with the newcomers. Then, one Camelot knight and one dark blue knight made their way down the line to the King. “Queen Mithian is ready to receive you, my lord,” the blue knight said to Arthur, dipping his head respectfully. 

    “Excellent. Lead the way,” Arthur responded simply. The knight of Nemeth nodded, turning about face to return to the front of the group. 

     Only a few more minutes of travel were needed to reach the walled perimeter of the citadel of Nemeth. The Camelot travelers grew quiet once the formidable gray stone ramparts came into view. With the vulnerabilities of a winter journey, the King of Camelot and Queen of Nemeth had agreed to keep their journey as far from public knowledge as possible. The travelers of Camelot were allowed to stream through a fairly unceremonious and narrow wooden door that led almost directly into the Castle of Nemeth, so as to keep their entrance unnoticed by the general populace of the citadel. 

    Whereas the courtyard of Camelot was made of light and the walls from ivory stone, the composition of Nemeth’s castle was similar to the ramparts that surrounded its city: largely dark gray, with only a few banners of blue to break the otherwise subdued colors. Servants rushed out from every corner of the courtyard, already beginning to brush down the hairs of the tired horses and offer pouches of water to the knights. “Queen Mithian is ready to see you in the Main Hall, my lord,” a servant piped up as the King disembarked his horse. “She wishes to have discussion with your Knights of the Round Table as well.” 

    “Can I come too?” Anselm asked, his eyes only meeting his father’s for a moment as he took in the new castle. The prince had never seen the royal living place of another land. He didn’t think this one was quite as nice looking as Camelot’s castle, but he wanted to memorize every detail so he could tell Eloise about it when he got home. 

    “I think Queen Mithian would be fine with that, so long as you behave yourself,” the King remarked. 

    “The rest of your knights and travelers will be shown to each of our guest chambers,” the servant continued, glancing at Thean. 

     Anselm frowned at the revelation that his friend would not be accompanying their meeting with the Queen. He seemed to consider protesting for a moment, before he remembered his father’s order to behave himself. While the prince would usually ignore such orders in Camelot, this was new territory for him, quite literally. Anselm was unsure if his speaking out of turn here would be treated as leniently as it was by his father. 

     Thean had to quell a stab of envy as he watched Arthur press a hand to the center of Anselm’s shoulders to lead the prince to the northern end of the courtyard at the behest of a Nemeth knight. Arthur had occasionally patted Thean on the shoulder or even ruffled his hair, but always with hesitancy, as if unsure of the boy’s reaction. The way in which Arthur behaved around Anselm could only be formed by the lifetime spent between a parent and their child. Watching the king and prince interact with each other made Thean ache for his own father- now more than ever since his midnight discovery. Thean’s eyes once again trailed to the cut on his hand, and he slowly closed a fist and brought it closer to his chest, as though that would bring Merlin closer to him. 

     Thean’s reverie was only broken by a maid tapping him on the shoulder. “I can show you to your chambers now,” she said to the boy, curtsying in vague respect. Thean nodded, and noticed Gwaine following close behind. The knight was to be given a room adjoined to Thean’s own, as requested by the King. The inner castle walls were interspersed with light and gray bricks, carpets the shade of the night sky, and paintings of kings long gone from the earth. Intricate pots of indigo and silver were periodically displayed on mahogany tables, and Thean marveled at the artwork. He had never before seen bowls and pots used for anything except eating and cooking. In Camelot, the only decorations to adorn the walls were shields and old weapons of retired knights, and the occasional scarlet tapestry. Whereas the decor of Camelot was to show strength and ancient history, Nemeth halls seemed content to focus on muted beauty. 

    A door was all that separated Thean’s chambers from Sir Gwaine’s. “Let me know if you want to tour the kitchen before dinner,” the knight said before they parted ways. “I wouldn’t mind checking their mead- for safety, of course,” the knight added with a mischievous grin. Thean returned the grin as best he could, but lacked enthusiasm. 

    The room he was given was slightly smaller than the one he had in Camelot, and he found himself missing the familiar arrangement of furniture he was used to. The dresser was on the wrong side, the bed was positioned horizontally instead of vertically, and the wooden floor creaked underfoot. Even the window was different- split into two sections instead of three, and facing the outer town instead of the courtyard.

    Thean stepped towards the late afternoon light of the window, peering out. The castle was on slightly higher ground than the rest of the city, and thus Thean could view little more than the roofs of the closest buildings. One alleyway was visible through the stone masses, though. In the cobbled and narrow street, a boy with dark hair not altogether unlike Thean’s own carried a bucket of sloshing water. From an open door, a mother called out unintelligible words to the boy, who quickened his pace at her exclamations. She received him with a quick peck on the cheek before taking the bucket from him and beckoning the child into their home. 

     It was such a simple scene, one that should have seemed normal to Thean- or at least, to most children his age. Yet the sight of a boy returning to a place that likely had been his home his whole life, to a mother that had always been there, was so alien. I could’ve been like him . What would Thean be like if he’d had another life, lived in a home made of stone instead of mountain?

    The thought was too much to bear, a world of possibilities that would be forever closed to him. And suddenly, Thean no longer had the desire to look from the window. He turned to his satchel, throwing his clothes into a disordered heap in the dresser, if only to busy his hands. He longed for Anselm’s largely one-sided conversation to fill his ears, to rid his thoughts of where they drifted. He wondered why his friend hadn’t argued for Thean to join him in whatever conversation the Queen wished to have with the King and his company. Thean wouldn’t have interrupted- he would have sat by quietly at Anselm’s side and listened, as he always did. Besides, the whole purpose of the journey had been for Camelot and Nemeth to join forces in abolishing slavery. As far as he was aware, Thean was the only one of the travelers to experience slavery firsthand. Shouldn’t the diplomats of Camelot and Nemeth wish to talk to him ? He would speak if questioned; he wouldn’t remain quiet if they listened. 

    Unrest enveloped him. So Thean walked out of his chambers, careful to tiptoe so that the creaking of the hardwood floors would not disturb Gwaine’s ears. He had no certain destination- this castle was as unfamiliar to him as all of Camelot’s had once been. Perhaps he would try and scout out the kitchen to see if there was any of the mead Gwaine seemed to often crave. 

    He wandered the halls for some time. The walls were narrower than he was used to, and he had to take care to avoid bumping into the elaborate pottery that adorned wooden pedestals throughout the castle. Servants would sometimes pass by him, always glancing at Thean but never speaking. The vast majority of Nemeth people seemed to have dark hair and pale skin not altogether different from Thean’s own, and thus he may have blended in enough to avoid questioning. 

    The halls widened somewhat as he weaved his way deeper into the castle. He could hear the clanking of dishes from somewhere nearby, and realized he might finally be reaching the dining halls and kitchen. The orange light spreading throughout arched windows indicated the sun was fast on its descent to the horizon. Just as he was about to turn a corner, Thean’s eyes spotted what must have been the largest painting he’d ever seen in his short lifetime. Only a few portraits had been scattered in Camelot’s castle, each only blandly depicting a solemn-looking knight.

    This painting, however, reached higher than even the tallest of knights, and spanned across the length of the wall it inhabited. Shades of dark green twisted into light blue in a circle of grey stones. 12 people stood in front of 12 stones, hands raised from their sides and reaching out to one another. Each wore robes of varying subdued colors, with threads of blue light connecting their hands. 

    “The Light of the Night,” a voice spoke from behind him. Thean startled at the sound, and turned around to see a lady ensconced in a long white dress that dragged slightly on the floor, a shawl of dark blue wrapped around her shoulders. She stepped closer to the painting until she was just at Thean’s side, gazing up at it with a small smile. “12 people from all walks of life gathered and made a pact to lead the world from the Long Night, when the sun had given up on Albion,” the woman in white continued, her eyes trailing across the lines of blue light in the painting. “Most in Nemeth say they were successful because of wisdom and hard work. Others have another theory.” 

    Thean’s eyes followed the trail of hers. The blue threads reminded him of the depictions he had seen on the ceiling of the hidden chapel in Camelot’s castle. “They did it with magic,” he said softly, the realization dawning on him as the words poured forth.

    The lady in white turned to him then, studying his features. “It’s true, what Arthur says about you,” she said softly. “You really are like your father.” 

    Thean turned towards her again in confusion. She was someone he’d never seen before, and thus must be from Nemeth- and she knew his father…

    “You’re Queen Mithian,” Thean exclaimed. He was slightly embarrassed he had not made the connection sooner. 

    “At your service,” the Queen said with a humorous curtsy. Thean shuffled on his feet uncertainly, not knowing what else to say. Queen Mithian’s mirth seemed to fade then at the boy’s solemn look. “I hope my meetings with Camelot’s council will lead us to your family, Thean,” she murmured earnestly. “I only met your father a few times, and not in the best of circumstances. But even then I could tell he has a good heart.” 

    Thean nodded briskly; he’d heard the same statement made numerous times. At first, they’d been heartwarming; now, though, Merlin’s son grew weary of the pleasantries that brought only empty comfort. “Are there many slave camps in Nemeth?” he asked then. He had the Queen’s attention, and wasn’t sure if he’d get it again. Though he doubted his father or siblings had been moved as far as Nemeth, he couldn’t rule out any possibility. 

    “I’m not sure of the exact number, but there are certainly plenty. Even one is too many for Nemeth,” Mithian remarked. “That is why I wished to join forces with Camelot. We’ll seek out any advice we can get.” 

    “Do you want to get advice from those who’ve gone through slavery, then?” Thean asked, and his face flushed at the obvious anger in his voice. He wasn’t sure where his emotions had come from; he thought he’d calmed down slightly since leaving his chambers. 

    “I suppose so,” she said, tilting her head in consideration. Her eyes widened slightly as she studied Thean. “You are certainly welcome to sit in on our meetings, Thean, but… I thought the memories might be unpleasant for you to relive.”

    “Not as unpleasant as being without my family,” Thean said, then slouched his shoulders. He didn’t want to be angry; he should be grateful the Queen had lent a listening ear for even this long. He was just a child, after all, only dragged on the journey to provide company for the King’s son.

    The Queen gave him a sad smile then. “In that case, I shall see you in the advisory halls at dawn tomorrow,” she murmured without bite to her voice. Mithian then extended a hand from her side, gesturing towards the sound of pots and pans clanging. “Come, Thean- I expect dinner shall be ready soon.”

    Mithian trailed off then into the yellow glow of the dining hall. Through the archway, Thean could see Arthur bending down his ear to Anselm, who spoke with a smile. Gwaine was in there as well- he caught Thean’s eyes and gave a relieved grin. Thean remained in the shadows for a moment before entering, an outsider looking in. In the dining hall would be Anselm’s chatter to fill his ears as his father’s stories had used to. Food would fill his plate and his belly, a stark contrast to the morsels he had scraped by on for a decade. But there would be no stone corner to crawl into, no shadow puppets from his brother and sister. When he returned to his chambers, there would just be plain shadows, uninterrupted and unmoving. 

*****

    Thean woke the next morning with a cautious sense of optimism at his invitation to the advisory meeting. 

    By the lunchtime break, he was disillusioned and wished he had never spoken up for himself to the Queen. 

    The meeting started innocently enough with a short summary of the prior day’s main points. Numbers were rattled off of how many knights Arthur pledged to send for each liberation mission. Three main camps had been scouted out with suspected locations: one a woodcutting camp similar in style to the one Thean had inhabited for two months, another for mining, and one for gold panning along Nemeth’s main Hyton River.

    Merlin’s son had leaned in intently during the description of each camp, even daring to speak out about the woodcutting one. He remarked that labor usually ceased in his woodworking camp by sunset due to the inability of the slaves to see in the dark, and that therefore the evening might be best to launch an attack. The Queen had thanked him for his input then, and even the King had given Thean an approving glance the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his birthday. Anselm elbowed Thean under the table in glee at his friend speaking in the meeting. The prince himself remained steadily quiet throughout the hours, impressing Thean with his restraint. 

    He wasn’t able to bask in his pride for too long, however. A Nemethian knight had stood up just before they were about to break for the noontime meal and began rattling off the fatalities of the few times the Nemeth army had tried to free slave camps themselves without the aid of Camelot. Though Thean didn’t have a strong grasp on numbers beyond the hundreds place, he could tell from the long words that the fatalities must be significant for both the liberators and the slaves in the camps themselves. Apparently, the mountains of Medora weren’t the only ones where remaining slaves were left slaughtered and abandoned by their masters. One camp in Nemeth had suffered the same fate, while the few other camps liberated by Nemethian knights had many slaves killed by slave handlers in anger at the incoming invasion. 

    “Why would the handlers do that?” one of the Camelot advisors had asked after the fatalities had been listed. “Why go through the trouble of killing their slaves, instead of escaping?” 

    “For revenge?” a Nemethian knight murmured curiously, rubbing his chin as if pondering an arithmetic question. 

    “Or to send a message?” Sir Leon asked. “That if we invade, they won’t let us free everyone.” 

    “Does it matter?” Thean asked flatly. He hadn’t stood up to make his statement as he had with his comment on the woodworking camp. The boy suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and wished to rid himself of that cramped and stuffy room full of analytical eyes. “The end result is the same,” he carried on as he avoided the gazes, some familiar and others unknown. 

    An uncomfortably long silence had followed, only interrupted when the Queen asked for strategies to avoid alerting the handlers of each invasion for as long as possible. Thean had tuned out the remainder of the conversations then, staring at the woodwork of the large rectangular table that took up most of the advisory room. The slab had many spirals in it, similar to the twisting of the bark of the trees they had first seen outside of the citadel of Nemeth. 

    Anselm had greedily eaten the plate of pheasant set before the Camelot travelers back in the dining hall while Thean pushed the oddly flavored food around his own plate. They won’t let us free everyone, Leon had said. 

    They don’t have to free everyone, Thean thought desperately to himself.  Just what’s left of my family.

    The thought was selfish, he knew; there were so many that suffered from the fate his family had endured. But he had always been in the habit of seeing other slaves as mere greedy mouths that took the food he longed for, that he could not find enough compassion within him to encompass all of those enslaved. 

    “Let’s go to the ramparts!” Anselm called across the table suddenly, swallowing down his last mouthful of food. 

    “Just be back in time for the meeting to start,” the King said curtly. 

    And so Thean jogged to keep up with Anselm’s near sprint through the halls. The prince’s suppressed energy had clearly caught up to him; sitting silently inside a room for the whole morning was the greatest test of patience Anselm had ever had to face. Thean could only be relieved that the prince hadn’t brought his sword gear with him, as he was in no mood to be taunted for his lack of skill, even though he knew the prince did so in good humor. 

    The ramparts could only be accessed through spiraling staircases within each of the turrets. Anselm had chosen to ascend a turret near the entrance of the castle so that they could see the expanse of Nemeth’s citadel laid before them. By the time they reached the streaming sunlight of the open walkway, Thean was panting heavily. Aside from his and Anselm’s nightly sword practice back in Camelot, he had done little physical activity. The wiry muscles that had sustained him in the mines and woodworking camp had faded gradually with each day of plentiful meals. Activity that wouldn’t have fazed him a year ago now left him feeling breathless. 

    Anselm, meanwhile, was breathless not with fatigue, but with excitement as he darted edge of the wall to see the city below. Even in his winded state, Thean could appreciate the beauty of the view. The scene could almost rival that from Camelot’s walls. Merchants cried out their wares, children ran playing games made only to pass time. Clotheslines extended between windows, with women calling out to one another across buildings. The citizens were wrapped in warm garments, but the melted snow lining the streets indicated the winter had been kinder thus far to Nemeth than it had been to Camelot. Aside from that, the only other noticeable difference between Nemeth’s streets and Camelot’s was the lack of any magic users. No children laughed at the antics of street performers, and even the most menial tasks like bringing water up from the well were performed exclusively by hand. 

    The two boys peered over the ramparts in relative silence for the first minute, observing the multitude of people, safe in the knowledge that they themselves could not be observed in turn. The prince had grumbled and groaned when the King had first informed them they could not explore the citadel due to the quiet nature of Camelot’s visit. Despite his protests, Anselm had remained relatively uncomplaining since entering Nemeth’s castle. Thean reflected that there were perhaps more royal qualities to his friend than he had once thought. 

    “What do you think of Princess Nietta?” Anselm spoke suddenly, still staring out at the citadel. 

    Thean had grown used to the sudden turns of conversation from the prince, just as the prince had gotten used to the initial silence that ensued while his friend considered his questions. Anselm had never met someone like that before. All the children of knights and diplomats that visited Camelot were always quick to answer all queries with more certainty than their sheltered lives warranted. 

    Thean, meanwhile, had no fear of sounding uncertain. He had hardly even noticed Princess Nietta during dinner the night before. She was the only daughter of the Queen, whose husband had died of spotted fever a few years back. The girl starkly resembled her mother, but did not seem to share her mother’s welcoming nature.

    “I don’t know,” Thean said frankly, shrugging. “She seems quiet.”

    Anselm nodded in agreement, breaking his gaze and lowering his eyes to his hands resting on the edge of the rampart walls. “Yes, very,” he murmured. “I think my father intends me to marry her one day.”

    Thean turned to his friend in surprise. “He told you that? But… you’re far too young.” 

    Anselm let out a short laugh. “Not yet, of course not, Thean,” he said, grinning slightly and causing Merlin’s son to feel abashed at his misunderstanding. Even the concepts that seemed commonplace to the royal family befuddled him still. “I overheard him talking to my mother about it a few months ago,” Anselm continued, returning his gaze to Nemeth’s expanse. “My mother was a servant, and while many were accepting of their union at the time, some of the people still yearn for the more traditional ways of marrying other people of royalty. Assuming I don’t fall in love with a servant as well, royal marriage may be my only option.” Anselm’s voice was purely logical, lacking its usual lilt.

    Thean was surprised at the way Anselm talked of the distant future as though it was close enough to consider carefully. Merlin’s son had been raised to only think about getting through each day. Only on the coldest of winter nights would he think of the summer to give him hope. Other than that, the future took too much effort to consider in depth. 

    The dark-haired boy and golden prince remained rooted to their spots, each leaning over the precipice of the walls. Even Anselm seemed comfortable with the calm silence they had settled into after the relentless speeches of their meeting. Soon, they would have to return to the torrent of depressing information and odds stacked against them within the advisory room. But for now, Thean allowed his eyes to drift lazily over the scenery. The dark blue of the tiled roofs was interrupted solely by the dark-haired occupants of the citadel. The only other shades were produced by the yellow light glinting on the tired snow, and a boy by the canal with a flop of…

    Copper hair. 

    A color that had stained Thean's hands after tired days, but then greeted him in a different form with a grin. 

    No one else in the sea of citizens had hair any lighter than Thean’s own. But this boy’s flopped gently in the wind as he stepped with that familiar light gait. 

    A sudden breeze whipped Anselm’s own hair against his face, and he turned to its direction to see his friend quickly disappearing down the steps that had brought them up. “Thean?” Anselm called out softly in confusion, before jogging forward. 

    Thean’s boots slapped against the stone of the stairs, nearly knocking into the circular walls in his haste. A guard ascending the steps called out to him to watch where he was going. His ears only dimly registered the sound of Anselm’s calls for him to slow down, each with growing alarm. Out in the courtyard, the towering doors were just beginning to open to let in a wooden cart stacked high with sacks of grain. Thean sprinted through the small space between the widening doors and the edge of the cart, causing the horses to whinny and stamp at his speed.

    “What are you doing?!” the rider of the cart called out. 

    Thean glanced back to see two stoic Nemeth guards approaching him, with a bewildered Anselm catching up just beside them. Without even a thought, the heaviest of grain packages flew to the ground before the guards, only barely missing the prince. The guards yelped in surprise at the spray of grain exploding before them, as the boy they had just been focusing on disappeared into the citadel. 

    He tried to hone in on the sound of the babbling canal, turning down alleyways lined only with a few slumped beggars, and then out again into wide streets. A child playing tag bumped into him, and after seeing the startled look on Thean’s face, backed away slowly. “Thean! Come back!” Anselm’s voice reached his ears, louder than it had been before. The prince was shoving his way through the thick crowd, nearly upon Thean now. Seeing Anselm out in the open made Merlin’s son regret his sudden actions, but only for a moment- just to the side, the gray canal came into view. 

    With the cries of frustration from Anselm at his back, he raced forward, skittering to a stop to gaze out at the gap. On the other side of the canal, that same flop of copper hair he had seen from the ramparts was disappearing around a street corner. Small walkways were along the canal, but none near enough to Thean to be reached without delay.

    Closing his eyes to steel himself, he opened them to gleam gold. A gray hill of water rose in front of him, irregular shapes just wide enough to fit his feet. He stepped across the temporary floor of water he had constructed, sending out a silent thank you to his father, who had likely been the one to write the spell into the margins of one of the old books Thean had borrowed from the physician chambers. A slap!  was heard from behind as the water dropped back down its normal place of inhabitance as he reached the other side of the canal. Startled murmurs of the many onlookers who had witnessed the scene broke out, all with a common word echoed between them: 

    “Sorcerer.”

    Their murmurs followed him, and the Nemeth citizens on the other side of the canal began to part before him. Yet each that turned away from him in growing fear had only dark hair similar to his own- none had the copper hair he longed to see. 

    Despair began to seep into his frazzled mind, along with panic at the realization he had no idea how to return to the safety of the castle. His sprint receded to a jog, and then a defeated stumble as he turned the street corner where the red-haired boy had been, to see no such figure treading the area. Only strange faces peered at him, each more unkind than the next.

    But then, a kind voice broke out. 

    “Thean?”

    His name sounded like a half-choked gasp, in a tone that usually indicated turmoil. Yet he knew then that when he turned around, he’d meet calm brown eyes. Her hair was braided more neatly than it ever had been before. In her hands she held an ivory pot. 

    “Ava,” Thean breathed. His mind screamed to move, but his muscles were silent. 

    Ava’s fingers unwrapped suddenly from the pot. Just as its bottom half hit the cobbled ground, it came back together, a million pieces returning into one as she watched her brother’s eyes flash gold. 

    By the time they closed the distance between them, holding each other tightly until there was no space at all, the pot had stopped rattling. Thean’s knees trembled and gave in, hitting the hard stone beneath. Ava was whispering something, he wasn’t sure quite what- but that didn’t really matter, did it? He kept saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Another body joined their embrace, and suddenly the copper hair he had been searching for was beneath his hand. 

    His family’s good luck had returned at last. 

Chapter Text

Arthur

    The ramparts were empty, devoid of the two curious children he was searching for.

     Arthur was surprised to realize how unsurprised he was at Anselm’s and Thean’s disappearance. He should have known better than to let them wander off unattended, but he had wanted to reward Anselm for his good behavior. Thean had been looking discouraged as well, and Arthur thought that some fresh air might lift the boy’s spirits enough to see him through the day. The King was foolish to believe the relative smoothness of the day would last- and gods, of course Anselm had dragged Thean off as well to whatever misadventure the prince had gotten himself into. 

    Arthur descended the stairs to send for a messenger to inform the Queen he may be later than scheduled to the meeting, but the chaotic sounds of the courtyard interrupted his intent. A red-faced merchant was shouting orders at nearby servants to clean up the thousands of grains that littered the cobbles. A thought of the complaints Merlin would have made at being given such an order drifted through his mind, and the King smiled to himself. 

    The infuriated man must have caught Arthur in his sight then, as he stalked over. “It was your son, wasn’t it?” he barked. The anger in his tone made a few of the nearby Camelot knights step carefully to the back of their King. 

    “Excuse me?” Arthur said, befuddled by the man’s change in attention. He wasn’t used to being addressed so plainly, as if he were a commoner- though, at the moment he didn’t have any Camelot insignia upon him, so he realized he must at most resemble a standard nobleman.

    “No true Nemethian has blond hair,” the man continued, snorting at Arthur’s ignorance. “I saw a boy with just the same hair run into the citadel right after my day went to hell.” The merchant narrowed his eyes, his once booming voice settling into a quieter tone. “Keep your kind out of here. Magic may be legal now, but many of us will take the law into our own hands if we have to.” 

    He turned away then, calling out more orders gruffly to the servants that now bustled about with brooms. Arthur’s eyes landed on the Nemethian guards who were just beginning to close the large wooden doors leading into the busy streets beyond. Open doors, the mention of magic, a blond-haired boy- all signs pointed in one direction. 

    “My lord?” Leon’s voice sounded behind him- the knight had just entered the courtyard, glancing at the crushed grain underfoot with his brow knit. “It’s nearly time to return to the meeting, are you ready?”    

    Arthur shook his head, turning in a slow circle. Let it just be a coincidence, he silently begged. A confusing, terrifying coincidence. But no prince bounced down the steps with a dark-haired boy in tow, and Arthur knew the nightmare to be true. 

    “Anselm and Thean,” he breathed. “They’re gone, missing. Into the citadel.” It was getting harder to form full sentences as realization settled in. 

    “Are you sure, my lord?” Sir Leon asked. “Perhaps they’re just exploring the castle-”

    “No,” Arthur said vehemently. “We need to search the citadel. Now. ” 

    The merchant’s words echoed in his ears: Many of us will take the law into our own hands if we have to. If Thean had used magic in such an obvious manner, for whatever reason, he might repeat that in front of similarly minded people. Timid Thean, who had felled a tree from fear the first time Arthur had laid eyes on him, could not be underestimated for his sudden bursts of boldness. And the merchant had seemed to think Anselm himself might have been involved in the act of magic, who had apparently joined Thean in his sudden escapade. His son was far too kind to not step up to his friend’s defense should someone threaten him.  

    Arthur felt sick to his stomach. This feeling was all too familiar, even more than 10 years later. He took his eyes off those he cared about for just a moment, and then they were gone. Arthur certainly hadn’t been warm and inviting to Thean during their trip- what if the boy had simply been trying to run away? He shouldn’t have been so harsh on him- maybe then this wouldn’t be happening. 

    When would Arthur learn to stop treating everyone as though he’d see them again?

    “What’s all this?” Queen Mithian glided down the courtyard steps, her long white gown making her appear as though she was floating instead of walking. 

    “My lady, forgive me,” King Arthur began, trying to remember his courtesies even in his panic. “The prince and Thean have gone into the citadel. We need to send out search parties, immediately.”

    The Queen gaped slightly in surprise at his tumbling words. “How are you so sure?” she asked. 

    “The merchant, he… he saw someone using magic with my son nearby,” Arthur admitted. He was hesitant to alert the Queen of Thean going against orders, but the boy was certainly better reprimanded than dead. “I don’t know why Thean went into the citadel, but I know Anselm would not have let him go alone. He must have gone after him.” 

    Mithian tore her gaze from Arthur’s for a moment to absorb the information and take in the sight of the disordered courtyard. She seemed to piece together the clues faster than Arthur had. “Very well,” she said decidedly, straightening her back in anticipation of a long day ahead. “But only my knights will conduct the search. If two Camelot children can make a big enough spectacle on their own, no need to involve your knights as well.” 

    The sting of the comment hardly pierced through Arthur’s worry. He watched helplessly as blue knight after blue knight departed through the imposing doors of the courtyard, spreading out through the multitude of streets that branched outward. Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were led into a study room with windows facing out onto the courtyard, where they waited for what may have been the longest half hour of Arthur’s life. 

    Camelot’s King paced back and forth, tracing deep trails of disturbed carpet onto the floor. The knights remained relatively silent, their eyes trained on the view from the window. Only Sir Elyan dared to break the tense quiet. “They’ll be alright, my lord,” the knight said softly from where he leaned against a bookcase. 

    Arthur shook his head. “You don’t know that,” he muttered in a tired voice.

    “No, I don’t,” Elyan admitted. “But I believe it.” 

    The King paused in his pacing to meet the eyes of the faithful knight. “Thank you, Elyan,” he murmured. The Camelot knight only nodded in respect. Arthur returned to his pacing, though with slightly less agitation thereafter. 

    When the great wooden doors finally opened again, Arthur hardly took a moment to spot the two boys before rushing out, his knights close at his heels. The King’s eyes were only on them as he ran down the steps, scarcely glancing at the Nemethian knights that flanked them. There were tears staining Thean’s cheeks, and a guilty look on Anselm’s face. Without hesitation, Arthur simultaneously pulled them into an embrace, taking each boy in either arm and running his fingers through their hair, closing his eyes as he took a moment to appreciate their presence. They were here, and they were safe. For once, his belief that he would lose his loved ones was proven false. 

    He pulled away from them, his relief morphing into exasperated anger. “What were you two thinking?” he asked, shaking them slightly with his hands. 

    Thean was shaking already without the King’s help. Indeed, the boy seemed overcome with emotion, his shoulders moving with sobs the likes of which had not wracked his body since the first night he had slept within the King and Queen’s bed. Arthur quickly scanned Merlin’s son to make sure he wasn’t physically hurt. Finding no sign of injury, he turned his gaze to the knights still gathered by the courtyard entrance, hoping they would provide an explanation that was absent from the mouths of the two children. 

    Instead, his eyes landed on two individuals that were certainly not knights. A girl with dark braided hair and a faint familiarity to her features stood in a gray dress beside a younger red-haired boy. It took only a moment of consideration to realize why they evoked a sense of nostalgia in him. The girl had a face slightly reminiscent of Hunith’s, before a decade of missing her son etched lines of sorrow into the woman’s features. An intricately carved ivory-colored pot was held tightly to her side. The boy, despite his bright hair, reminded Arthur of an infinitely younger Merlin from when the manservant had first sprung into his life. His ears were of the same ridiculous size that Arthur had made fun of Merlin for on many occasions.

    The boy and girl were holding hands, until suddenly they weren’t. The red-haired boy raced forward, and his arms wrapped around Arthur’s waist, his head just barely coming up to Arthur’s hip. The dampness of the boy’s cheeks as he nuzzled his head into Arthur’s tunic made the King ache for the boy- he was crying too, but as he looked up with bright blue eyes, he murmured with a bittersweet smile, “Hullo, King Arthur.” 

    It was like the way Merlin would turn to Arthur after his face had fallen, trying to hide whatever cloud had drifted into his mind. That mix of confusion and sorrow, as well as happiness at being called out of his stupor, lay all in this boy’s eyes. Arthur found he could not move his arms, only able to look down at the boy clinging to him. Thean walked forward with the girl- she was slightly taller than him, but they were clearly the same age. The girl walked in a similar manner as Thean always had, one foot slowly placed in front of the other, unsure whether or not the ground would agree to support her. Though not identical, the way they stayed close enough to almost hold hands signaled that they were two halves finally made whole again. “Clo,” Thean whispered, a plea in his voice as he tugged at his brother’s shirt, gently pulling him away and back towards him and his sister. Clo hesitantly let go of the King and returned to his older siblings, huddling between them. 

    The Queen of Nemeth had been standing at the top of the courtyard steps during the strange display of emotion centered around the two unfamiliar children. “Come inside now, all of you,” she said in a neutral tone, addressing Arthur, his knights, and the four children behind him with one sweeping glance before returning to the inside of the castle. Anselm stayed close and silent by his father’s side as the King led the way to the main hall, with Thean and his siblings walking in unison behind, their eyes downcast. The Knights of the Round Table followed behind, as well as the Nemethian knights who had found the children within the citadel. 

    The Queen had already seated herself within the great gray chair at the head of the hall. Arched windows behind extended to the ceiling, showing thick purple clouds outside. The evening was just about to fall. Thean and his siblings stayed close to one another and slightly apart from the King and prince. Arthur was tempted to tell Mithian to just let the children rest, for whatever they had been through, it had clearly taken energy out of them. Yet he himself had to know as well where Merlin’s other two children had been all this time, and if they knew at all of Merlin’s whereabouts. 

    One of the Nemethian knights, who Arthur assumed to have led the patrol to find Thean and Anselm, stepped forward first at the Queen’s beckoning. “We found the prince and the other children in the Potter’s Corner of town. We merely had to question a handful of civilians to figure out their whereabouts, as, ah…” The knight cleared his throat. “Young Thean did not hide his talents from the townspeople.” 

    Arthur let out a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding. It was as he had expected, and what Mithian had likely foreseen as well, though she still looked displeased at the confirmation. “Thean,” the Queen called for the boy softly. He took only a step away from his siblings, his poorly stifled sniffling echoing throughout the large room. “Please tell me what warranted you to do something so drastic.” 

    “I saw my brother from the ramparts,” Thean began, though his voice faded in and out. He turned back to look at his siblings for a moment. Ava gave a small nod of encouragement, and the slightest smile at the sight of her brother standing before a Queen, even in these circumstances. “I was pretty sure it was him, so I ran to where I thought I had seen him. I… may have used some magic along the way to make sure I made it to him in time.”

    The Queen massaged one of her temples, a long list of scenarios running through her mind then of how she would have to quell the disturbed civilians who had seen the magical display. “You disobeyed orders and risked the safety of you and the prince because you were pretty sure?” she asked, an edge to her voice. 

    Thean’s eyes narrowed, his timidity halted by her challenge. “Well it turns out I was right, wasn’t I?” he responded flatly as he stood in front of his siblings. 

    The Queen merely shook her head, at a loss for words at the boy’s defiance. “And you, Prince Anselm?” Mithian began again. “It was bad enough that Thean went into the citadel- why on earth would you do the same?” 

    Anselm stepped away from his father, who gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It had been the King of Camelot’s goal to see his son conversing with the rulers of neighboring lands, but not in this manner. “Thean ran, so I went after him,” the prince stated without eloquence. 

    “And why not alert my knights, or your father? Why take matters into your own hands?” 

    Anselm blinked in confusion as though the answer was obvious. “Thean’s a pretty fast runner,” he said, glancing to his side to meet the eyes of his friend. “By the time I stopped to ask anyone for help, he probably would have already been into the citadel.” Though frustrating in its outcome, the reasoning was sound, and followed an instinct Arthur himself had often had when Merlin or one of his knights ran headfirst into danger. 

    “Though my people are fairly peaceful among themselves, they are not always as kind to strangers, especially those who wield magic.” Queen Mithian leaned forward in her seat, staring intently at the prince of Camelot. “You two could have been gravely hurt.” 

    “Yeah, I know,” Anselm replied, and Arthur winced at his casual tone. He would have to give the prince further lessons in courtly manners once they returned to the castle. “That’s why I  went after him,” his son concluded. 

    And so the Queen found herself speechless once again with the bluntness of these children’s words. She had only lived with her one child for the past decade- her own daughter was much more docile than the two boys that had just addressed her. Princess Nietta had hardly ever talked back or disobeyed orders. 

    Not knowing what else to say to the two defiant boys, she turned her attention to the other two children in the room- the red-haired boy and dark-haired girl. They stood close to each other, eyes darting back between the queen and their brother. “I take it you must be Merlin’s children,” she said softly, meeting their gazes. 

    The dark-haired girl stepped forward, her gray woolen dress shifting from the movement. The attire she wore was one typical of Nemethians in the winter. “Yes, milady,” the girl spoke, falling in beside her twin, her shoulder brushing up against his. Her right hand still clutched the ivory pot she had held in the courtyard tightly to her side. The red-haired boy stepped up quickly after her, straightening his back to meet the questioning eyes of those who surveyed him. “I am Ava, and this is Clo. I realize our brother Thean may have acted rashly, but… we have been separated for some time, and so I ask for your forgiveness on his behalf.” 

    The girl’s words contained a grace not usually found in others her age. But Ava’s brown eyes told of months of anxiety and despair at the separation from her family, and woes that had forced her to mature beyond her age. To see her brother at risk so soon after being reunited tried her already thin stamina. She braced herself for another blow from the cruel fate life had dealt her thus far. 

    “I understand why Thean did what he did, even if I don’t agree with his reckless methods,” Mithian replied. Thean lowered his head, unwilling to meet the Queen’s eyes. “I won’t be able to let his actions go without repercussions, but they will not be severe.” Arthur felt his shoulders droop in relief at those words. He would have fought any inordinate punishment given by the Queen, but his powers within a foreign court were limited. 

    “I realize you two have been through a great deal, but I must ask,” the Queen began. “Where have you been all this time? If someone has been enslaving you in Nemeth, I will have them arrested.” The King began to study the children at this question. They appeared to be less thin than Thean had appeared in his first few months in Camelot, but slavery was slavery regardless of its conditions. If the children had been enslaved all this time, Arthur wished to personally confront the handlers. 

    Clo’s mouth dropped in horror. “No!” he cried. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” The boy’s voice tumbled in a confusing blur, clearly distraught at the Queen’s words. 

    Ava placed a calming hand on her younger brother’s shoulder. “We have been staying in the citadel for the better part of the fall and winter,” she explained. “Our guardian bought us at the end of summer, after the river of our gold-panning camp dried up.” 

    “Bought you?” Queen Mithian repeated. The buying and selling of slaves was strictly prohibited within the citadel- slavery was widespread in the outer lands of Nemeth, but she had hoped to maintain order at least within the ramparts. Yet these two children now stood in front of her, their existence alone in opposition to her hopes that humans would not be treated as items in her citadel. 

    “Yes, bought us,” Ava repeated, her voice slightly softer at the Queen’s shock. “But he’s always been kind to us, and he never made us do any work we didn’t want to do. He took in three other children from the same camp as well.” 

    “What is his name?” Mithian asked. The story befuddled her. Why would someone spend a considerable sum on slaves, if not to use them for work? Though Ava and Clo seemed fond of whoever their guardian was, the possibility that they had been manipulated and taken advantage of could not be ruled out. 

    “Don’t hurt him,” Clo pleaded from where he stood. He appeared to be scared slightly from speaking in front of so many people, but his voice was solid when he spoke. 

    “I just have to ask him how he found you two. I need to make sure people with ill intentions aren’t able to do the same to other children,” she consoled, carefully avoiding making any promise to Ava and Clo. 

    “Halberg,” Ava said after a beat of silence. “His name is Halberg.”

    “Halberg,” Queen Mithian breathed. She knew the name, though not his face. Some of the pottery that adorned the halls of her castle were from that potter’s renowned shop. 

    Arthur watched as the Queen called to several knights to retrieve Halberg and bring him back to the castle. “Tell him we’re okay,” Clo called out to the knights as they passed out the large wooden doors of the hall. “We’re usually back by sundown for supper.” He angled his body as he called out to them, only turning back to meet the eyes of the remaining people gathered within the room when the doors shut. 

    “It is suppertime indeed,” the Queen spoke. “King Arthur, you and your knights may eat with the children as you see fit. I have many matters to attend to here. I’ll send a messenger for you when their guardian has been brought to the castle.”

    The words carried the tone of an order rather than a suggestion. Merlin’s children began to get closer to each other with the knowledge that they would be leaving the room soon. In Camelot, Thean had always stayed close to the walls, as though they were his hiding place. Now, he seemed to use his siblings as a way of protecting himself from this strange world. 

    Arthur beckoned to his knights to follow, breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the lighter steps of children behind him. Anselm fell in beside the King, head down as his pace mimicked his father’s. The group was mostly silent as they made their way to the dining hall. The only voice to speak up behind him was that of Clo’s. “That’s one of Halberg’s pots!” The boy’s voice was a loud whisper, unable to contain his excitement at recognizing an item in this unfamiliar place. 

    “Don’t touch it,” responded the voice of Ava, gentle but firm. “They’re the Queen’s pots now.” Clo muttered an inaudible complaint, but listened and did not mention the topic again for the time being. Arthur observed the silver and indigo pots dotting the halls with more interest then. They were all expertly made. If the Queen had paid Halberg considerable sums for his pottery, perhaps Ava and Clo had truly been in good living conditions for the past two seasons. After what the children had been through for the majority of their life, they deserved at least that. 

    Their sudden arrival in the dining hall caused a flurry of activity from the servants that first spotted them. It was still slightly before the typical dinner time of the Queen, and thus food was not immediately available, though the cooks were hasty to serve the King of Camelot and his people as soon as possible. Thean, Ava, and Clo all sat next to each other on one side of the table, even edging their chairs closer than originally positioned. Thean glanced up sheepishly when the bottom of his chair screeched against the stone floor, but continued on after a lack of reproving glances from those around him. 

    As the knights settled in (even Gwaine was unusually silent at the turn of events), Ava placed her ivory pot onto the table. Anselm was at the King’s right, and just beside him sat Ava, then Thean, then Clo. Thean usually sat beside the prince, but made an exception tonight so that he could sit beside both of his siblings at the same time. Anselm shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly thrown by the proposition of sitting next to this new girl instead of his friend. 

    “What’s that?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the pot Ava had just set upon the table. That seemed like a safe enough conversation topic. He didn’t know quite what to say to these two children- he hadn’t been this lost for words since the day he had first met Thean. 

    “It’s a pot I made this morning,” Ava murmured, smiling at the object with pride. 

    “I like the rabbits on it,” Anselm piped up, breaking his silence. “They’re… real neat,” he finished awkwardly. 

    Ava blinked slowly at the prince. “Thanks,” she said softly. She reached out a finger to trace the carvings of the leaping figures along the thick midline of the pot. “That part took me hours.” Her eyes suddenly saddened. “They were our mother’s favorite animal.”

    The girl’s hand withdrew, and she sank back into her chair. Clo sniffled, and Thean’s eyes could have bore a hole into the tablecloth from how intensely he stared at it then. Thean told them, Arthur realized. He had been so focused on making sure Anselm and Thean were safe, and then had been distracted by the sheer existence of Ava and Clo, that he hadn’t considered whether or not they knew of their mother’s demise. That explained the shocked state they seemed to be in- it hadn’t been from just the discovery of their brother alone. They had regained a sibling, only to hear from Thean that they had lost their mother soon after.

    “I’m sure she would have loved it,” Gwaine said, his voice almost a whisper. He was rarely one to speak up in such somber conversations, but Arthur was grateful then for his bravery. Ava looked up at the knight, the edges of her mouth just barely able to quirk up in a smile at his kind words. 

    Thankfully, food was brought in swiftly after that, the rattling of dishes breaking the bleak silence that had seeped into the room. The bowls set before them contained a modest meal of tomato and barley soup and a roughly chopped piece of white bread on the side. The meal was one that the cooks would have been able to throw together hastily for the Camelot natives, but Arthur was grateful for any distraction from the previous conversation topic. 

    Clo seemed to perk up slightly at the arrival of food. “What’s this?” he asked, raising a spoonful from his bowl. 

    “It’s a tomato,” Thean replied quickly. 

    Clo took a slow bite of the spoonful. “I think I like ta-mo-ta,” he said thickly around the hot food in his mouth, eliciting soft chuckles from the knights around him. When the mouthful had been swallowed, Merlin’s younger son turned his attention to the King. “Did my Pa ever make stuff with tomato for you?” Clo asked. 

    Arthur was surprised at the boy’s question. Thean had been so quiet during their first encounter, that he had assumed Merlin’s two other children would share the same timidity. This boy, however, despite his age and the grave news he had just discovered, still carried an unstifled curiosity. “Sometimes,” the King responded simply. Seeing the disappointed look on the boy’s face at his short reply, he continued, “He made all sorts of things, but his best dishes were the stews he made for us on patrols. There was one with leeks and potatoes that was better than anything from the castle kitchen.” 

    “Really?” Clo asked, light blue eyes filled with wonder. Even Ava seemed to smile at the words about her father. 

    “I remember that stew,” Elyan piped up. “He’d find all sorts of random herbs in the forest to add to it- they’d look disgusting at first, but made the soup taste amazing.” The knight grinned at the distant memory. After Merlin’s disappearance, Arthur had ceased bringing any servants on smaller missions unless absolutely necessary, for fear of any falling to the same fate as his manservant. The times when the Knights of the Round Table thought it safe to bring along a servant to eat, talk, and laugh with were in the past. 

    Thean was silent during the happier turn of conversation. There had been so many instances Arthur had wanted to tell the boy about his adventures with Merlin- even if Thean had already heard them before, the King just wanted to share the stories more now that he knew his old friend had lived. For so many years he had hardly spoke of Merlin except in general terms, for it was too painful to say any more than that. Now, though, he could think on the happier times with less of an ache in his heart. 

    And yet, Thean had always met the stories with a stoic silence. Arthur thought that perhaps it was because the boy still partially blamed him for Merlin’s captivity, in which case Arthur couldn’t be angry, for he still blamed himself. After Thean’s mother died, any mention of his family at all seemed to trigger a regression into silence. Some nights, the King could almost fool himself into believing that Thean had always dwelled with them in the castle, safe from the past that plagued him- except for the night that he had found the boy cradled over a bleeding hand in the moonlight. 

    Thean continued to quietly eat his soup as words of his father’s cooking skills swirled around him. His determination to grab a bowl of fried carrots was disrupted by his brother grabbing at his wrist. “Your runes,” Clo breathed, turning Thean’s arm gently over. The green sleeve of his tunic fell down to reveal an arm bare of any marks. 

    “Gaius took them off for me,” Thean explained, quickly rolling up his sleeves. He almost seemed ashamed at not having his runes. Through the small sliver of wrists visible despite their long sleeves, Arthur could tell both Ava and Clo still had the runes that had burdened Thean too during his time as a slave. 

    “Gaius!” Clo repeated in surprise, his voice ringing with recognition at the name. 

    “Have you been doing magic this whole time?” Ava asked. She had seen how her brother had made the pot come back from shattering, but had thought the act of magic to be from instinct in their extraordinary circumstances. Despite the side effects of the runes, she and her siblings had always used magic under times of intense emotion. 

    “Here and there,” Thean admitted, shrugging nonchalantly. Seeing the runes on his sibling’s arms unnerved him. Though the physical distance that separated them had been shortened that day, he could sense that the time that they had been apart had created a long stretch of uncommon ground. The runes may only be just the beginning. 

    “And everywhere,” Anselm added, grinning in the direction of the dark-haired boy. “Thean probably knows hundreds of spells now.” 

    “Show us one!” Clo insisted, nearly bouncing in his seat in excitement. 

    “Well, um… okay,” Thean sighed. Quickly he glanced around to make sure there were no Nemethians within the dining hall; the last thing he needed was for the Queen to be notified he used magic again, no matter how innocent the spell. Arthur was tempted to warn Thean to wait to cast any other spells till after they left Nemeth, but couldn't bring himself to speak due to the excited looks upon Ava and Clo's faces.

     Thean closed his eyes, self-conscious of their yellow glow in front of all the other expectant eyes before him. Holding two closed hands before him, he whispered, “Rhopalocera dua.”   When he opened his fists, two dark blue butterflies flew out, wings fluttering with life as if they hadn’t just sprung into existence. 

    Ava gasped in delight at the sight, and Clo nearly knocked over his plate in his haste to grasp at the butterfly closer to him. Once he caught it, he cradled the creature closer to his chest, opening his palm slowly to observe the fluttering of their wings. 

    “We’ll have those runes removed from you both soon enough,” Arthur promised. Seeing the children’s happiness at the display of magic spurred him to rid them of those marks as soon as possible. 

    “That would be nice,” Ava said quietly, though her eyes drifted down to her arms with uncertainty. 

    Magic is like breath to me, Merlin had told Arthur once, when all the other knights had fallen asleep and it was just the two of them by the dying firelight. It’s a life force, just of another kind. 

    Arthur wanted these children to know how it felt to breathe. 

*****

    The man stood alone in the vast hall, winter hat held uncertainly near his chest. 

    He was slightly pot-bellied and round of face. Dark-haired and unusually short for a Nemethian, his eyes darted around nervously, only settling on one spot when the great wooden doors opened. 

    “Halberg!” Clo’s delighted voice rang out, and he leapt forward, only to be lurched back by his sister’s hand on his tan coat. 

    “Soon,” was all Ava said. She too wished to run to the man who had protected her and her little brother for the past several months, yet the Queen’s cold gaze stopped her. However the man before her had treated Merlin’s children, he still committed a crime by purchasing them in the first place.

    Halberg mustered a smile to the children, relief evident on his face at the sight of them. His eyes drifted to Thean, Arthur, and Anselm, and his smile faltered slightly. The Queen had explained to him that Clo and Ava had been reunited with their brother, thus why they never came home for supper. Beyond that, though, he had received little detail of why he was standing before the Queen of the Citadel. He surmised the knights of a foreign court to be from Camelot given their scarlet apparel. 

    With the King of Camelot and her closest advisors before her, Queen Mithian began to further address the potter. “The buying and selling of slaves is strictly prohibited within this citadel,” the Queen said. “The laws have been made clear, and yet you have disobeyed. These children tell me that you have treated them and several other children kindly after their purchase, and while I wish I could go off their word alone, I must know that they have not been misled or misused. Tell me, why did you break the law? Your shop is one of good standing, why risk it all?”

    Arthur leaned forward to hear the man’s words as well as possible. He was glad to have found Merlin’s two other children in relatively good health, but he had experienced too much to readily believe in apparent miracles. Before he had known of Merlin’s magic, he had so often turned a blind eye to the luck that seemed to follow the man. When his injured manservant had gone missing after an ambush by the Saxons, he hadn’t even questioned how Merlin had survived and escaped, too relieved at the miracle to question it. Only later had he realized the dark undertone that had actually followed his friend throughout that occasion and many others. Though he trusted Merlin to have good intentions despite all he had hidden, that trust did not apply to others. Surely this man, Halberg,  must have had an ulterior motive? Nearly everyone in Arthur’s life always had, except for his knights, Gwen, and- well, and Merlin. 

    “I never intended to cause anyone harm,” Halberg began. His voice was softer than Arthur would have surmised from his gruff appearance. “And I never truly planned to… to buy anyone in the first place, if you wish to call it that. I was traveling near our borders with the Departed lands- I’d had some business with the small lords of the feudal lands by the mountains. On the way back, I saw this great caravan. There were so many people- most of them were old, but then I saw…” He broke the Queen’s gaze for just a moment to turn back to Ava and Clo, his smile more genuine as it rose to his face this time. 

    “I saw those two. Clo was drawing shapes in the dirt. And little Mary, who’s at home now, was hardly more than a babe, her sisters not much older. I just knew I had to get them out of there, to someplace better. I used the funds from my time near the mountains to free the five of them. The younger ones stayed mostly in the house for the first few months, to avoid suspicion. Clo and Ava help me with the pottery sometimes…” Halberg stopped his monologue then. Now that his explanation was fairly complete, he could almost feel his fate dangling in the air. 

    “You broke the law to protect five children,” Mithian murmured. Arthur could hear the faint disbelief in her voice. Usually when Nemeth’s Queen spoke, it was with a surety that never wavered. Rarely did she sound so thrown. 

    “Yes, my Queen.” Halberg’s head tilted down slightly, as if to bow in apology, but he instead raised his eyes to meet hers. “My wife died several years back from the spotted fever. No money in the world could help her then. But I had enough- just enough- to help these children, and I couldn’t walk away knowing that.” 

    Mithian settled back in her chair, almost seeming to sink into the gray stone. She studied Halberg for a moment, before turning her gaze to the floor. In the silence, Arthur could hear the scared breaths of Ava and Clo, their eyes trained on their guardian. Thean and Anselm had shuffled imperceptibly closer to one another, subconsciously relying on each other’s familiarity while this unfamiliar man was tried by a Queen foreign to them. 

    “I will have to discuss this situation with my advisors further,” Queen Mithian finally spoke. Addressing Halberg, she continued, “You will have to pay a fine, but as I hope the pure intentions you speak of are true, there may be no further punishment. I will select some of my diplomats to inspect the state of your property and the health of the other three children to make sure that you are treating them as well as you say.” 

    Halberg bowed profusely. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, bobbing up and down in his haste to show his gratitude for the relatively light sentence. 

    “As for Ava and Clo,” Mithian continued, her eyes glancing away from the bowing man and to the children. “Whether they wish to remain here in Nemeth or go to Camelot is for them to decide.” 

    The startled look Thean directed to Arthur likely matched the mixture of emotions on the King’s own face. Ava and Clo clearly trusted this man by the name of Halberg, and after just finding out that their mother was dead, they may not wish to leave the citadel that had become their new home. And if they stayed in Nemeth, would Thean as well? 

    I can’t lose him, Arthur thought with an ache as he gazed at the worried blue eyes of the boy. Anselm also had his eyes trained on his friend, clearly piecing together the same line of thought that sang like an arrow through his father’s mind.

    Halberg was led out of the room by the knights, flanked on either side. Clo immediately departed after them, with Thean and Ava calling out to their little brother to slow down. Arthur followed suit, with Anselm following behind him. As he rounded corner after corner, with Thean and Ava’s dark heads disappearing before him, he faintly wondered to himself how nearly every day of his life had come to involve chasing after children- his own, and now Merlin’s as well. 

    In the courtyard, the guards departed from Halberg’s side. The wooden doors opened at their orders, the height of the great slabs accentuating the short stature of the man. He turned to the children behind him, relaxing into a smile. Clo practically leapt into his arms then, with Halberg chuckling and stumbling slightly from the impact. Ava embraced the man more graciously, wrapping her arms lightly around his side. The three stood there for a moment. The scene would have been picturesque had the King of Camelot not known of the pasts that had brought them together. And though he was grateful for Halberg’s kindness, Arthur yearned to see a different man laughing and holding Ava and Clo in his arms. 

    “I’m so glad you’re both alright,” Halberg breathed, settling Clo back down to the ground. “I was so worried when you didn’t return for dinner, but when I heard you had found your brother- well, it’s amazing.” He raised his eyes to where the aforementioned boy stood. 

    Thean had inched closer to Arthur’s side, scuffing his feet against the cobbles in discomfort. He reluctantly glanced up then at Halberg, who was walking towards him and the King. Halberg bowed to Arthur in respect, but his eyes were mainly focused on Thean. “Ava and Clo have told me much about you,” he said softly, nodding to the boy who gazed up at him with an unreadable expression. “May the sun warm your path.” Arthur had to pause to place the phrase- it was one he had read in books about Nemeth before, words said in greeting or farewell between two people. He supposed that perhaps this meeting was both- a hello, and a good-bye. 

    Thean seemed to reach an internal conclusion in the silence that followed. He stepped closer to Halberg, and extended his hand forward. “Thank you for looking after my brother and sister,” Thean said, his voice strong as his hand hovered in the air. Arthur felt a momentary sense of pride- the frightened boy he had met half a year ago would have flinched from a handshake. 

    Halberg took Thean’s proffered hand in his own grasp, placing his other hand over as well. Behind him, Ava and Clo murmured softly, approaching their guardian only when the handshake between him and Thean ceased. “Halberg,” Ava said, a guilty look on her face. “We… may not be staying in Nemeth.” 

    A flurry of emotions spread across Halberg’s face, all settling into a bittersweet acceptance. “That’s alright, my dears,” he said, laying a hand on Ava’s and Clo’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you both terribly, but… you have to be with your brother now, don’t you?” 

    Clo nodded vehemently. “And we still have to find my Pa,” he said, his voice thick with scarcely suppressed feeling. “And bring him back to Camelot.” The words warmed Arthur’s heart. Merlin’s younger son spoke with a hope, blind or not, that Arthur had not heard the likes of in Thean’s voice. 

    “Your mother as well,” Halberg replied heartily, though his smile slipped as Ava and Clo visibly sagged at the statement.

    “No,” was all Ava whispered. Thankfully, the man before her seemed to come to an understanding quickly. He simply wrapped the two children in another hug, this one longer than the last, their muffled sniffles heard as they buried their faces into his coat. 

    When they untangled themselves from one another, Ava turned to face Arthur. “Can we visit Halberg one last time, before we go to Camelot?” she asked hesitantly. “To say good-bye?” 

    Arthur nodded before she even finished the sentence. “Of course,” he responded. He was simply relieved to have all three of Merlin’s children returning with him to Camelot that he would have fulfilled almost any request from them at that moment. 

    With the promise of seeing each other again, Clo and Ava stepped away from the man. Halberg waved as he walked away, often glancing over his shoulder, as though half-expecting to be followed by the children. Yet the boy and girl remained at Thean’s side. All four children were now on Arthur’s left, one he had known since the day he was born, and the other three he had met by chance. 

    Come back soon, old friend, the King thought as he watched the children looking out to the city beyond. I’m going to need your help. 

Chapter Text

Thean

    At any moment, Thean expected his siblings to turn away from him and back into the city they had lived in that fall and winter. 

    He kept glancing over his shoulder, relieved at the sight of them steadily following him. Merlin’s children had made the unspoken but unanimous decision among themselves that it was time to retire for the night, away from the curious eyes of the courtyard. Thean led them back to his guest room without protest from the King or prince; they, too, appeared tired by the events of the day. Back in Camelot, Thean would have taken time to read stories with Eloise and Anselm after dinner, or aid the kitchen cooks in cleanup. Tonight, though, he wished only to be with his siblings. 

    He opened the door and stepped to the side, watching as Ava and Clo took in the sight of the decor. The fireplace that expanded across one corner of the room had been lit, and his sheets had been tidied from their disheveled state by an unseen servant. The pot with rabbits along its center that Ava had made rested on the mantlepiece of the fire- a servant had offered to bring it to Thean’s chambers after dinner. “They let you stay in here ?” Clo asked, mouth agape as he turned in a circle to take in a full view of the room. 

    Thean hadn’t seen the exact house Clo and Ava had been residing in, but he could guess it wasn’t as luxurious as any parts of the Nemeth castle. He shrugged, self-conscious for reasons he could not fully comprehend. “Only for the week,” was all he managed to say then. 

    Ava had walked over to his bedside, where the pillow Eloise had made for him was propped up. “What’s this?” she asked softly, hesitantly hovering a hand over it. “Is this supposed to be… us?”

   “Yes. Princess Eloise made it for me,” Thean said, realizing as he spoke that just the other day, that pillow had been the only physical object he had to remind him of his siblings. Now, they stood before him. 

    “What’s she like?” Clo asked. “What’s Camelot like? Do they remember our Pa?”

    Thean shook his head in slight amusement- his brother was practically stumbling over his words in his haste to ask all those questions. “She’s like you, kind of,” he told Clo, smiling as he thought of Eloise boldly claiming she could fight just as well as her brother. “And in Camelot, the streets are full of magic. People aren’t afraid of it like they are here.” Clo’s and Ava’s eyes widened at the revelation; their father had only been around to see when the false beliefs in magic being evil were only just being dispelled. Merlin had never gotten to see the full extent of his effects on the citadel. 

    “They remember our Pa,” Thean murmured, though he did not elaborate further. He did not wish to tell his siblings that though their father was remembered for his victory in the Battle of Camlann and his time as Court Sorcerer, he was also thought of as the person whose capture by slave handlers started King Arthur’s long campaign on abolishing slavery throughout Albion. In a way, Thean felt as though his father may be remembered as much for his misfortune as he was for his magic. 

    A timid knock at their door was followed by a young woman stepping halfway into the room. Thean recognized her to be one of the servants he had seen walking through the halls of the castle. She curtsied, eliciting dumbfounded stares from Clo and Ava. From their father's stories, curtsies and bows were only received by those who were higher in social rank. “I can bring in two more beds if it would please you,” the servant said, directing the statement to the two children that gaped at her mannerisms of respect. 

    “More beds?” Clo asked, called out of his stupor by confusion. “But, this one can fit all of us.” 

    The servant glanced from the bed and back to the children; her prior composure was now befuddled by her own confusion. “Well, I suppose- if that’s what you wish,” she stammered, quickly curtsying again and leaving the room. 

    To break the new silence, Thean padded over to the dresser that he had thrown his clothes into during his unrest the other day. After some digging, he found the object of his search, and held the large blue tunic out before him proudly.

    “It looks a little big for you,” Ava murmured in concern. The worn shirt did not at all match the clean look of the current red tunic her brother was wearing. 

    “This is Pa’s.” At that, his brother and sister stepped forward, gazing at the shirt with newfound wonder. Its faded, torn fabric was the first physical proof that their father had truly lived in Camelot, had lived a life full of adventures before being restricted to the confines of the mountains. 

    “Do you only have one?” Clo asked, tugging gently on the end of one sleeve.

    “There’s more in Camelot- Gaius kept them in his old room,” Thean explained, his thoughts scrambling. His siblings had just left the place they’d lived in for months because of him, and so he wanted to make them feel welcome here. “But… we can use it as a blanket!” 

    They all rushed to the bed then, jostling each other to see who would get there first. It was just as in the mountains; in the dying light of the sun, they’d fight playfully for the warmest patch of ground. With the strong fire in the corner of this room, all parts of the bed were warm, yet they laughed all the same as they kicked and pushed lightly at each other, ruffling the previously pristine sheets beneath them. Merlin’s old tunic spread out over their still slender forms easily enough, providing comfort in more ways than physically. They had settled into their usual pattern of Ava on one side, Thean in the middle, and Clo on the other. Usually their mother would lay next to Ava, and then Merlin next to Clo, so that the children would never wake up without one of their parents near.

    When their legs had tired from kicking one another, they lay on their backs, chests rising and falling as they tried to catch their breath from laughing. In the ensuing silence, the gravity of all the time that had passed between them settled back into the room. Like an unwelcome visitor, memories interrupted their present celebration. Ava was the first to speak again, her voice hardly a whisper. “How did you know Ma died?” Her breath caught on the last word. When Thean had first told them shortly after their reunion, he had hardly been able to say the same word himself. He had tried to convey the truth without sentiments of such finality, but to no avail. It was as though his brother and sister would not believe him unless he had told them in definitive terms. 

    “I saw her,” Thean breathed. He stared resolutely at the wooden ceiling above. Perhaps if he looked at them he would still see his sibling’s eyes glowing in the dark, but he could not bring himself to turn his head to check. “We- the King and I, and his army- went to liberate the mountains. I thought you’d both be there too, but when we got there…” Thean swallowed. He did not want to say that word again. “Everyone was gone , and so was Ma.” 

    Though he still did not turn his head, he could hear the tears in Ava’s faster breathing. “They separated us a few days after they took you, Thean,” she murmured. “She tried to have us be sent to the same mine as her, but on that last day, it was like she knew.” Thean turned to meet her eyes then, only to find his sister’s gaze straying to a distant memory. “The way she looked at us, Thean- it was like she knew we wouldn’t see her again.” 

    Clo let out a whimper, and Thean startled at the sound; he had only heard his brother make such noise when he was sick or hurt. Following the same line of thought, Ava reached out a hand across Thean to rest on Clo’s shoulder. Merlin’s younger son had put his hands on his face, covering his eyes as though to banish the last memory of his mother. Thean shifted so that he could face Clo, and began to trace circles along his brother’s back- just as his mother had done for Thean whenever he had a nightmare or had been mishandled after a day of not bringing back enough ore. 

    They lay there like that for a long time, shuffling closer together with each cloud that passed by their window. Sometimes, their weeping was united, each shaking with the same intensity. When the sounds of sniffling abated, a lone sob would break out, and the other two would resume weeping with renewed fervor. Thean tried to focus on the familiarity of the runes upon their arms- though they symbolized the control the handlers had always had on them, they were the shapes he had gazed at his whole life. They had served as an identifier that he and his siblings were one and the same. 

    His own arms were now barren of those marks. 

    There was so much to say, so much lost time that Thean had to reverse- yet that night, the only further communication between Merlin’s children was of their shared grief. Though reunited, they were still only part of a set that could never truly be whole again.

*****

    Circles and swirls of blue and gray. 

    “Ava,” he said, and she was there. He reached out his other arm to his right side, searching for his little brother. Finding nothing beneath his grasp, he turned and was greeted by the sight of empty sheets. “Where is he?” After last night, he expected Clo to still be curled up on his side, sniffling as he had throughout the time they had lain wordlessly in the dark. And if he wasn’t here, then had he returned to-

    “He’s exploring the castle,” Ava piped up as soon as she saw her brother’s back tensing in anxiety. Thean released a breath and let himself sink back into the plush mattress, staring up at the wooden ceiling. 

    “You let him go alone?” he asked, and though he tried to sound neutral, a hint of disapproval crept into his voice. 

    “No, he went with Gwaine,” Ava replied easily enough. “He came in an hour ago asking if we wanted breakfast, but you were still asleep.” 

    Thean’s head tilted toward Ava, turning to meet his sister’s brown eyes. He was struck suddenly again by how similar their color was to his mother’s, so he tried not to focus on how they reminded him of when his mother had stared without seeing. He latched on to the sunlight instead that streamed off to her side. “What time is it?”

     Ava shrugged, and puzzled at her brother’s question. Halberg had clocks in his house, but she had paid little mind to them. Keeping time was for people who had schedules, chores and deadlines. In the mines, the sun was their only indicator of when the day began and ended. Then while in Halberg’s house, she and Clo had been able to do whatever they pleased regardless of the time of day, so long as they returned by sunset and did not attract any unwanted attention in the citadel. “Why do you ask?” she murmured at her brother’s distant gaze. 

    “I missed the start of the meeting.” At her silence, he continued, “Queen Mithian allowed me to sit on her council yesterday, to discuss how to free other slaves.” 

     Ava’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible, Thean,” she gasped, and there was pride in her voice. The image of her timid brother standing before a room full of Queen and diplomats flitted across her mind, an action she had thought only her father would ever have the chance to do. “I wish Pa knew.” Thean nodded, but did not meet her gaze. He wasn’t sure he deserved such pride. Though he had spoken up for himself to have a spot at the Queen’s table, he had done so to better the chances of finding his family, not for the benefit of strangers who had suffered the same fate.

    He shuffled over to Ava’s side of the bed, and swung his legs down, staring at his feet as they dangled over the edge. “Where do you want to go?” Ava asked. 

    Thean continued to stare at the floor. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. He didn’t want to interrupt the council meeting by arriving late; though many of the mannerisms of Nemeth and Camelot alike still confused him, he knew well enough to realize that would be improper. In Camelot, he could scout out Anselm or Eloise to read with them or follow them throughout the castle in between their lessons. Before mealtimes, he could help out in the kitchen, or bide his time in the library practicing spells. Here in Nemeth though, Anselm was occupied with sitting in on the council meetings, Eloise was absent, the kitchen was unfamiliar, and magic was considered taboo, leaving him with little options to dawdle the day away. “We could go see what Clo is up to,” he finally suggested. 

    Ava relaxed into a smile. “That might be a good idea. He may break one of Halberg’s pots if we don’t catch up to him.” 

    Thean walked over to his dresser, shuffling about to see what clothes lay within. “I’m surprised you let him leave the room at all,” he admitted, his back turned to her. Though he knew Clo was with Gwaine, his absence still made Thean uneasy. He hadn’t known where either of them had been for so long, and now he was faced with a similar predicament, albeit on a much smaller scale. 

    “He would have found his way out eventually,” Ava said. “Halberg could hardly keep him in the house for more than a day- he wanted to explore as soon as we arrived in Nemeth.” 

    Thean absorbed the words, reflecting on how he had felt upon first seeing Camelot. Exploring hadn’t been his first instinct- he had wanted to hide. After finding his mother, the need to inhabit only a small corner of the world, as he had done his whole life, only grew stronger. Clo had always been the more outgoing of the three of Merlin’s children. In the summer when prey was bountiful and even the handlers were in better spirits, Clo would make temporary friends with the other slave children. Ava and Thean would watch from beside their own parents, making sure that their little brother wasn’t tricked into giving up any of his food or shoveling his excess ore into their buckets. 

    “Halberg seems… nice,” Thean murmured, settling on the word after some consideration as he grabbed an ivory tunic. It had been strange to see his siblings both seem so comfortable around someone not part of their family. Even when Clo had socialized with the other slaves, he had never seemed that close to them. 

    “We owe him our lives,” Ava replied frankly, causing her brother to stiffen as the shirt settled onto his shoulders. Having her explain the debt they owed to their caretaker in such stark terms caused a deep uneasiness within him. Winters were the harshest regardless of which camp a slave was in, and children were the most vulnerable. Even with their survival skills, Clo and Ava likely wouldn’t have lasted throughout the winter- and then Thean would have found out eventually. Or maybe he would have been left to wonder the rest of his life what fate had befallen his siblings, never knowing the truth. That’s how Arthur must have felt, Thean realized, and the thought was enough to make him pause. He remembered how angry he used to get when his father would tell stories of Arthur, only thinking of how the King could be blamed for his family’s captivity. Yet the King had suffered too from years of not knowing if Merlin was alive, and Thean felt somewhat ashamed that he had never before taken that into consideration. 

    But then he remembered the way the King had looked at him the night before their journey to Nemeth. The eyes that had used to crinkle when they smiled down at Thean had turned into angry lines then, harsh and disapproving and maybe even disturbed, as though they were looking at an unknown creature. 

    “Thean?” Ava’s voice startled him from the dark trail his thoughts had been treading. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her brother as he stood clutching the edges of his shirt where he had been straightening the fabric until he had paused in thought. 

    “Sorry,” Thean muttered, walking over to sit beside her. He rested his hands on his knees, then grabbed his pants in his fists, noticing that he had just mimicked Anselm’s usual posture. 

    “So you still do that, huh?” Ava asked, amusement in her voice. 

    “What?”

    “Go somewhere,” his sister elaborated. “Become distant, all of a sudden.” 

    Thean swallowed, refusing to meet her eyes. In the mines, he would often let his thoughts drift on purpose to maintain some semblance of sanity during the repetitive tasks. When he had a particularly rough day, or hunger clawed stubbornly at his belly, he would even will a foggy state to beset him when he was with his family. Their words would dim in his ears, muffled and unimportant in their meaning. Now that he was free, he found his mind would drift unbidden of his whims, traveling to places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go to. He thought of his mother staring out into the forest without really seeing the trees, and of his father walking slowly to sit beside her. 

    Thean sighed, and Ava’s momentary amusement faded at her brother’s solemnity. “Let’s go find Clo,” he said briskly, rising from the bed. He caught a glimpse of his sister’s gray dress as they exited the room, and bit back an instinct to tell her to change into something else. In Camelot, he had grown accustomed to wearing different outfits every day, rotating between the steady amount of outfits he had accumulated through the seasons. The dress his sister wore now was slightly stained from the white clay used to make pots, but was still nicer than anything they had in the mines. Yet she had worn the dress yesterday, and Thean almost felt self-conscious for her sake, knowing that those who lived in a castle weren’t supposed to wear the same outfits consecutively if they weren’t servants. There was no way for Ava to know that, though, and she didn’t have any other outfits to change into right now anyway. Presently, she was smiling slightly as they strode through the halls, and he didn’t want to say anything to change that. 

    They found Clo rather quickly. The sounds of his laughter echoed through the halls, soft chuckles accompanying. When Thean turned the corner, he was greeted by the sight of Arthur and Anselm’s backs as they stared at someone to Gwaine’s right. When the prince shifted, Clo’s copper flop of hair was spotted. His feet were off the ground as he dangled from the knight’s arm, letting out grunts as he twisted himself to lift his feet further above the ground. Each time he breathed out dramatically in frustration, the King, prince and knight let out peals of laughter that echoed Clo’s own. 

    Ava began to chuckle beside him, causing Arthur and Anselm to turn at the sound. Both were grinning, but Thean knew his face didn’t resemble theirs. He could not connect this version of his little brother, laughing and getting up to mischief as usual, with the boy he had comforted last night as he wept. 

    “Thean, Ava!” Gwaine said, lowering his arm so that Clo’s feet could meet the floor again. “Clo here was just demonstrating how he’s stronger than any of us knights.” Clo nodded vehemently, clearly agreeing with the accuracy of the statement. 

     The red-haired boy jogged over to his siblings, producing two slices of an orange bread from his pocket. “They served this really good bread for lunch!” Clo explained excitedly, placing the proffered food in his sibling’s palms. “Anselm says it has something called pumk-pin in it.” 

    Thean’s eyes shifted to Anselm, who was biting his lip to stifle laughter. “Pumpkin,” Thean said gently. “It’s called pumpkin, Clo.” His brother shrugged easily enough, unbothered by the correction. He ran back to Gwaine, leaping again for the knight’s raised arms, who kept bringing them closer to the boy and then lurching them upward. Thean felt something tighten in his chest as he watched his brother jump eagerly around Gwaine. He should be happy to see his brother already adjusting well to the people of Camelot, and yet, Thean had never seen Clo play with another adult so happily unless it was with their father. 

    Merlin had never tried to stifle Clo’s wild streak. Instead, he had encouraged his son’s small acts of rebellion, glad to see that the boy refused to be discouraged by the cruel circumstances he had been born into. Clo’s daring behavior had often been a point of contention between Thean’s mother and father. Whenever their younger son returned to them at night after being beaten for talking back to a handler, Lea would admonish him heavily to stop vocalizing his opinions so often. Merlin, meanwhile, would tell her to not be so hard on the boy. 

    “Clo has to be himself,” Thean had heard his father whisper to his mother one night, when they had been under the false impression that all their children were asleep. “We can’t let them take away who he is.”

    Lea had let out a long, tired sigh. “I know, Merlin,” she murmured. “But what good is him being himself if he gets killed for it?”

    The sight of the King and prince walking towards Thean disrupted the memory of his parents. “Glad to see you’re out of bed,” Arthur said to the two, the remnants of his grin from Clo’s antics still visible. “We missed you in the meeting, Thean,” the King remarked, though without remonstration. 

    “I didn’t think it was possible, but the meeting was even more boring without you,” Anselm groaned, rubbing at his eyes from the lingering tiredness at the monotony of the morning. 

    “Sorry,” Thean murmured, feeling abashed. “I didn’t mean to oversleep, I just…” His eyes strayed to Ava. Despite their shared grief, he had slept more deeply beside his siblings the prior night than he had ever since leaving the mountains. Though sleeping with Arthur and Gwen had helped on the worst of nights, the presence of his siblings was a comfort like no other. 

    Arthur waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense,” he said. “Queen Mithian was not angered. Most of the first half was merely statistics anyway.” The King glanced up and down Thean, as though analyzing the stability of the boy. His gaze made Thean feel as though he were an arrow Arthur feared would be released from a bow at any moment. His sudden escape into the citadel may have shaken the King’s trust in him, despite the innocent intentions. “I don’t think she’d mind if you joined us for the second half, now that lunch is over,” the King concluded, relaxing some of Thean’s fear of disapproval. 

    At that, Thean glanced to his sister again, and then to where Clo was still running excitedly in circles about Gwaine. He knew rationally that the castle was well-protected, that there was no logical reason to fear leaving his siblings alone. Yet the past 24 hours had felt like anything but logical for Thean, and he did not want to give the good luck that had befallen him the chance to be snatched away. 

    “It’s alright, Thean,” Ava said, nodding to her brother. “I’ll look after Clo.” 

    Thean swallowed and shuffled on his feet, feeling as though he had little choice what with the gazes of her, Arthur, and Anselm trained upon him. “Well, I’ll go then,” he murmured reluctantly. 

    “Yes!” Anselm cried jubilantly. He grabbed Thean lightly by the shoulder, leading him past where Gwaine was now acting like a bear, eliciting shrieks of laughter from Clo as he darted away. His brother only scarcely glanced at him as he was led past by the prince, his attention quickly distracted by a faux attack from Gwaine the Bear. Thean glanced back to see his sister joining in, and wondered when he had found himself caught between wanting to be in two places at once. 

***

    Thean felt as though he were floating the next three days in Nemeth. 

    He’d wake up to the sound of his siblings sleeping beside him, and think for a moment that they were just the remnants of a pleasant dream. Only when he reached a hand out to lightly tap them awake would he let himself believe they were truly there. 

    Thean still diligently attended the council meetings, though he contributed little to the conversations. Much of what was spoken about were battle strategies and prioritization of which camps seemed in most desperate need of liberation, matters which Thean himself felt he lacked knowledge on. Anselm seemed grateful for the company though, rolling his eyes surreptitiously at Thean whenever a knight he did not favor droned on about their irrelevant opinions. Otherwise, the prince of Camelot was attentive at the meetings, or at least he was good at acting as such. Thean, meanwhile, did not even try to fake interest in all parts of the meetings; his mind often drifted instead to what his siblings must be doing. Sometimes, he’d hear Clo talking to the guards posted outside the chambers where the council meetings took place, asking when ‘Thean and the knights’ would be free again. Ava’s voice would then be heard shushing her little brother and leading him away. 

    He’d heard his sister crying softly one of the nights they were in Nemeth. In his half-sleeping state, he only scooted closer to comfort her, but that appeared to be enough to quell whatever sorrows had invaded her mind. Clo, meanwhile, had shown little of the grief they had all displayed the night of their reunion in the ensuing days. He was undeterred by the solemn nature of their reunion, instead rejoicing in his ability to befriend the people of Camelot. When the council meetings were dispersed, he’d run up to Thean first in the dining hall to talk about all he and Ava had discovered that day within the castle. However, soon after, Merlin’s younger son would depart to talk excitedly with the rest of the Camelot ensemble. Elyan would ruffle his hair, and Percival and Leon would laugh as they watched Gwaine chase the small boy around the table, much to the annoyance of the servants who bustled about preparing the meal. When they sat down to eat, Clo would continuously ask about the details of each dish. Thean tried to answer quickly enough, but struggled to keep up with his brother’s onslaught of questions. Often, his little brother would ask what a dish was and taste it anyway before being told. 

    King Arthur would grin at the unabated curiosity of Merlin’s younger son, and answered many of his questions about his past adventures with their father. Clo would reference numerous tales that Thean scarcely remembered his father telling them, asking for the King’s own point of view. Whereas Thean had begun to lose faith in his father’s stories as he grew older, Clo’s captivation with tales of Camelot never wavered. When their father told stories at nightfall, Clo would lean forward, eyes wide, gasping and laughing in all the right places whether Merlin had told of the adventure before or not. 

    At night, Thean would answer his sibling’s questions about his time in Camelot thus far. There was one instance he always left out though- the night he had contacted their father. Guilt wracked his mind whenever he saw the sad uncertainty in Ava’s eyes at the mention of their father. Yet he could not figure out how to tell them of his discovery without admitting to his use of blood magic. He didn’t want to risk planting the idea in their brain, only for them to be hurt by its use. 

    In return, Clo and Ava would tell Thean stories of their time with Halberg, talking joyfully of the three other little girls Halberg had taken in. Ava would speak with a wistfulness in her voice; she had never had sisters, and had formed a kindred bond with the younger girls. They had all been orphaned, unknowing of whether their circumstances were temporary or not, but clinging to the good fortune of being safe and well-fed under Halberg’s roof. 

    Though his brother and sister smiled as they talked of Halberg’s home, sometimes he couldn’t help but feel a chill run down his spine at the mention of their lives in Nemeth. He wanted to believe that little of any significance had happened since they’d been separated, that nothing but time itself had separated them. But they had seen and heard things he never would, lived days and eaten meals he had not sat beside them for. Ava and Clo had been together when the leaves had begun to fall, and again when snow first broke apart from the sky like sinking clouds. All the while, Thean had been in Camelot. 

    And he had lived without them for seasons as well. 

    So it was with relief that Thean finally woke to the morning of their departure from Nemeth. His siblings were to be escorted separately to Halberg’s house by a handful of Nemeth’s knights in the gray dawn light, before the citadel had fully awoken. Though the rumors of Arthur’s presence in Nemeth had intensified to near truth after Thean’s escape, the little doubt remaining about the Camelot travelers wasn’t to be disturbed by having them parade around the streets openly. Instead, the knights and their King would exit in a similar fashion from how they had entered- through a small, nondescript walkway at the back of the castle. They would be departing as soon as Ava and Clo returned to the castle from their trip to Halberg’s. 

    When a servant knocked on their door to wake them up, the stars still gleamed outside their window. Thean helped Clo pick out which garments to wear for their journey. Servants had silently left clothes of his sibling’s approximate sizes after they had been spotted wearing the same outfits for two consecutive days. 

    “Don’t want it,” Clo muttered as Thean held up a scarlet tunic. “That one’s itchy.”

    “But we’ll be in Camelot by nightfall, and red is the city’s color,” Thean insisted. “Wouldn’t you want to match the knights?” His little brother eyed the tunic with more interest, then snatched it and turned away to change. 

    Ava had chosen a long dress of yellow fabric, and had been gifted a white coat for their winter journey. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” she asked. 

    Thean nodded, trying to give her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You both will be back in no time anyway,” he said, edging over to help Clo, who had accidentally stuck his head into a sleeve. He didn’t like the idea of letting his siblings go back into the citadel without him either, but he doubted the Queen would be thrilled at the idea of him leaving the castle for any purpose but to return to Camelot. She had let him off lightly with his only punishment being a night of boot cleaning as a knight watched over to ensure he didn’t make the task easier with the same talents that had granted him the punishment in the first place. 

    Thean followed his siblings out into the chill of the courtyard, where the group of Nemethian knights were already gathered to lead them into the citadel. He reached out a hand to grasp his brother’s shoulder one last time before they left. “Don’t do anything rash, Clover,” Thean said slowly, looking into his brother's squinted but alert blue eyes. 

    Clo’s face cracked into a grin. “Who, me?” he asked sarcastically. “Never!” And with that, he bounded down the steps, his grogginess from the early hour forgotten in his longing to see Halberg and the girls again. 

    “Make sure he doesn’t do anything rash,” Thean said as he turned to his sister. 

    Ava nodded. “Always,” she replied with a small smile, following after Clo with more composure. And with that, they were soon gone, Thean left to stand at the top of the courtyard to stare at their disappearing figures. He knew rationally that he’d see them again soon, but a certain tenseness would remain upon his shoulders till he could confirm that belief with the sight of them returning. 

    An exaggerated yawn from behind startled his drifting mind. The tousle-haired prince of Camelot stepped up beside him, gazing out at the courtyard doors. “Gone?” Anselm asked simply, and Thean nodded, knowing he was referring to his siblings. In between meals, Anselm too had begun to warm up to the buoyant nature of Clo, and the quiet calm of Ava. “Are you excited to go back to Camelot?” Thean nodded again. He knew he should speak, but he felt foggy in the early hour of another day in this strange and chaotic week. “Me too,” Anselm replied easily enough, trying to maintain cheer in his voice despite the other boy’s solemn look. “I can’t wait to see Eloise and Mom again, I’ve missed them,” he murmured earnestly. The relaxed smile on Anselm’s face quickly flew away as he glanced to Thean, who had missed his siblings for months, and would have no choice but to always miss his mother. “I didn’t…” 

    “It’s alright,” Thean said, mustering a smile to ease the worry that etched the prince’s features. “I’ve missed them too.” He meant that genuinely. He looked forward to watching Eloise eagerly demonstrate the lessons she had learned in sewing and knife-fighting, and to resume his reading lessons with the always patient and gentle Queen Guinevere. In Nemeth, Thean had remained relatively unnoticed when he wandered the halls- servants avoided eye contact, the rules of propriety in this castle being stricter than Camelot’s. In Camelot, the servants would nod cheerfully to him, and those who worked in the kitchen would stop to ask him how he fared and if he could help out with preparations for a later meal. Yes, to be back in a familiar place with faces that knew his own would be a relief. 

    Once, when he was very young, Thean had asked his father what the word ‘home’ meant. “Are the mines our home?” he had asked. 

    Merlin had remained quiet for a moment, glancing at his son with a sad look. “Do you like the mines, Thean?” he asked, though he was aware of the likely answer. 

    Thean had hesitated before saying, “I like that you and Ma and Ava and Clo are in them.”

    Merlin nodded. “A home isn’t just somewhere that you live,” he explained. “Home is where there are people you care about, and where you feel… welcome. Appreciated. You follow them, and whenever you’re in need, they follow you.”

    Thean hadn’t fully understood the meaning behind his father’s words back then. He had tucked away the memory, to be taken out, dusted off and contemplated again when he thought himself more capable of figuring out what the word truly meant. 

    Anselm breathed out, making clouds with his sigh. “C’mon Thean, let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.” The prince did not turn around as he trotted back into the warm glow of the just lit candelabras of the castle. He used to glance over his shoulder to ensure the timid boy did indeed heed his words, but when the summer slipped into the fall, he no longer doubted that Thean would be behind him. Merlin’s son no longer hesitated to trust the prince’s lead either. 

    Thean followed Anselm. 

Chapter Text

Arthur

    Home would soon be on the horizon. 

    Ava and Clo had come back to the courtyard just as gray clouds began to settle on the sky that slowly transitioned from darkness to a pearly light. With them were several satchels full of odds and ends they had collected throughout their time in Nemeth- a scarf, a doll, a clay horse could be seen poking through the leather covers. When Arthur had met Thean, the boy had owned nothing but torn clothes and memories. To see these children heading to Camelot with things they could call their own was comforting. 

    As their ensemble of knights and advisors streamed out the back entrance of the citadel and into the forest beyond, Arthur had time to reflect on all that had transpired during their time in Nemeth. Aside from the turbulent time that Thean and Anselm had escaped into the streets, and the discovery of Ava and Clo, the days had been quite productive. Liberations of three known camps and five suspected locations had been plotted, with the soonest set to occur just a week after Arthur and his knights departed from the land. 

    When he returned to Camelot, he’d have to call a meeting of the commanders in order to parcel out which troops would be sent to aid the liberations of Nemeth. Though Mithian was ambitious in her goal to eradicate all slavery from her land, her own knights were untrained for the raid, and would benefit from the expertise of the Camelot knights, many of whom had experienced firsthand what it was like to enter a slave camp and liberate the area without fully knowing its layout. For some of the larger raids, Arthur had even promised to accompany the Nemethian commanders himself, though not until the winter had abated. 

    At times, after Arthur promised lofty supplies and troops to Queen Mithian, an advisor would pull him aside and admonish him to decrease the numbers. But King Arthur would not budge; he feared the Nemethian knights would not be able to cope without their guidance. Aside from that, if one of the liberations was to go drastically wrong, as the one of the Medora mines had, Arthur would not be able to forgive himself if he knew Camelot’s forces could have prevented another tragedy. 

     And yet, Arthur knew he wasn’t just helping Nemeth excessively for the sake of diplomatic relationships and military strategy. His motives came back to Merlin- they always did. 

    He could be near, Arthur thought to himself, as his friend’s children rode behind him and onward to the outer lands of Nemeth. There were so many known and suspected slave camps in Nemeth that Merlin could very well have been moved to one of them after the mines of Medora were disbanded. The thought was enough to make Arthur wish to turn back and return to the drafty courtroom of Nemeth’s castle, to have council meeting after tiring council meeting until they discovered something they had missed, someone they had missed, a clue that could lead him to Merlin so that he could then lead his friend home. 

    But duty called as relentlessly as it had throughout Arthur’s life. As a prince and even as a young king, he had never hesitated before to ride out to find a missing knight whether or not there was significant evidence to hope for their survival. In the first year after Merlin’s disappearance, so often when he had lain awake at night, he had wanted to take a horse and go out riding until he found his friend, knowing he would not feel any sense of true peace until he saw those blue eyes crinkling into a smile again. Yet when he heard Guinevere’s soft breaths beside him, and Anselm rolling over in the crib they kept at their bedside, his study of the ceiling would continue uninterrupted.

    Merlin would have rode out for me, Arthur had thought to himself on those nights. Despite all the council meetings he held to begin the process of liberating slave camps throughout Albion, the progress was achingly slow. Every dawn had signaled a dimming chance of ever seeing his friend again.

    He had often taunted Merlin for being a coward, even after learning his friend likely had more power through magic than anyone else in Albion. But on those nights when he toyed with the idea of leaving to find Merlin on his own, only to shove away the thought in shame, he believed himself to be the only true coward. 

    “My lord?” 

     A servant had come up to his side, timidly eyeing the King’s distracted look. “Yes, what… what is it?” Arthur stumbled over his words, realizing he did not actually know the man’s name. His refusal to accept a singular servant to attend to his needs ever since Merlin’s disappearance had resulted in a multitude of separate men and women taking over various roles within the castle. Thus, he knew many by face, but not all by name. 

    “We’ll be past the borders of Nemeth soon. Would you like the servants to prepare for lunch?” 

    The morning had slipped past the King, lost to the churning sea of his mind. When left to silence, the past and present seemed to meld into one overwhelming mess that dragged him temporarily into a land without time. “Yes, we’ll stop once we reach the farmlands of Camelot,” Arthur murmured, tightening his fists around his reins to ground himself back in reality. “Thank you.” 

    The servant turned his horse around to return to the majority of the party that followed behind the King. Though he could not see Merlin’s children behind him, Arthur could certainly hear them- or at least two of them. 

    “Quit fidgeting, Clo!” Ava sighed in exasperation. 

    “I wouldn’t have to if your dress stopped getting in the way!” Merlin’s younger son protested indignantly. 

    Gwaine could be heard chuckling to himself in amusement at the children’s bickering, and Arthur felt a smile rise to his face. He hadn’t directly ordered Sir Gwaine to keep an eye on Merlin’s children, but the knight had chosen to stay close to them of his own free will on the journey from Nemeth, as he had always done for Thean. Ava and Clo had been seated upon the same horse, both still being small enough to fit on a single saddle. While Clo had seemed eager enough to ride a horse for what must have been his first time, his enthusiasm had tired quickly upon realizing his father hadn’t been exaggerating at how uncomfortable sitting upon the large creatures could be. 

    Further discomfort was heralded by the arrival of flurries spiraling from the sky. Ava and Clo looked at the snowflakes with mixed feelings. In the streets of Nemeth, they had seen children playing in the snow with glee, but had found the sight strange. Within the mines of Medora, the cold had signaled the potential of a silent death. Younger slaves would lay down to rest near their parents, and never wake up. Thus, the beauty of white grace falling from the sky was somewhat lost upon Merlin’s children. 

    Arthur, meanwhile, watched the snow with little trepidation. He thought of Eloise trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue, and warmth spread through his chest despite the cold. Maybe the Queen and Princess would be having a snowball fight in the courtyard when their returning journey concluded. 

    The prince’s thoughts were clearly aimed in the same direction. When they reached the wide expanse of farmlands and settled down on an unmarked field for noon, Thean was just about to hold a bowl out for the boiling soup when a blast of cold slapped across his cheek. This time, he was quick to catch on to the prince’s innocent intentions, and quickly placed his bowl in the hands of a servant before running after Anselm, scooping up a handful of snow on his way. 

    Ava and Clo looked on with their mouths agape. Arthur and the knights only appeared amused, as though this were a perfectly acceptable occurrence. And Thean was grinning- he had done so little of that since being reunited with his siblings. He had never been one to smile much, but the months away from his siblings had etched a pensive look upon his face that rarely wavered. To see him laughing as though it was summer was simultaneously jarring and relieving for his siblings. 

    Clo made a few bounds forward in the thickening snow, only pausing to look back at his sister. “Are you coming?” he asked, as Thean yelped from a new strike against his chest. “He sounds like he could use some help,” Clo added, a smile tugging at his mouth that mirrored his brother’s. 

    Ava almost began to nod her head, until she remembered the plush feeling of the thick winter coat against her arms, and the crisp golden dress that ensconced her. When she had seen the outfit in their room in Nemeth the prior morning, she had been almost certain the garments had been left upon their bed by mistake. Halberg had supplied her and Clo with clothes far superior in quality to what the handlers had given them, but nothing he had supplied them with compared to her current dress and white coat. She could scarcely feel the cold when she wore the fur-padded jacket, and the color of the dress reminded her of the first time she had found gold in the river that Clo and her had been sent to following their forced departure from the mines.

    It had been the sixth day that she and Clo had spent running their hands along the bottom of the river, scooping up the dirt and sand into rusted pans the handlers had given them. No one near their station of the river had found gold since they’d arrived, and Ava could practically feel the impatience of the handlers rolling from their harsh gazes like hot waves. She was beginning to wonder if she and Clo would even know gold if they saw it; the mines had only ever contained common metals like copper and occasionally iron. 

    But Ava did indeed know what gold was when she saw it laying in her pan that day. As the curious metal caught the sunlight, she was reminded of her father’s eyes when he had last used magic to create a small flame of warmth for his family to warm their fingers and toes by. That had been the coldest night of the year, and upon seeing the other slaves suffering from frostbite, anxiety had wracked him at the sight of his children’s blue hands and feet. Merlin had been exhausted and nauseous for several days afterwards, but his children woke up still being able to feel their limbs. 

    The protocol in the gold panning camp was to call out for a handler whenever they found an object that did not resemble dirt or sand. And yet, Ava found herself continuing to hover her hands over the glinting metal in wonder. She did not know of its monetary value, but the piece was slightly larger than her thumb, and she had heard of the riches even a small amount of gold could supply. Perhaps if she had found this metal as a freed person, she could buy a small house for her family. Her mother would be able to sit by the fire and make new clothes for her children, her father could have a library filled with spellbooks that he’d read to them, and they could have a garden with rabbits everywhere, and Thean and Clo- 

   “Give that to me!”

    Ava had nearly leapt out of the water as a large hand snatched the glinting gold from her pan. In fear, she shuffled back hastily farther out and into the middle of the river, nearly slipping on the sloped ground. The handler eyed her warily, seeming to consider whether it was worth his time to deal out punishment for her hesitancy. Clo paused in his own gold panning, turning to glare at the handler who had yelled at his sister. Ava sent up a silent prayer that for once her younger brother would hold his tongue. 

    Thankfully, the handler’s attention seemed mostly focused on the object in his hand. “Get your eyes off me and back on the river,” the gruff man spat at the two children before him, turning around immediately after to jog up to his fellow handlers farther from the river. As Ava returned to her task, she heard exclamations of delight ring out around her from unfamiliar voices, and her hands which had just a moment before been hovering in wonder began to shake. 

    All this flitted through her mind in just a few seconds as she stood before Clo’s questioning gaze. Ava grasped the golden dress solidly between her hands. Maybe this dress was paid for with gold that passed through another slave’s hands. The thought was enough to make her settle into a decision. “That’s alright,” she assured her younger brother. “You go ahead- I’ll save you both some soup.”

    Arthur watched as the willowy girl made her way to a fireside. Seeing Gwaine preoccupied by discussion with younger knights, the King walked to the same fire, trying to feign coincidence when he met the eyes of the girl. She was balancing three soup-laden wooden bowls precariously in her hands, one just on the edge of tipping into the snow. For a brief moment Arthur was reminded of the many instances that Merlin had barged into his room in the dawn light, dropping fruits and scones with each step in his haste to spur the King to begin tackling the duties of the day. 

    “Here, let me help you,” Arthur murmured. Ava handed over two of the bowls with a grateful relax to her shoulder; each was quickly covered with a plate to prevent any loss of warmth once the stew was poured in. The rich taste of tomatoes reassured Ava that Clo would definitely enjoy the meal once he stopped providing backup to Thean. 

    “Thank you, my Lord,” Ava said quietly as the King set the two covered bowls down on one of the many blankets laid out for the meal. Arthur winced at the formality. He hardly thought of the words when they were emitted from the mouths of nobles, but the sound of them from Merlin’s daughter struck a chord of unease within him.

    “Just Arthur is fine,” he informed her, settling across from her to begin sampling his own bowl of stew. When the girl remained silent after he had consumed a few spoonfuls, he glanced up to see her grappling with some notion. “What’s wrong?” 

    “It’s just that my father said you didn’t like when he addressed you as such.” She held the King’s gaze with each word, unperturbed as Thean had often been about maintaining eye contact. 

    “I pretended to mind, but I never truly did,” Arthur admitted. He had been hard on Merlin initially as a prince, but eventually it became so normal to just have the manservant refer to him as if he were a fellow commoner. Arthur tired of correcting Merlin aside from in jest, and soon became fond of the times when the manservant would simply call him by his name, as though the person Arthur was mattered more than the title that accompanied him. “He told you that?” the King asked in surprise. He knew that Merlin had told his children of their adventures, but to hear her reference the minor details surprised him.  

    “He told us all about you,” Ava said, a smile spreading on her face. “About Camelot, and the knights, and all the times he-” she paused, hesitating, before continuing, “saved your ‘royal backside.’”

    Arthur let out a gale of laughter. He hadn’t heard those words spoken aloud in over a decade. “Yes, well, there were quite a few times I returned the favor.” 

    “Really?” Ava tilted her head in mock surprise. “Hmm. He didn’t mention those parts as much.” 

    They settled into small chuckles together. It felt good to laugh again. As he stared into the depths of his stew that was quickly collecting snowflakes on its surface, he reflected on when he had used to think that Merlin’s bravery came from sheer ignorance. Only after many misadventures together had he realized the courage stemmed not from blindness, but from faith. Merlin had believed in Arthur like no one else had before. 

    “I always thought I was the one protecting him,” Arthur found himself saying aloud. Ava glanced up from her meal, the remnants of her smile disappearing in the wake of the King’s solemn words. “But I don’t think that was actually the case.” He thought of Merlin when he had been hit by a mace only a few paces from Arthur, and of when the dorocha had nearly frozen him to death; at least those injuries and illnesses proved reversible. Nothing could erase over a decade of slavery. 

    Ava swallowed, trying to keep a sudden nervousness from her face. She did not know how to comfort this man; so often she had heard of him through bedtime stories, but to be talking to him in person was jarring. How did she provide solace to someone who she knew so much about, but who knew so little of her? “He said you always made him feel less scared, even when there was so much to be scared about,” she said softly, each word carefully considered. “When I was younger, I’d get scared when there were thunderstorms, so my Pa would tell me stories of you to calm me down. I think he was just trying to distract me- I’d still hear the thunder, but then I’d think, what harm could a little lightning do when you both had survived so much worse?” 

    “And then you were no longer scared?” Some of their adventures had been quite dark in nature; good men died, and many times their struggles against enemies were only abated, not stopped forever. To be comforted by such stories seemed counterintuitive; Arthur had usually omitted telling his children of some of his more grim travels, but he was starting to wonder if Merlin had done the same, given how much Ava claimed to know about the time spent between the King and his servant. 

    “Oh, I was scared even with the stories. I still hate thunderstorms,” Ava admitted, a blush of slight embarrassment spreading across her cheeks. “But Clo likes the way lightning looks, so that doesn’t stop me from watching the rain with him.”

    Arthur felt something then that he couldn’t quite place as he gazed at the small girl sitting before him. He realized what the word was as he reflected on when Merlin would describe the magic that crackled like static in the air around him, always there, but unnoticed by so many. Arthur felt humbled by the quiet grace of the girl’s words. Here she was claiming that his ventures gave her bravery, but to Arthur, nothing he had done paralleled the courage needed to survive a life of imprisonment. 

    Anselm, Thean, and Clo came jogging up breathlessly, their scarlet and blue clothes sodden with white. Arthur ran his gloved hands through his son’s hair to rid the boy of the snowflakes that dotted his golden head. From the periphery of his vision, he could see Ava glancing at his actions curiously. As her brothers sat down to tuck into the still warm soup, she knelt on the blanket behind them, swiftly picking out frozen snowflakes from their hair. Both of the boys were too focused on their meals to pay much mind. 

    The snow abated as their journey continued after lunch. Blank fields fell away into thickening forest, and a deep sense of contentment filled Arthur as sites of recognition slipped by. There was the spot he had pulled Excalibur from the stone; that was the stream he had taken Gwen to on their first picnic, and just behind them to the right was where he had often hunted with his men and-

    And where Merlin had been taken. 

    He realized then that they had taken a roundabout way to reach Camelot- though slightly longer in time to cross, they had avoided the areas of rockier terrain. In doing so, his expedition had inadvertently crossed near the place the King had lost a friend for what most presumed to be forever. 

    Arthur swallowed back the bile that rose to his throat. His heart beat faster as he glanced to where the smaller horses carrying Merlin’s children trotted behind. Clo and Ava were looking out across the forest with wonder, not fear. Thean was the only one to catch the King’s eyes, and his previously neutral expression morphed into a frown. Arthur realized his unease must have been written on his face, so he forced a painful smile and turned away to face forward, giving his reins a forceful shake to spur his horse to a faster pace. 

    At least the children seemed ignorant of what this area of Camelot signified. Perhaps the tale had been too dismal for even Merlin to tell his children in detail. 

    They made it to the citadel just as the darkening of the clouds signified that the sun, though not visible, had set. Here in his own streets, the King could march without fear; knights began to flank him as a precaution when they entered the gates, but Arthur had faith that his people would not harm them. Through habit, they entered near the opening gate closest to the Chapel, the sanctuary in which liberated slaves took refuge as they built strength to begin their freedom. Despite not having come from a liberation mission, Arthur felt safer passing by to make sure conditions were up to standard. 

    Small groups of freed people made their way to the entrance of the Chapel, curious from the sound of opening gates. They waved cheerfully upon realizing the group was not just mere merchants, but instead the party similar to that which had first brought them to their current place of living. The last mission had been over a month ago, and thus the people who stood bathed in the light of the entrance weren’t as malnourished as they had once appeared. Arthur noticed Anselm shifting uncomfortably on his horse. He hoped that his son could see the Chapel wasn’t always a place of illness and despair, as the prince may have thought during his first and only visit. 

    “Clo?” A voice broke out, and a boy slipped through the taller men and women before him at the doorway, making his way quickly to the center of the street where the boy of question was astride a horse. 

    “Buckley!” Clo’s voice responded in delight. He made as if to leap from his horse, but his sister tightened the arm she had had across his chest the entire journey to secure him. 

    “You survived,” the boy- Buckley- murmured in awe. “I wasn’t sure- we heard that the mines…” 

    Clo swallowed. “Yeah, I survived,” he said, as though that needed confirmation. 

    “We must be going,” Arthur called, though he tried to maintain a gentle tone. There wasn’t any particular reason to rush, but he worried where the conversation would turn if Clo became more descriptive. 

    “Right,” Clo said, swiveling his head from the King back to Buckley. “I’ll- I’ll be back!” he reassured the boy in the street. Arthur was faintly surprised at the statement. Though he had no firm opposition to Merlin’s children exploring the citadel, he had been accustomed to Thean steadfastly remaining in the Castle, and had almost expected the same from Ava and Clo. 

    At this hour, most civilians were inside having supper, but some came out to cheerfully wave scarlet banners and miniature flags periodically distributed on holidays. Arthur was glad to see the people were evidently in good health and spirits; the winter would hopefully continue to treat them easily. If not, the stockpiles in the castle would have to be further distributed, which meant that even the occupants of the castle would need to tighten their belts. 

    The streets inclined slowly, winding up towards the castle; but before they reached its promising spires, part of their group would pause, in the same place they once had many months ago for another little boy covered in runes. This time, the yellow light could be seen through the small windows that dotted the unembellished outsides of the house. For once, Arthur would not have to awaken the old man for this surprise. 

    Half of the knights departed with word to be sent to the castle of their impending arrival. Joy spread through Arthur at the prospect of Guinevere hearing the news; he was beginning to make a habit of surprising those he knew with sudden miracles. Just one more, Arthur thought to himself as he knocked on Gaius’ door. I just need one more miracle. 

    “Sire!” Gaius said, a cheerful smile spreading across his face. “And Thean!” he exclaimed, his grin growing even wider at the sight of the young boy who presently wore Merlin’s old blue neckerchief. 

    “Gaius, I’m afraid we may be in need of your services tonight,” Arthur began, hardly able to suppress his anticipation at the old man’s impending delight. 

    The smile on the physician’s face fell away. “Is someone ill?” he asked, stepping out of the warmth of his house slightly to scan Arthur, the knights, Thean- and the two children who were being helped down by Gwaine. 

    “No, but there are two children who wish to be able to practice magic more.” At this, Gaius began to study the boy and girl more closely. In the starlight, their features weren’t as obvious as Thean’s had been on the day on which Gaius had met him. Yet there in the girl’s hair lay shades akin to raven feathers, and there the boy’s ears peaked out from red hair, as ridiculous and endearingly odd as the boy that had first stumbled into the physician's chambers a lifetime ago. 

    “They’re- they’re…?”

    “Merlin’s,” Arthur confirmed, finally allowing a grin to rest on his face. Then a question spread in Gaius’ eyes, one which the King knew he must quickly supply an answer to. “He wasn’t with them, Gaius,” he murmured, watching as the hope slightly dimmed in the old man’s eyes at the revelation. Despite their good fortune, there was still so much to long for. 

    “Gaius?” Clo slowly spoke out the name, as though afraid of saying it wrong. With his sister and brother at his side, the boy approached. He held Gaius’ gaze for a moment, and then stepped forward calmly to wrap his arms gently around the old man’s waist. Arthur watched as Gaius slowly lowered one of his hands to the back of the boy’s shoulders, rubbing comforting circles as if to return the warmth that the cold had seeped away. When Arthur had first laid his eyes on Clo, the boy had practically launched himself at Arthur; with Gaius though, his joy to meet the man was evident, but with a gentleness the King had not previously seen in Merlin’s youngest son. 

    When they released one another, Ava stepped forward, raising the hem of her golden dress slightly in a curtsy. If Arthur hadn’t known any better, he might have guessed she was the daughter of a noble from the way she had composed herself. So she didn’t inherit Merlin’s clumsiness then, he thought to himself in amusement. That was probably better for the sake of her own safety. 

    “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ava whispered into the night. 

    Gaius let out a breath, faint wisps traveling up to the sky. “Trust me, my girl,” he replied earnestly. “It is.” He beckoned them into his house and out of the chilling air, with a few knights following. On the stove, a thick pot of a light brown substance was still boiling, filling the main room with the scent of cinnamon and apple. 

    When Gaius asked which of the children wanted to go first, as the process was best handled singly, neither stepped forward initially. Clo looked like he was about to speak, when Ava stepped forward. “I’ll go,” she said, swallowing nervously. Whatever Clo was about to say died on his lips, slight relief at the delay causing his shoulders to slouch. 

    For the sake of the girl’s privacy, Gaius took her to a separate room adjoined to the main area. With nothing else to do, Clo wandered over to the source of the wonderful smell that permeated the house. Thean tailed his brother, worried he may get entangled in mischief if left unattended for even a moment.

    “What’s this?” Clo asked, standing on his tiptoes to peer into the pot. 

    Arthur made his way over, and promptly ladled three portions into nearby wooden cups. The pot was full of liquid, so he doubted Gaius would mind the boys sampling it. Besides, a warm drink would do them some good after the journey. Clo gulped down half of his portion in a few seconds, eyes widening. Thean sipped more slowly, though similar surprise spread across his face. “It’s delicious,” the two boys said in unison, then glancing at each other and sharing a smile. At least in this small matter, they could come to an agreement. 

    “It’s cider,” Arthur explained. 

    Thean’s happiness turned into suspicion, brows settling deep into his forehead. “But cider has-”

    “Not that kind of cider,” Arthur said, holding up a hand and placating the worry on the boy’s face. “Just apple cider. Gaius always makes it on cold nights.”

    Peaceful memories drifted into his mind of entering the physician chambers to find Merlin sat near the fire, a mug of the warm drink in his hand as he chatted with the old man. He would turn to Arthur and sigh in exasperation, complaining about ‘never being able to get a night off’ or some phrase of the sort. Yet he’d always rise quickly, leaving his mug to turn cold as he followed Arthur out into the rest of the world, where neither safety nor warmth were ever guaranteed. 

    “Your father used to drink that,” Arthur told the boys. They looked up from their cups with renewed interest, and a smile quirked at the King’s lips. “I thought he drank the hard stuff too, all the times he said he was going to the tavern. It made sense when he revealed his magic and said he never actually went; he never could hold his wine too well.”

    Merlin had usually refrained from drinking while attending festivities, but there was one spring night after a long winter that he had partook in spirits after some cheerful persuasion from Sirs Gwaine and Leon. Arthur had a faint memory of his manservant dancing with several maids that night, but he couldn’t be quite certain; he too had been fogged by liquor at that point. 

    “He couldn’t believe you fell for that,” Thean said, staring into his cup with a distant look. He glanced up at the King, a mischievous smile spreading. “Didn’t you used to say he was lousy at lying?”

    Arthur cleared his throat as if to swallow damaged pride. “Yes, he was quite awful at it, but I suppose he had his moments.”

    Though he tried to speak with jest, a part of him still felt uneasy when reflecting on how often Merlin must have told lies, big and small and all equally deceptive. Arthur’s forgiveness, though slow, had been complete upon realizing the extent to which Merlin had saved him and Camelot time and time again, and how often he’d had to watch those with magic perish at Uther’s hands without a word uttered in dissent. 

    Merlin had lived in fear every day to serve Arthur for some prophecy that Arthur himself wasn’t sure he fully believed. He had had faith in the prophecies for the first year after the Battle of Camlann, when magic was just beginning to return to Camelot, and Arthur and his citizens started to see the beauty that could unfold from the renewed presence. Then Merlin had been captured just as all the pieces were starting to fall into place, and Arthur refused to believe that such a cruel fate could have been destined for his friend from the start. Instead, Arthur turned a cheek to the idea that the dragon had known what he was ever talking about. No, Merlin and Arthur had been able to bring magic and fair rule back to Camelot through hard work and camaraderie, not because a bitter dragon had spoken some gibberish about destiny. Merlin had thereafter been captured because Arthur had failed him, not because there was some grand scheme plotted for him to suffer and abide by. 

    Yes, it had not been too difficult to forgive Merlin for his deceit once the initial shock wore away. Arthur had not been able to relinquish the blame he placed upon himself so easily though. His anger at Merlin faded just as his guilt strengthened. With each story Merlin told by fireside of him being captured, or facing sorcerers unbeknownst to Arthur, at times nearly dying alone in dark and unkind places, the King’s regret at never noticing his friend’s oddities to be more than they seemed intensified. On those nights, his manservant always tried to phrase his formerly secret adventures in a light tone, eliciting laughter from the gathered knights. Arthur only laughed with them to hide his growing dismay.

    He had always thought he had to be discerning of others to make sure they did not harm Camelot and his people. Arthur had never realized until the year after Camlann that his lack of perception could result in his inability to protect those he cared about from themselves. His ignorance had enabled Merlin to bear so many burdens alone. If Arthur had just stopped to ask Merlin why he looked so tired sometimes, why he’d seem distant even when they were standing right next to each other, maybe then- 

    “Arthur?” Gaius’ voice called from behind. Arthur hadn’t even noticed the sound of footsteps signaling that Ava and the physician had reentered the main room. 

    “Yes,” Arthur said, his voice just a little too loud to sound normal. The old man raised an eyebrow in amusement at the cup in the King’s and the boys’ hands. 

    “I asked, do you like the cider?” 

    “Ah, yes,” Arthur said. He had hardly drank from his cup during his reverie, but Clo’s and Thean’s appeared nearly empty. “It’s as good as always, Gaius.”

    Merlin’s sons departed from the King’s side to meet with Ava. “How was it?” Clo asked, a nervous hitch to his voice, though he tried to suppress it. 

    “Not too bad,” Ava murmured in reassurance. Already her shoulders seemed set a little higher, as though a weight long present had been lifted. Arthur wondered what it must feel like to be released from chains that had become ingrained in the fiber of your being, to the point where you didn’t know of existence without them. 

    “Are you ready?” Gaius asked the copper-haired boy. 

    Clo nodded, but glanced to his sides at Thean and Ava. “Could we… stay in this room, though?” 

    “Of course,” Gaius replied, a small smile on his face as he patted the same table that Thean had sat upon months ago, when he too had been released from the imprisonment imprinted on his body. 

    As Gaius prepared new ointments and transferred the spellbooks he had had in the smaller room for Ava’s rune removal, Thean whispered something in Clo’s ear, holding a hand forward. Clo seemed to consider what his brother had said for a moment, before scoffing. “No, I’m not a baby,” he muttered. Thean let his hand drop back to his side, but raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Oh really? 

    The rune removal process began just as Arthur remembered it had for Thean; Clo removed his jacket and tunic, revealing a chest cramped with blue and black marks, some jagged, others graceful circles. The beautiful and ugly were both symbolic of the same end goal of oppression, sickening Arthur in anger. The injustice of seeing the runes on Clo, who was even younger than Thean when Arthur had met him, was appalling. Children should be covered in snow from playing in the winter, and mud when running in overflowing rivers of the summer. During no season should such marks be imposed upon them. 

    Clo fidgeted frequently during the process, drumming his fingers against his knees, or suddenly scratching at the back of his head. “Staying still will make it go faster,” Gaius informed the boy quietly. He spoke the words with the same firm but gentle instructions he gave Arthur whenever dealing with one of the King’s battle wounds. 

    “That’s hard to do,” Clo sighed. 

    Gaius hummed in concentration. He touched a fingertip delicately to the top of the boy’s navel, and a small black swirl lightened into nothingness. “Your father was never much good at staying still either when I treated him.” 

    “But he trained under you. Surely he knew that was for the best,” Ava said earnestly, as though she were disappointed in the younger version of her father for not listening to his mentor. She had been watching with care as the old man applied the multitude of salves applied to her brother’s skin, and leaned forward slightly each time Gaius whispered words of sorcery. 

    “Merlin was never too good at listening to my medical advice, I’m afraid,” Gaius informed the girl, though he chuckled with the words. 

    “Or much advice at all,” Arthur sighed in exasperation. His servant had listened to him at times, but in just as many cases he had launched himself into actions the King had directly told him not to do. That stubbornness was reflected presently in the redheaded boy, who kept shifting and fidgeting despite the physician’s coaxes to remain still. 

    Fortunately, with intermittent chiding from his siblings and a lot of patience from Gaius, the runes were all removed from Clo’s small frame. When asked how he felt, the usually verbose boy responded simply, “Lighter.” 

    “Me too,” Ava murmured. “And a little tired,” she added sheepishly. Her feet felt as though they could lift off the floor, no longer tethered as tightly to the earth as they had once been. However, the long journey and the tumult of the past week was beginning to settle in on her. 

    “You’ll be able to rest soon enough,” Arthur assured them. He hoped he hadn’t pushed them too far by traveling in the cold and then having their runes removed so soon after. He just hadn’t wanted to bring Clo and Ava to the castle with their unfortunate pasts still etched upon their skin. The King wished Camelot to be a new beginning for them, not a reminder of the lives they had lived thus far. “Go get settled on your horses, I’ll be outside in a moment,” he instructed decisively to the children. There was one more task he had to complete before returning to the castle. 

    Ava and Clo agreed easily enough, but Thean eyed the King with slight suspicion, sensing something was not quite right with Arthur’s orders. Arthur tried to retain a neutral expression as the children walked to the doorway. Ava paused at the opening to the outside world, turning to where Gaius stood. “We’ll see you again soon, right?” she asked hesitantly, a note of trepidation in her voice. 

    Gaius’ smile eased her worry. “Of course, my dear,” he replied warmly. “I’ll visit the castle in a few days to see how you three are faring.” 

    Ava brightened at the revelation. “We’d like that,” she said earnestly. She grabbed Clo’s hand and dragged him away from where he had been staring at a jarred creature, nearly pressing his nose to the glass in intrigue. Thean followed close behind his siblings, with one last glance over his shoulder at the King and physician. 

    Gaius began the process of placing salves and books back on shelves, though only to busy his hands. He knew the King would not have opted to stay behind in the house without good reason while the children were bracing the cold outside. Indeed, Arthur stepped forward to where Gaius stood assorting medicine as soon as the sound of the children’s receding footsteps grew faint.

    “Gaius,” Arthur murmured softly, as though he scarcely wanted the knights posted within the house to hear him. “Exactly how much power do you think Merlin’s children will have, now that they are without their runes?”

    Gaius continued his task unperturbed by the question; he was surprised it had taken Arthur this long to ask. “Well, my lord, you’ve had Thean under your care for months now. His abilities should be a pretty good indicator as to Ava’s and Clo’s once they recover from the rune removal.” Arthur’s ensuing silence made the old man pause. “What is troubling you, Sire?” He turned to Arthur, brows furrowing in concern. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Merlin’s children would have natural talents greater than those of the average sorcerer, so the King’s unease puzzled Gaius. 

    “The first few months, I mainly saw Thean practice small spells here and there, so I thought… well, I guess I hoped that maybe he wasn’t quite as strong with magic as Merlin or…” Arthur swallowed. “Or as strong as Morgana.” Gaius moved his mouth to speak in the young boy’s defense, but the King shook his head and continued. “He used blood magic to contact Merlin just before the journey to Nemeth. I fear what else he will- or can do- if he feels desperate enough to try and find Merlin again.” 

    Gaius’ face betrayed the burning question in his mind. “Was Thean successful?” he asked, stepping closer to Arthur as though searching for the answer in the King’s eyes. “Did he reach him?”

     Arthur nodded slowly, watching as a flash of joy lit up the old man’s eyes for a moment. Then, the emotion was gone, replaced by hardened reality. “So he is alive then,” Gaius murmured, a small smile of hope still upon his mouth. “Good.” He renewed his sorting of potions, though with less determination than before, his eyes scarcely even reading their labels. “Thean must not perform that spell again though,” he said, half to himself. “It’s known how unstable such spells can be to the user and the one contacted. Do Ava and Clo know about it?”

    “I… I don’t know,” Arthur fumbled. How could he overlook that? 

    “Let’s hope they don’t find out,” Gaius said, casting a meaningful look in Arthur’s direction. “Gods know what the children might try to attempt together.” The last bottle clinked into place, and he turned his full attention to the King once more. “Arthur, you’re right to look after the children, but do not fear them,” he said earnestly. “They have Merlin’s magic, but that means they have his heart, too. There is good in them, I am sure of it.” 

    Arthur nodded. He wanted to believe Gaius’ words, and to a large extent, he already did. He’d seen the way Thean had bonded with Anselm and Eloise throughout the summer and into the winter. The boy was gentle and fair in play, never trying to directly upset another. And yet, Arthur remembered how he’d once thought the same of Morgana; as a child, she had been far kinder than Arthur himself. But after being beset by a series of compounding misfortunes, she had killed so many in blind anger and hatred. It wasn’t necessarily that Arthur still thought magic corrupted its users; instead, he believed sorcery allowed those who were vengeful and angry to turn their talents into weapons far more dangerous than swords or arrows. 

    With a chill in his mind equal to the air around him, Arthur stepped out of the old man’s warm house and into the night. Gwaine was chatting and laughing with Clo over some unheard joke, distracting Merlin’s daughter and younger son from the cold. Thean, meanwhile, had had his eyes trained on the doorway to Gaius’ house throughout Arthur’s absence; he glanced quickly away when the King stepped out, though not fast enough for Arthur to miss the faint fear that lay behind those blue eyes. It unnerved him how the boy could so quickly switch from seeming unaware of his surroundings to being entirely discerning. 

    Arthur tried to calm himself as they approached the castle. Stars flickered into the sky. Thean began to point out constellations to his siblings that he had read about in books from the Camelot library.

    “That one’s Merek the Mage,” Thean explained, his hand stretching far above his head. Arthur followed the path that his fingers traced, and recognized the constellation as one that had only been whispered about in the years after the Great Purge. When Arthur had asked his father about the shape as a young boy, Uther had told him simply to beware of when those stars shone brighter than the rest, for that meant evil was afoot. Arthur had found the warning odd as a child, for to him they looked like a flower, not a symbol of danger. Only when he was much older did he realize why his father had hated those stars; they symbolized a time when tales of magic were told with wonder instead of fear. 

    “I’m going to get a constellation named after me too,” Clo exclaimed, bouncing in his saddle in excitement. The tiredness he had begun to feel after the rune removal faded as the spires of the castle grew larger in view. To be in the place that had once only existed in his mind through his father’s bedtime stories filled him with enough excitement that he wasn’t quite sure he’d ever be able to sleep again. 

    “All the stars are already taken, Clo,” Thean sighed, though with a happy exasperation; he was glad to see the rune removal had not negatively affected his brother’s enthusiasm. 

    “Then I’ll just have to make new stars!” Clo protested with a serious look on his face, as though he were perfectly capable of such a task. 

    Gwaine guffawed at the boy’s statement. “Might as well make a second moon while you’re at it!” he said breathlessly through his laughter. “It gets quite dark some nights.” 

    Even Percival began to chuckle. “Yes, Gwaine could use more light when he stumbles back from the tavern.” This triggered a cascade of insults between the two, each more preposterous as their horses carried them closer to the castle. 

    Arthur could see Eloise’s bright green eyes shining as soon as the great wooden doors opened onto the courtyard. A red scarf was wrapped around her, standing out starkly against her white nightclothes; she must have refused to go to bed when hearing about their impending arrival. Just at her side was Gwen. Snow still littered the cobblestones, but the Queen and Princess seemed unperturbed by the cold, wisps of their breaths traveling up without complaint. A warmth spread through Arthur at the sight of his wife and daughter standing side by side. Whether he was on a journey involving battle or diplomacy, his joy at seeing them again never diminished. 

    Eloise ran forward as the horses carrying her father, brother, and Merlin’s children approached, the Queen fast at her heels in her haste to greet the travelers. Anselm and Thean were the first to get off their horses, having traveled closer to one another as they neared the castle. Eloise leapt into both of their arms; Thean’s knees nearly buckled from the impact, but his laughter was heard throughout the courtyard anyway. Anselm began to rub his hand back and forth across his sister’s mahogany hair to mess it up, and she scarcely seemed annoyed. She was used to her father being gone on journeys, but not Anselm, and she had missed him and Thean terribly during the past week. 

    Guinevere approached Arthur, a wide smile spreading across her face. She wrapped him in a quick but precious embrace, relieved to have him back in her arms. They stayed like that just for a moment, before untangling themselves from one another at the sound of Gwaine helping two children down from a horse nearby. Clo leapt ungracefully to the ground, nearly stumbling but recovering quickly; Ava reached the cobblestones more slowly after some hesitancy. 

    Queen Guinevere approached the two new arrivals. “Ava, Clo,” she began, having heard of the two children’s names from Thean as well as the message sent forward by Arthur once they arrived in the citadel. “Welcome to Camelot. We are so glad to have you here.” 

    “Thank you, milady,” Ava said, and curtsied. The movement was clumsier than typical of the girl, likely due to the day’s long ride. 

    Clo, meanwhile, stood staring at the Queen with his eyes as wide as saucers. “You’re really beautiful,” he murmured in a voice so quiet, that Arthur wasn’t sure he had heard the boy right. The elbow Clo received to the ribs from Ava confirmed she had not been pleased. “I mean, er, thank you,” Clo mumbled, blushing and bowing hastily. 

    The Queen simply chuckled at the boy’s innocence, amused by his momentary stupor. Eloise took the silence as an opportunity to step forward. “I’m Eloise!” she proclaimed, curtsying deftly. “Thean’s told me all about you.” She glanced around as if searching for a topic to discuss, before her eyes brightened and she continued, “Let me give you a tour of the castle!” 

    Thean winced slightly at the statement; his own eyes ached from tiredness, and he longed for the familiarity of his bedroom. “Maybe we shouldn’t-”

    “That’s a great idea!” Clo exclaimed. Needing no more encouragement, Eloise reached for the hands of Ava and Clo, leading them to the other end of the courtyard. Thean and Anselm shared an exasperated glance before trailing behind the other children in resignation. 

    The Queen and King settled into standing side by side, watching with smiles on both of their faces as Eloise pointed to the various paths leading into the castle, as well as describing in great detail the origins of each statue within the courtyard. “Arthur,” Gwen murmured, with mock concern in her voice. “I thought we agreed that two children was the perfect amount?”

    Arthur allowed the smile to fall off his face, glad to play along with her game. “Ah yes, my Queen, but I don’t believe Merlin got the memo.” He let out a sigh just to punctuate his statement for dramatic effect. 

    Gwen nodded slowly. “Five it is then,” she said with finality. Her eyes twinkled as she looked out at the children, and Arthur’s gaze strayed to where Anselm stood alongside Thean. The prince had grown that year, in height and in character; before Arthur knew it, he’d be a man. 

    It occurred to him that Merlin may not realize who Anselm was if he were to see him now. The days when both his manservant and his son had been in the castle at the same time seemed like a faraway dream. 

    Arthur could still vividly remember the day his son was born, though. He’d thought he’d known what fear was before, but that chilly spring night during which Gwen’s screams could be heard echoing through the halls, the King had realized terror could reach a whole new level previously unknown to him. Only when the morning dawned and Anselm was safe within the Queen’s arms was Arthur able to fully breathe again. 

    A knock sounded, and Merlin’s mop of tousled black hair poked through the doorway. “Merlin,” Arthur said, glad to see the man. “Come in.” He had waved away his servant’s attempts to ply him with food and water throughout the night, finally sending him away to get some rest when it became clear his child’s birth wasn’t going to be quick. From the look of Merlin’s sagging eyes and messy hair, though, his servant appeared to have gotten just as much sleep as the King. 

    Merlin walked in slowly, as though afraid of every creak in the wooden floor. Guinevere lay in bed with their baby wrapped in small blankets specially sewn for the occasion. Though their son had cried profusely when first born, he had quickly fallen asleep in Gwen’s arms, as exhausted by the night as his parents.

    “Merlin, meet Anselm,” Guinevere whispered. Merlin stared down at the baby boy as if he’d never seen one before, his mouth slightly parted in wonder. “Would you like to hold him?” 

    The servant’s head swiveled back and forth between the King and Queen. “Can I?” he asked, surprised at the offer. 

    “Just don’t be as clumsy as usual,” Arthur sighed sarcastically. He patted the empty chair beside him; a sitting Merlin was far less accident prone than a standing Merlin. 

    When Anselm was settled into his arms, he gently bounced the baby up and down, having seen women within Ealdor do the same as a child. He startled chuckling, and murmured to Arthur, “He snores like you.” For once, the King merely laughed with his servant instead of trying to produce a returning quip. Peace reigned in the room, with only the droplets of rain tapping against the window accompanying Anselm’s soft breaths. 

    Suddenly, Merlin began to shift Anselm in his arms so as to get a better view of the top of his head. “Merlin, what are you doing?” Arthur asked. He hadn’t truly expected Merlin to drop his baby, but wasn’t going to take any chances. 

    “Ah, nothing to worry about,” Merlin said, flashing a mischievous grin. “Just making sure.”

    Despite Merlin’s words, a spike of worry bit through Arthur’s mind. “Making sure of what?” Gaius had checked on Anselm after birth and said everything about the baby was as it should be, but Merlin had studied under Gaius during his time in Camelot, and may have noticed something the physician had missed. 

    “You know,” Merlin said vaguely, frowning at the need for explanation. “That he isn’t a cabbagehead like his father.” Arthur let out a groan of frustration, lowering his head into his hands as Gwen and Merlin’s shared laughter filled the room. 

    Camelot’s King distantly remembered ordering Merlin to hand Anselm back to him after a few more taunts from the manservant. Though he had pretended to not trust Merlin to the task of holding the newborn prince, in truth, he had simply wanted to have his child within hid arms again. In those early days, he had felt an ache in his heart when he went the entire day without seeing Anselm. Even now that his children were older, he still felt more complete when he saw them running through the castle. Whether they were behaving themselves or not, just the confirmation of their continued existence and happiness comforted him. 

    As he watched Merlin’s and his own children enter the castle, he was struck by how much Merlin may be longing to see and hold his sons and daughter again, and how his old friend may not even know if that was possible. To not know if your children still inhabited the same world as you- that was the cruelest fate for a parent. 

    I’ll keep them safe for you, Arthur thought to himself, hoping that wherever Merlin was, he could sense his promise. Until you can hold them again. 

Chapter Text

Thean

    Thean felt as though wherever he went, he could hear his little brother. 

    Presently, he could see Clo through the window of their bedroom. The red-headed boy was in the courtyard, surrounded by an assortment of children of nobles of the castle, and those who had been well enough to travel from the Chapel. Since his first week in Camelot, Clo and Ava had regularly ventured out into the citadel. Thean had accompanied them the first few times, especially when they went to stop and see Gaius too. As the weeks faded into a month, he began to tire of the frequent journeys, instead opting to remain within the library perusing books with Anselm and Eloise. Though he knew the citadel was safe and accepting, he found that he grew weary of all the sights and sounds, longing instead for the familiarity of hardwood floors and red blankets. 

    Word of the young red-haired boy with a quickly growing knowledge of spells spread throughout the castle and citadel through whispers and shouts. Thean’s quiet nature had prevented rumor of his largely hidden talents from ever reaching too far, and thus he was surprised when children he had never seen before called out Clo’s name, running up to him in the castle halls and city streets. Buckley, the boy Clo had first recognized at the Chapel, visited the castle nearly every day, bringing with him a few other former slave children as well. Though some of the other children in Clo’s ever-growing clique knew a few spells, the speed at which Merlin’s younger son was learning magic outpaced all of them despite his lack of experience. 

    Queen Guinevere held reading lessons for Merlin’s children each evening right before dinner. Those moments were precious to Thean. Even Clo would sit still most of the time, edging closer to Gwen and pointing out words of interest. They’d rotate who got to pick a story each night. Thean would often opt for storybooks, while Ava would ask for more information based tomes, especially those dealing with medicine. Clo exclusively asked the Queen to read spellbooks to them, repeating aloud the strange wording of the spells that had the most fascinating images accompanying them. 

    One of the spells Gwen had just read to them the night before was being demonstrated by Clo in the courtyard. His feet leapt on stairs that could not be seen, the air beneath made momentarily solid each time his eyes flashed gold. Yesterday in their bedroom, Thean's little brother had only been able to make one step before faltering. In front of all the children though, he was able to ascend as many as three or four steps with each attempt at the spell. Thean winced as his brother stumbled back to the cobbles after ascending a height mirroring that of his own body. The children burst into claps and squeals of delight despite the obvious struggles of the boy to land back on his feet with balance, spurring Clo to try the trick again and again. 

    Almost subconsciously, Thean whispered the same spell under his breath as he peered through the shades at the spectacle below. “ Exstructos .” He raised his foot to the space in front of him, pleased to feel solid support where there appeared to be only air. He kept his other foot remaining on the visible ground. 

    The sight of Clo falling once again to the cobblestones with yet another rough landing, biting down on his lip to hold back a cry of pain, was enough to spur Thean into action. Out of the room and into the halls, he walked quickly past servants and knights, the majority of whom met his eyes with a smile. The dark-haired boy tried to at least nod to them as he passed, but his own mouth remained stubbornly in a straight line.     

    The door to the physician’s chambers was slightly ajar, and Thean knew from experience that meant he was not the first visitor of the day. At the bench, Ava was leaning over the outstretched hand of a maid who had only just been hired that winter. Ava’s black hair hung in a single braid down her back; Eloise had offered her several hairbands, and they proved far more comfortable than the stems and leaves the older girl had used throughout her life. Though Ava had been taught by her mother how to keep her hair out of her face from a young age, since arriving in Camelot, she had stopped fussing with the tangles herself in the morning. Eloise was overjoyed to braid Ava’s hair at breakfast, trying slightly different styles each day. The princess would make a beeline for Merlin’s daughter as soon as she entered the dining hall, golden strings and a brush already equipped in her hands. Helena would remark on the new hairstyles when Ava walked into the chambers, much to the delight of the girl who had grown up for so long with copper dust in her hair that she had once feared would remain there permanently. 

    The injured woman was turned away from Ava, refusing to look at the source of her pain. From the red mark on her hand and the heady scent of herbs that hung in the air, Thean surmised the wound to be a burn. 

    “What is he up to this time?” Ava asked, not even looking up from the task at hand. She had come to know the sound of her brothers’ footsteps on the wooden floors well over the past month. 

    Just as Thean had found he enjoyed helping in the kitchen of the Castle, Ava had come to spend her days within the quarters that her father had once inhabited. With the world of magic now open to her, she found herself somewhat overwhelmed in what to learn first. Her gravitation to medicine had sprouted upon first entering Gaius’ house within the citadel; she had never realized till then that there could be so many spells and potions to help ease another person’s pain, not to cause it. 

    Ava visited Gaius nearly every other day under the pretense of picking up spare herbs from his supplies. After the fourth or so visit that Helena ordered her on, however, Merlin’s daughter began to suspect that perhaps she was being sent merely because the castle physician knew how much she cherished the time spent with her father’s old mentor. She did not question Helena’s motives aloud, though. Each time Gaius opened the door, his eyes brightened to see her. The old man would spend at least an hour teaching her healing spells, even when she could tell that he was feeling quite tired. She’d bring her brothers sometimes, and upon seeing the two boys, he would begin to make them all the same cider that had been boiling on his stovetop the first day they’d come back from Nemeth. 

    Clo would visit Ava sometimes during the day to get his scrapes and bruises treated before racing off to activities that would make him sustain more of the same injuries. Thean would come to keep her company when the prince or princess were otherwise preoccupied; though he wasn’t nearly as interested in medicine as she, he still tried to pay some mind when his sister was being taught by Rufus and Helena. More often than not though, the reason for his visits were to try and prevent Clo himself from needing to visit. 

    “Practicing the stepping spell again,” Thean sighed, settling into the bench beside his sister. The maid glanced over nervously, perhaps afraid the boy would distract the young girl from helping her. 

    “Is he getting better at it?” 

    “Yes,” Thean relented. His brother was as quick to learn spells as he was eager, even if that meant accumulating injuries in the process. “I don’t think he’s good enough at it, though.” 

    “Good enough for the other children, I’d guess.” Ava allowed herself to glance at Thean, the edge of her mouth quirking into an amused smile. 

    Thean shrugged his shoulders, though he knew what his sister was implying. There was nothing strictly wrong about Clo practicing magic openly, but his little brother’s openness with doing so made Thean feel a sense of unease. What if there were still those in Camelot that were suspicious of sorcery? And aside from that, the excess to which Clo used magic startled Thean. In all his father’s stories, his father had mainly used spells to help others or for practical purposes. Even the performers now scattered about the streets of Camelot used their tricks to acquire money to make a living. Clo used spells to elicit gasps of delight and acquire a growing gaggle of children that followed him from sunrise to sunset throughout the castle and citadel. 

    “If he’s getting ahead of himself, then why don’t you talk to him?” Ava murmured as she slowly wrapped a bandage around the maid’s hand. There was a slight edge to her voice, though Thean did not take it personally; his sister was always a bit more curt when working. 

    “You know he won’t listen if only I go,” Thean muttered, resting his hands on his knees and letting his shoulders sag. His little brother had never been one to listen much to anyone at all, but after his sister and brother had only had each other to rely on at the gold panning camp, Clo’s adherence to Ava’s orders had grown so that he listened to her twice as much as he did to anyone else- which was still very little. 

    “Won’t listen to what?” Helena entered the physician’s chambers, balancing a multitude of bottled potions in her hands. She laid them down on the table at which Ava was working, squeezing the maid’s shoulder in comfort.

     “Nothing,” Ava said flatly. “Clo’s just being himself.”

     “And that’s a problem?” Helena asked.

     “Sometimes,” Ava murmured in faint consideration. Helena simply chuckled in amusement. Nearly everyone in the castle seemed to respond to Clo in the same manner, with laughter and grins as the boy bounded past them. Even the King and Queen seemed to be more lax with the rules when it came to Merlin’s younger son. Clo had gone a step too far in his attempts at magic when he’d accidentally tipped over a bookcase in the library a week after they’d arrived in the castle. While the bookkeeper had been spluttering with anger, Arthur had merely let off the young boy with a warning to be more careful when using magic in cramped spaces. 

    “Go with your brother, Ava,” Helena said presently, taking the bandages in a swift motion from the girl’s hands and completing the wrapping. “I’ll finish up here; Rufus should be back from the market soon anyway.” 

    Ava remained still hovered over the maid’s hand for a moment, hesitant to leave despite Helena’s reassurances. The girl’s eyes flashed gold wordlessly, and the crease from that had formed between the maid’s eyebrows lessened. Ava let out a short breath thereafter, getting up from the bench and nodding to Thean. “Let’s go get the lion cub,” she said resolutely. Thean felt a pang of bittersweet nostalgia at her words as he followed her out the door. His father had often referred to Clo as a “lion cub” on days when the red-haired boy had been particularly feisty. 

    By the time they reached the courtyard, several more children had joined to watch the spectacle, including the prince and princess themselves. Eloise was bouncing on her feet, clapping for Clo in encouragement, who had just nearly landed on his back after bounding up five leaps of unseen air. 

    “Clover!” Thean called, redirecting the attention of the gathered children towards his direction. Only Eloise and Anselm appeared mildly happy to see Merlin’s twins; the rest of the children knew that the arrival of their friend’s older siblings signaled their entertainment would soon end. “C’mon, I think you’ve practiced that spell enough.”

    Clo shook his head. “I can go higher, I know I can.” His eyes flashed gold, and he raised his foot to begin climbing yet another series of invisible platforms. 

    “If you break your leg, you won’t be able to go much farther at all.” Ava stepped towards her little brother, close enough that she’d be able to reach out an arm to stop him from leaving the ground if needed. 

    Already, the crowd of children that had gathered from the houses of nobles and peasants alike began to dissipate back into the citadel as it became clear Clo would not be performing more spells without interruption. The young boy’s shoulders sagged as he watched his companions fade away quickly, and he scuffed his shoes on the courtyard stones in disappointment. “You could have been a little more subtle,” he muttered.

    Thean snorted derisively. “You’re one to talk.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Clo’s voice held a faint note of anger, but mainly confusion. Though Thean always claimed he wanted Clo to stop practicing certain spells for fear of his safety, the young boy suspected that his older brother may have unspoken motivations.

    “Did you really have to practice the spell in the middle of the courtyard?” Thean sighed impatiently. 

    “What’s the big deal?” Eloise piped up from beside Anselm. “He wasn’t bothering anyone.” 

    “I think he would have bothered Helena and Rupert if he came in with even more scrapes than yesterday.” Thean frowned as he spoke the words. He didn’t like this at all; he was used to watching Eloise and Anselm bicker, but never before had he been engaged directly in a disagreement with the princess. 

    With the potential for her brother getting injured having faded away, Ava’s sympathy for his embarrassment strengthened. She tried to place a hand on Clo’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off and took a step backwards. 

    Perhaps in an attempt to diffuse the tension, Anselm spoke up. “Clo, how about you come watch me spar?” he asked slowly, as though forming the idea just then. “We just got a new shipment of practice shields from the citadel- they’re square instead of circular!” 

    “Very interesting,” Eloise muttered, faking a yawn. She had come to believe that working with a dagger was far more fun than carrying around a wieldy sword and shield. 

    “I already watched you spar yesterday,” Clo murmured, though he appeared a little cheered by the prince’s suggestion. 

    “Well then… you’ve probably learned enough to spar with me,” Anselm said, smiling at the idea of a new sparring partner. 

    Thean’s frown only deepened. He remembered all too well how his and Anselm’s first sparring match had ended. Though they had found a more even-matched rhythm during their nighttime practices in the abandoned chapel deep within the castle, he still feared the prince might be too aggressive to be a fair match for Clo’s inexperience with holding a sword. Besides, he hadn’t sparred Anselm himself since his siblings had returned to Camelot. They hadn’t strictly discussed not continuing their meetings in the hidden chapel, but with his siblings back and Anselm’s lessons having increased the past winter, there had rarely seemed time to find a moment alone with the young prince, away from the listening ears of Ava and Clo. Thean trusted Anselm to not seriously harm Clo, but worried that the prince’s expertise may have increased even more since they had last sparred together. 

    Thean began to speak his worries. “I don’t think-”

    As usual, he was cut off by Clo. “Yes!” the boy exclaimed, leaping into the air and pumping his fists. No spell was performed to keep his feet in the air, as he was willing to abide by the laws of gravity after the prince’s proposition. Clo had practiced magic virtually every day since residing in the castle, but never before had he been able to practice sword-fighting. Anselm had usually told him to simply watch whenever he brought up the topic to the prince. 

    With resignation from Ava and Thean, and indifference on the part of Eloise, the five children made their way to the training field. The grass was slick from snow that had only just melted the night before; winter had proven to be mild thus far, with only flurries interspersed throughout each week after the journey from Nemeth. A few knights dotted the field, but the grounds were otherwise empty. Thean squinted, thinking he spotted Gwaine sparring with a dummy far off on the horizon, but he couldn’t be sure. 

    Anselm dropped two sets of armor gracelessly to the ground, and began to tie the pieces of leather on the younger boy first. Thean felt a strange emotion travel through him that he could not quite name; he thought back to when the prince had first knelt down to help him with his armor that strange night he had been led to the abandoned chapel. It had just been the two of them then. He was glad to have found his siblings, truly- but a part of him that he did not like to think about longed for the prior simplicity of the days when he had only had to take into account the whims of the prince and princess. 

    Ava, Thean, and Eloise sat down on a bench several paces away from the two armored boys. The prince moved slowly, perhaps waiting to see if Clo would step up to take offense. To the surprise of no one, the boy was too impatient to wait for Anselm to make the first move. He leapt forward, wooden sword waving wildly, uncaring of aim. Anselm merely stepped to the side to avoid the blow, lightly deflecting the incoming sword with a tap of his own weapon. 

    Clo was undeterred, initiating a series of quick jabs, each landing only on air or Anselm’s shield. The prince was not in a hurry to retaliate, only blocking the blows instead of countering with his own. Ava still eyed the match with deep unease, but Thean allowed himself to relax at the relative ease at which the sparring was unfolding. 

    It only took a moment for him to realize he shouldn’t be so optimistic. Anselm finally seemed to tire of baiting the younger boy, and started to use his sword for more than just blocking. Clo was able to counter the first strike, letting out a shout of glee at his success and sticking his tongue out at the older boy. Perhaps spurred by the taunt, Anselm twirled his sword in his hand before colliding it with Clo’s shield, and then immediately after with Clo’s armored side. 

    Thean could see that when his little brother fell to the ground, it was because he had slipped on the grass, not due to the force with which the prince had knocked him. Ava, however, was not aware of this reality, or too tense to analyze the situation fully. When Anselm moved so as to make another jab before the boy had a chance to get up, Merlin’s daughter leapt to her feet and crossed the distance between her and her little brother in mere seconds. Thean got up to run after her, unsure of what he or she was doing, but wasn’t quick enough to match her pace. 

    She stood defiantly between the prince and Clo, who was still sprawled on the ground, propped up only by his elbows. Ava’s fists lay clenched at her sides, glaring defiantly at Anselm. Though her back was straight, Thean could tell from where he was standing that she was shaking like a leaf in the wind. A hint of confusion lay in her eyes, reflected in Anselm’s as well. “It’s just practice, Ava,” Anselm murmured. He had lowered his shield and sword, frozen by the girl’s actions. From what the prince could gather, Ava was usually the most level-headed of Merlin’s children; Thean was largely solemn but at times unpredictable, while Clo’s energy was like a ceaselessly turbulent river. Ava, meanwhile, thought everything through; she wasn’t typically one for the spontaneity that she had just displayed, and though she had neither spoken nor used magic, Anselm almost felt afraid at that moment as she stood before him. He was relieved when she turned away from him to watch as Clo scrambled to his feet. 

    The red-headed boy stalked towards his sister, standing on the tips of his toes to appear taller. “What is wrong with you? I was fine!” He threw his shield and sword down in frustration, knowing the match would not resume. Just as his siblings had come to stop him from practicing magic, so too would they prevent him from having even this moment to enjoy. 

    Ava took a pace back; Clo was practically in her face yelling at her, and his anger took her off guard. She was used to hearing her little brother shout in joy or excitement, not in contempt as he was now. “I just… you fell, and Anselm, he…” 

    Clo shook his head succinctly. “No!” he cried, loud enough that the heads of distant knights could be seen turning in their direction. The young boy continued on, unaware or uncaring of the attention he was drawing towards them. His focus was only on Ava. “Why can’t you just understand? Why can’t you get that I’m not a coward like you?” 

    Thean’s fist felt strange, and his ears buzzed. 

    Scarlet trickled from his knuckles, but the color did not come from a blanket or banner, and the blood was not his own. It trickled a trail down Clo’s face, just below blue eyes that burned with shock. 

    If Thean had known a spell to turn back time, he would have used it then without hesitation. Guilt pierced through his confusion; he hadn’t meant to hit Clo. This was all wrong- he was always trying to protect his little brother, to prevent others from hurting him. Never would Thean have thought he’d be the source of Clo’s pain. 

    He began to let an apology stumble out, only to receive a mouthful of knuckles. The force of the blow sent him to the ground, but the impact was nothing compared to the pain of the punch. A weight settled on his chest, one that had comforted him throughout cold nights and dark days, but now rained blow after blow upon him. Thean moved his hands instinctively to protect his face, wishing he couldn’t see the anger in his brother’s eyes through the gaps of his arms. 

    Not anticipating a moment of relent from his brother, he began to kick out his legs, trying to dislodge the boy. He grabbed Clo’s shoulders, sending them rolling in a dizzying tumble where the sky and ground blended into one, only to settle a few seconds later with Clo still atop of him, his hair now caked with mud but the betrayal in his eyes not having dimmed at all. 

    “I’m just… trying… to be… happy !” Clo gasped out the words between each intermittent punch. Some landed on Thean’s shoulders, others on his arms, and one on his cheek. Tears pricked at his eyes, from pain or emotion he could not tell, nor did he care. He just wanted this fight to end so he could stop hurting Clo in his attempts to protect himself. Thean tried to think of a spell that could stop this madness, but each time his thoughts started to come together, Clo’s foot or fist would interrupt. 

    He could hear the dismayed shouts of the other children throughout the entire ordeal, with Ava’s cries rising loudest of all. Thean managed to struggle upward and pin Clo down with one hand. He thought that perhaps that would conclude this awful match, only for his brother to writhe to the side and clamp his jaw down on the force that kept him to the ground. A sickening crunch! pierced the air. Thean screamed and reeled back, clutching one hand with the other, shutting his eyes to the world in the hopes that maybe this would all change by the time he opened them again. 

    A force tugged him from where he knelt, and his stomach lurched as he was pulled from the ground by nothing he could fight against. 

    When he opened his eyes, he saw blue sky, and then nothing else. 

*****

    Anselm rounded the corner, feeling his heart sink at the sound of soft sniffling. 

    Ava was sitting with her back pressed up against the edge of the closed door to the physician chambers. She hugged her knees to her chest, face buried in the light blue dress that was now covered in mud from where she had knelt screaming at Thean’s side after he and Clo had been pulled apart by an invisible force. A bundle of herbs lay discarded at her feet. 

    The prince thought of turning back, hesitant to intrude on what was clearly a painful moment for the girl. His indecisiveness was banished when she lifted her head at the sound of creaking floorboards. Ava hastily began to wipe the tears and grime from her face, but made no effort to stand in greeting. 

    So, Anselm walked over to her slowly and sat down beside her. She shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t protest. “Any change?” Anselm asked. 

    Ava shook her head. “He still hasn’t woken up,” she murmured, voice thick. 

    A chill ran down Anselm’s back as he pictured the way in which Thean had appeared far too still on the training grounds. “I’m sorry.” 

    Ava turned to meet his gaze, eyes narrowed. “For what?” 

    Anselm blinked at the question. “I’m… not sure,” he admitted. “It’s just what people say.” 

    “Well, people shouldn’t say what they don’t mean,” Ava muttered. 

    “Right,” the blond-headed boy said softly, unsure how to cope with the quickly changing tides of the girl’s emotions. Usually when he apologized to those of ‘lesser status,’ as his tutors would say, they bowed and curtsied in thanks, claiming no apology was needed. He had never been challenged for his intentions before. 

    “I shouldn’t have intervened,” Ava sighed. “I know you wouldn’t have hurt Clo, but…” 

    “You were scared,” Anselm said, eager to show his understanding. 

    “I wasn’t scared,” Ava murmured, though in a tone of consideration, not anger. Anselm supposed that was an improvement. “I was remembering.” 

    “Remembering what?” 

    Ava stared at him for a long moment, taking in all that separated them; the well-washed clothes, the golden hair that had always rested on fluffed pillows, the hands that had never been cracked from scrambling across hard surfaces. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

     The prince shook his head, frowning in concern of all that he did not understand.

    “Thean and Clo and I, we didn’t have much time for games. Especially not as we got older- the handlers only got meaner. When we did have to defend ourselves, we weren’t sure the attacks would ever stop or if we’d survive them. Seeing you attack Clo like that… brought back bad memories.”

    Merlin’s children had always been targeted more due to the handlers’ knowledge of their magic. Other children in the mines would blame Ava and her brothers for unaccounted pieces of ore, or claim they had taken more food than needed. Clo had never learned as his siblings had to stay silent in the face of the accusations; he would protest, only to be harmed more. 

    Anselm stiffened with each sentence she spoke, and he had visibly paled. He thought back to that awful day his father had taken him to the Chapel within the citadel, of the children whose faces were the colors of a cruel rainbow. “Are you alright?” Ava asked in confusion. 

    “No,” Anselm whispered, and felt bashful to admit that. He forged on though; Ava was trying to make him understand her, and he wanted her to understand him as well. “I don’t like to think of anyone treating any of you- all of you- that way.”

    Anselm had often wondered if Thean’s quiet nature was because he had been taught for so long that speaking led to harm; if Clo’s shunning of subtlety when displaying magic was due to his inability to ever be entirely himself before; if Ava’s wish to learn healing was to make up for all the times she had been unable to help the sick and dying within the mines. Anselm had never had the fortune of meeting his friends’ parents, but he’d grown up piecing together the many adventures of Merlin from the tidbits whispered between servants and bestowed to him and Eloise through the bedtime stories of the King and Queen. Though he knew little of Lea, the mother of Merlin’s children, if her heart was even half similar to theirs, then she did not deserve the fate she had suffered. 

    “I wish I didn’t have to think of those memories either. But I don’t want to forget all of it,” Ava said, and the smallest of smiles lit her face. “I don’t want to forget my father’s voice, or my mother’s face. I have to remember the mines, because I can’t forget about them.”

    Each night before sleep swept her away, Ava tried to picture her mother leaning down to murmur words of comfort to her, and of when she had been small enough to leap into her father’s arms as they were reunited after a day’s work. She feared that if she wasn't careful, her pleasant recollections would fade as her worst memories strengthened. 

    Voices stirred from the room at their backs.

    “Thean,” Anselm breathed, his friend’s voice sounding scratched but there all the same. 

    Ava let out a long breath. “Thank goodness. I don’t know what I’d do if...”

    “He’ll be okay. He’s strong,” Anselm reassured, offering her a brave smile. An image rekindled in his mind of Thean running without hesitation into the unknown streets of Nemeth.

    Ava only appeared weary, the comfort of his words not reaching her frazzled mind. “I wish he didn’t have to be."

    She rose to her feet a bit unsteadily; on instinct, Anselm reached out to her clasp her shoulder as she swayed towards the wall. Her brown eyes met his, unaccusing but surprised. Anselm let his hand fall back to his side, swallowing nervously.

    Ava merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you coming?” Her voice sounded a bit shaky despite the discovery that her brother was finally awake. 

    Anselm thought back to the way Ava had knelt beside Thean, and of the way she had come to stand between him and Clo. “You go ahead,” he said, taking a step back. “I’ll visit him later.” 

*****

    Thean’s first thought was of water. 

    When his head would pound as it was now, he’d complain to his mother, and she’d slip off to fetch him water from the tepid buckets that dotted the mines. Even if he had just drank, she’d insist the water would do him some good. If there were no cups, he would drink from her rounded hands. 

    No hands were cupped before him when he opened his eyes. The ceiling was higher than in his bedroom, and the pungent smell of herbs that permeated the air confirmed that the bed he lay in was not his own. His face ached, and he felt an odd fabric stretched across his forehead and wrapping to the back of his head.

    He raised a hand to investigate further, only to stop with a jolt. The hand he had raised was wrapped thickly in bandages, and sharp pain radiated down his arm at the movement. He gasped in a breath from the sensation, his hand still hovering in the air as he remembered when teeth had sunk into it just before the world had blackened. 

    A shape Thean had previously been unfocused on moved at the noise. “Thean,” the shape breathed. As the pain in his arm subsided slightly, the boy stared at where the voice had come form until he could make out scarlet topped with dirty blonde hair and glinting gold. 

    “Arthur?” The King had been preoccupied with preparation for upcoming slave liberations with the impending springtime weather on the horizon. Thean had scarcely seen Arthur at mealtimes the past few days, so what was he doing here?

    He sat up to voice the question, but then the room began to swirl, and he felt his head sink back into the pillow against his will. He forced his eyes to remain open, though; he didn’t want to close his eyes on the world again, not yet anyway. 

    “Easy now,” Arthur said tightly, and Thean became aware that the King was gripping his shoulder. He must have reached for him when he had laid back down, but he hadn’t noticed till then.

    Arthur looked nervous, an expression Thean hadn’t seen on him before. Worry, anger, and happiness, yes- but he didn’t think he’d ever seen the King look afraid. Kings weren’t supposed to get scared- or at least, they weren’t supposed to show it. 

    Helena was at Thean’s side. “Water,” Thean muttered; he wasn’t thirsty, but the memory of his mother told him that maybe there had been some truth to her words. 

    As Helena poured him a cup, Arthur’s eyes scrambled over the boy, scanning the scrapes and bruises as he had done over and over since he’d enter the physician’s chambers. The boy had been lying far too still on a cot as Helena darted to and fro, mixing a potion with one hand and using the other to wrap his head in a bandage. Clo had sat at the table staring in numb shock at his brother, and Ava had stood in the middle of the room, head slowly turning between Thean and Clo. With the younger boy’s less extensive injuries having been quickly treated, Helena had ordered Clo to bedrest, and he’d listened, much to Arthur’s surprise. Seeing how helpless Ava had appeared, Helena had given her the chores of retrieving poultices from storage in the lower levels of the castle. It had been painfully obvious to Arthur, who lacked knowledge on almost all medical topics, that Helena had just been trying to distract the girl from her mounting panic. And yet like her little brother, she left the chambers with her head down and her shoulders hunched forward, with one last anxious glance at Thean before she departed. 

    Arthur had plenty of duties to attend to, but he couldn’t leave that room. When he’d seen Thean lying on the bed with blood spreading on the pillow beneath him, he thought back on all the promises he made to protect the children to Hunith and Gaius- and even to Merlin, though he had only been able to do so in his own head. He was supposed to protect these children, whose only true guardians were himself and Guinevere. Yet he’d grown lax in checking up on Thean, thinking that the boy was better off now that he had his siblings to lead his days to what Arthur presumed would be happiness. His lack of vigilance had unintentionally allowed tensions to build up between the siblings, until the only way the brothers were united to one another by was the blood that dribbled down their chins when Arthur had first stepped into the physician’s chambers.  

    Thean knew none of this; all he could detect was the fear that lay behind the King’s eyes, knowing that he had inadvertently caused that unwelcome emotion. He sipped from the proffered cup of water Helena had given him, clinging to it as an excuse to remain silent.

    Arthur swallowed, and allowed his hand to fall from Thean’s shoulder to the tan blanket that draped the bed, balling up the cotton in his fist. “We weren’t sure… when you’d wake up,” he murmured.

    The word if  hung in the space between his words. Thean couldn’t have been unconscious for too long; the sunlight streaming into the room was still strong, as it had been in the courtyard. Yet the King looked so tired, as if he’d been up all night waiting for the boy to wake up. 

    The physician eyed him with brows furrowed. “How do you feel?”

    Thean gulped down the last of the water and handed her the cup. “Like someone stomped on my head.”

    Helena let out a sound that was half laugh and half sigh. “That’s not far from the truth of what happened,” she murmured, lifting Thean’s head with her hand to inspect the wound at the nape of his neck. 

    “What did  happen?” Thean asked. He remembered being the one to first hit Clo in a moment of blind fury. He remembered that the pain radiating throughout his head and hand was his own fault for hurting the brother he just wanted to protect. But he did not remember why he had blacked out, only that that had happened shortly after Clo had bit his hand. 

    Helena was silent for a moment, glancing at the King as though unsure whether or not to answer. Arthur was only staring at the blanket around Thean’s legs, stoic in his silence. “Ava...” Helena began hesitantly. “She wanted to get you and Clo away from each other, so she used magic, but she was more forceful with the spell than she had intended.” 

    Thean startled at this revelation, swiveling his head far too quickly for comfort to see if his brother was in the room. “Clo- is he alright?”

    “Yes, yes,” Helena said, gently pushing Thean back down onto the pillows beneath him. “You were far worse for wear than he was. He’s resting back in your bedroom- Rufus is looking after him.” 

    “Do you remember the rest of what happened?” Arthur asked. 

    Thean nodded; though the details were somewhat hazy, he remembered the guilt that had gnawed at him even more intensely than the physical pain of the fight. He remembered his shame at having been the one to first inflict pain on his brother; that same shame burned at his cheeks now.

    “It was my fault. I hit him first,” Thean said in a low voice, not daring to look at the King. He feared he’d see the same disgust and anger that had been present in the King’s eyes the night he had contacted his father. Arthur had looked at him as though he were less than human, and Thean didn’t think he could bear to be viewed as such again. 

    “Why?” Helena asked, pausing in her observations of wounds. The three children clearly had their differences, but they always appeared to care for one another. Thean would often visit Ava, and many times he’d be the one to drag a complaining Clo into the physician chambers to have a scrape treated. 

    Thean shifted under the blankets, uncomfortable at the question. Coward . If Clo just hadn’t said that, perhaps Thean would have had enough restraint to intervene with words instead of fists. 

    Thean had always hated that word. He’d first heard it when he was only six winters old, trying to distract himself from the cold by playing games of chase with other children in the mines. They had been kicking a rounded rock that one of the oldest boys had blunted down especially for them during the prior summer, when the children were always kinder to one another. With the stone bouncing between his feet, and the quick breaths of another child just behind him, Thean kicked the stone with one great sweep. He had intended to only get it just out of reach of the other children, but he watched with heart sinking as the stone arched over the outermost ledge of the cave, disappearing into the forest below. 

    With cries of disbelief, the children scrambled to the edge to view the extent of their loss. The stone had rolled and hit against a tree half a hundred paces from the cave. “Thean, you kicked it, you get it,” the oldest boy said decidedly.

    Thean shook his head vigorously. His parents had drilled into his head from a young age to never go into the forest unless on an errand for one of the guards. Children had done so before on dares or desperate attempts to escape, but the end result had always been gruesome when they were inevitably spotted. “Coward,” the eldest boy snorted, and though Thean did not know the meaning of the word at the time, he could tell from the contempt in the boy’s voice that it was not something he wanted to be called. 

    “I’ll get it!” one of the youngest boys piped up. He was shorter than Thean, but faster, too. 

    Thean wanted to protest, to say that this was stupid and they should just let it be, but he felt outnumbered by the murmurs of assent that supported the little boy’s declaration. With dread in the pit of his stomach, Thean watched as the boy quickly descended the ledge and stones beneath until he reached the forest floor. Guards could be seen dotting the horizon, but there were enough trees that one could possibly escape their notice if careful. 

    Possibly, but not likely. The little boy did reach the rounded stone, and raised it in victory for the gathered children at the ledge to see. That sudden movement caught the attention of a guard, who sprinted to tackle the boy before he could realize what was happening. The stone rolled out of his hand and out of sight as his screams reached the cave opening. Seeing that the object of their desire was now officially gone, the other children slipped away from the entrance. Thean stayed, and watched in horror as the crying little boy was half-dragged to the nearest wooden hut that the guards resided in. 

    Thean did not see that boy again. 

    So when he’d heard Clo fling the word at Ava, something within him snapped. Thean maybe deserved the title of coward, but not Ava- Ava, who would want to go into the forest in the spring just to see the animals. Ava, who used to sing lullabies with their mother in the dark to hush Clo’s crying when he was a baby. 

    Yet he did not wish to tell Arthur and Helena this. There was too much he could say, so he chose to say little. “I was just angry at him. He was being annoying.” Thean did not believe the lie as it came out of his mouth, and he could tell that neither Arthur nor Helena had faith in his words either. 

    “You should get some rest,” Helena murmured, beginning to tidy up the potions that littered the small table at the side of the cot he lay on. 

    Thean shook his head, and regretted the action, immediately feeling foggy. “I’m okay,” he insisted. The King sighed at the comment, and the boy returned his attention to him. “You won’t punish him, right?” he asked quietly. “It wasn’t his fault.” 

    Arthur pushed back the hair from his forehead, nearly knocking his crown off his head. “Of course not,” he reassured Thean, meeting the boy’s eyes to relay the message. He could almost see the tension dissipate from the shoulders of Merlin’s son at the affirmation. “I used to get into fistfights all the time as a prince, but… never quite like that.”

    Truthfully, Arthur had never seen any children come away from a fight looking so scathed. Until then, he wouldn't have guessed Merlin's sons would be capable of such violence, let alone towards each other. But all three children had grown up in such a way that residual damage was inevitable, the extent of which Arthur could not begin to fathom despite having seen glimpses during liberation missions. Even Merlin’s compassion and strength were not enough to shield his children from the effects of years of slavery. 

    “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to,” Thean muttered, looking away. Arthur’s voice was soft, but Thean still feared that if he looked into his eyes, he might again see the disdain that he always anticipated from the King. 

    “I know,” Arthur said in an almost whisper, and he reached for Thean’s uninjured hand, covering the boy’s fingers slightly with his own. Merlin’s son gazed at the King’s hand over his own; both were roughened, one from years of sword practice, the other from infinite days of scavenging among sharp stones. For once, the gesture seemed natural; the King did not hesitate, trying to comfort Merlin’s son as he would his own. 

    A timid knock, followed by Helena’s call to enter, interrupted the silent moment. Ava slipped through the door, closing it behind without averting her gaze from Thean. He hadn’t seen his twin look this frightened since the night their father hadn’t come back from the mines. 

    “I’ll check back on you later,” Arthur reassured quietly, giving Thean’s good hand one last pat before standing to leave. He nodded to Ava with a small smile as he exited, but she only kept her eyes on Thean, her shoulders drawn low as though anchored to the floorboards beneath. Helena departed to the end of the room filled with drawers, pretending to tidy, but her head still slightly turned so as to keep Thean within her view. 

    Ava made her way to the side of Thean’s bed, taking the seat that the King had just vacated. Now with her brother’s consciousness confirmed, she avoided his gaze. Thean was sorry to see her acting so much like himself; she should not be feeling the same shame that he did. 

    “I’m sorry,” Ava began. 

    “What for?” 

    “I hurt you.”

    “Not that much,” Thean said, trying to give her a grin. His mouth did hurt from the movement, though. 

    “Thean,” Ava said sternly, and he winced at how similarly she sounded to their mother. Even her brown eyes glinted with the same frustration and sadness. “I could have killed you,” she whispered, as though hardly wanting to hear the words herself. 

    “Ava…” He knew not what to say. He too had remembered his own feelings of horror when he had first used a spell on Anselm. Though his guilt had been masked then from his fear of being thrown out of the castle, Ava appeared to be entirely focused on the potential that she may have hurt him fatally. From the way Thean’s head ached, he could tell that if the grass hadn’t been softened from melted snow, he may not have woken up. His sister shouldn’t have to worry about harming others, though- she had only been using magic to help those who came to the physicians this past month, and had never been violent by nature. The guilt in her own eyes only emphasized to Thean that this was all truly his fault; he’d harmed Clo physically, but his actions had affected Ava emotionally as well. 

    “We can’t keep doing this,” Ava said. At her brother’s silence, she continued, “We can’t keep going in different directions. It’s like we’re not even together anymore.” 

    Instead of answering, Thean twiddled with the blanket in his uninjured hand. His silence was not because he hadn’t understood what his sister meant, but instead because he wasn’t sure what solution there could be to the predicament he and his siblings had been in since their arrival in Camelot. They were free now, and they had always assumed that happiness would be within their grasp if such a state of being was ever granted to them. Yet since Merlin’s children had begun to live in halls of scarlet and warmth, Thean felt as though he was spinning away from Ava and Clo like one of the tops Eloise had been gifted for her birthday. They would collide occasionally, only to twirl even farther from one another. 

    And with what had just transpired that day, the distance between them seemed greater than ever. “I should go see Clo,” he murmured, half to himself. 

    Ava nodded. “You should,” she said, and this time, she met her brother’s gaze. “I don’t ever want to see the two of you like that again.” Her voice carried the sound of a simultaneous order and plea. 

    “Me neither,” Thean replied earnestly. His sister had not verbally expressed anger at Thean, but it was clear she was upset at how he had initiated harm towards Clo. They had always been united by their shared goal to protect their little brother, and Thean had failed that day. 

    He was used to failure though. In the mines, he had never been congratulated for finding an adequate or above average amount of copper; instead, he was merely granted another night to sleep on slabs of stone. The will to keep continuing simply because he could had been the one constancy in Thean’s life. 

   “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Helena’s voice rang out, quick steps sounding across the floorboards in annoyance. Thean had begun to shift in his bed, swinging his feet over the side in preparation to stand up. Already the room seemed to become more diagonal than horizontal. 

    “Gonna see Clo,” he muttered, trying to keep strength to his voice despite a momentary sense of lightheadedness. 

    Even through his spinning vision, he could make out Helena frowning shortly in front of him. “You look like you’re having trouble just seeing straight,” she murmured in concern. Thean would have nodded, though he feared the effects that would have on his head. 

    “I’ll go with him,” Ava offered. She moved to sit on the bed next to Thean, wrapping one arm under his shoulders to support him as he stood. He tried to put most of his weight on his own two feet, but couldn’t help but lean on his sister. His legs were largely uninjured, but his balance had certainly taken a hit. 

    “Well, alright,” Helena sighed. “But you’ll come right back here and rest after that!” She waved a rag in front of the two children for emphasis. Ava nodded for Thean, shuffling him out the door and into the halls. 

    Despite their slow pace, they reached the chambers they shared far more quickly than Thean was prepared for. The King and Queen had offered to give Merlin’s children separate rooms if they so desired, as there was an excess of guest rooms, but the thought of not sleeping in the same bed as his siblings had seemed unnatural to Thean, and Ava and Clo had wanted nothing but to inhabit the same room as their brother. When the candles had been blown out, they could close their eyes and pretend that their parents lay at the ends of the bed just within arm’s reach, able to comfort if called for. 

    The door was halfway ajar when Ava and Thean reached it. Before he had been reunited with his siblings, Thean would always leave his door closed, not wishing to be distracted from his readings by the constant clamor of the castle. Clo, however, had taken to the habit of leaving the door open, so that he could call out to passing knights and servants during the rare moments he occupied the room. 

   Presently, the red-headed boy lay curled up on his side at the edge of the bed. Rufus sat in the chair always present by their bed, the one in which Queen Guinevere often used to read to them at night. Clo had gotten to quite like Helena and Rufus during the multitude of visits he’d had to make to the physician chambers, so it was unlike him to appear so totally indifferent to the presence of Rufus. Thean realized with an ache that Clo appeared now as he himself must have looked like during his first few months in Camelot; dejected and alone, despite being surrounded by people. 

    Clo turned his head slightly at the sound of creaking wood. A white bandage spread across his nose from where Thean’s first punch had landed, and his face was bespeckled now with red marks standing out like angry freckles from when they had rolled in the grass. His blue eyes flashed with relief at the sight of his brother standing, but the emotion quickly dissipated into a weary look as he turned back to stare out the window at the light streaming in from the courtyard. 

    “Thean! Glad to see you’re on your feet again,” Rufus said, his eyes maintaining relief and a smile spreading across his face. Thean returned a tighter smile, but couldn’t focus on anything but his brother. There was more than enough in the room to distract him; books were piled on top of one another in the corner, medical ones from Ava’s studies, and spell books for Clo. A map of Albion had been nailed to the wall as well; Merlin’s children were happy to be able to put an image to the multitude of places their father had spoken about in his stories. The wooden dragon Hunith had gave Thean so many moons ago still lay on the mantelpiece, alongside a scattering of scarves and gloves Eloise had knit for them. 

    Yet the happiness of the items within their room was overshadowed by the gloomy appearance of the usually buoyant young boy. Taking heed of the silence, Rufus said, “Ava, how about you come help me fetch some Lorrel salves? Clo will be needing them soon.” Ava nodded easily enough; this conversation was one she felt her brothers had to carry out without her. 

   The door was closed fully behind them as they exited, as it was obvious Clo was in no mood to call out to anyone within the halls. Nor did he appear to wish to speak to his older brother either. Thean sat down carefully at the end of their bed so that he was staring out the same courtyard window. There had once been days when the only light he’d see came through those windowpanes; some nights he despised the view for reminding him that he was not in the same place as his family, as even the stars appeared alien and taunting in their brightness. But then his siblings had returned to his life, and before they went to bed, he’d point out the new constellations he had read about in books from the library. In the condensation spread from the fireplace, Clo would trace the patterns of the stars as Thean described them. 

    “I didn’t mean to hit you,” Thean said as he stared at the glass that was presently barren of any fingerprints from his brother. He supposed that statement was a good place to start. 

    From the corner of his eye, he could see Clo’s outstretched hands tighten into a fist around their ivory sheets. “I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” the boy sniffled. His voice was hoarse, and pitched lower than it had been since the night they had found each other in Nemeth. 

    Thean turned to his brother, mouth dropping in slight shock. “I don’t hate you, Clo.” 

    Clo released a short and bitter laugh, so unlike the ones his older brother had heard from the courtyard earlier that day. “You have a funny way of showing it,” he murmured, still staring only at the window before them. “All you and Ava ever do is tell me I’m doing everything wrong.” 

    “We’re just worried about you.” 

    “You don’t have to be. You’re not Pa, and she’s not Ma.” Thean winced at the mention of their mother; since that night in Nemeth, they hadn’t talked about her directly unless by accident. There was a look that came to Clo’s face when he watched Guinevere kiss Anselm and Eloise good night after dinner that told Thean his little brother had not forgotten, but had merely not spoken his sadness. Ava cried sometimes at night as well, and though her brothers both knew why, they knew not how to comfort her with words, instead only shuffling closer to her. 

    “I miss them,” Thean breathed, and he felt relief at finally saying aloud the phrase that ran through his head at night. He ached to see the slight glow that lightened his mother’s eyes when her children returned from a day of mining, and to tell his father of all that he had learned since coming to Camelot. 

    “Me too,” Clo murmured, and now he sat up from where he had been curled on his side, facing his older brother. “But… I still want to live, you know? I don’t want to be sad all the time.” 

    Thean nodded slowly, absorbing the words. “I understand,” he murmured, and he did. Yet his brother said he didn’t want to be sad as though if one just wished for happiness, then the elusive emotion would be within their grasp. Thean still felt as though he couldn’t fully shake off the blanket of numbness that had settled on his shoulders since he’d found their mother. In Nemeth, his little brother had wept for a night, and then rose the next morning without issue. Clo had always been better at getting back up when he fell; Thean preferred to stay on the ground. 

    The ground seemed to be calling to him right now as well, beckoning him to come closer. “Thean?” Clo’s voice sounded fainter than it had just a moment ago, and Thean had to shut his eyes and put his head in his hands to stop the world from spinning. A strange sound came from his mouth as his forehead made contact with his injured hand, and suddenly Clo’s hands were on his shoulders, guiding him into the blissfully soft and solid sheets. 

    When he opened his eyes again, Clo was sitting up in bed looking slightly frightened as he stared down at his older brother lying in front of him. From his quick movements to prevent his brother from falling off the bed, the bandage that spanned Clo’s nose had become tightly stretched. Thean began to chuckle at the sight. 

    Worry morphed into confused indignance. “What’s so funny?” 

    “You look like a toad,” Thean laughed mirthfully. In his lightheaded state, the toils of the day had dissipated somewhat. 

    “Well… well at least I don’t look like a, a sad rabbit!” Clo sputtered, only able to come with a retort after spotting the unraveling bandages wrapped around Thean’s head. His brother’s dark hair stuck out at odd angles, and Clo began to chuckle himself, kicking out slightly at Thean’s legs and missing on purpose. Thean batted away at his brother lazily as if swatting a fly. Even that small movement, however, caused him to draw in a sharp intake of breath. 

    And just like that, their gleeful skirmish ended as quickly as it had begun. With the fun over, Clo lay down so that he still faced his brother. Thean’s eyelids were drooping down again, making his little brother consider calling out for Rufus or Helena to be safe. Feeling helpless, he placed his hand over Thean’s injured one, and whispered instinctually a spell Ava always recited when he came to her with scrapes. “ Dolor subsistos .” 

    Blue eyes that had been drooping opened wide. Thean’s head still felt a little strange, but the pain from his hand had lessened tenfold, and the sting of cuts that had littered his back had dulled as well. “Ava’s spell?” he asked. 

    Clo shrugged, a rare emotion of bashfulness spreading across his face. “I pay attention sometimes,” he muttered. 

    “Sometimes,” Thean repeated for emphasis, smirking as his brother stuck his tongue out in affront. A flicker of pain flashed across Clo’s eyes, likely from his nose, but he still smiled. 

    And despite the chaos of the day, Thean smiled too. 

*****

    Thean only had to wait another month before he was rolling in the grass facing punches from his brother again. 

    This time, though, stars hung in the sky, and Ava was laughing instead of crying. 

    After a few days of bedrest, Clo had been anxious to practice magic to his full abilities once again. In an attempt to prevent his brother from pulling pranks on the castle inhabitants out of restlessness, Thean had guided him and Ava through the abandoned servant hallways one night shortly after Helena claimed he was well enough to be out of bed himself. Anselm and Eloise had been waiting for them, having been informed by Thean through whispered conversation at breakfast that morning as to his plans to show his siblings their secret place. 

    Ava had seemed to sense the special nature of the chapel as soon as they stepped into the grassy clearing. As her breath puffed out into the chilly air, the wisps of air shifted into the shape of rabbits leaping up towards the moon. She hadn’t even had to utter a spell to produce the trick. 

    Clo had turned about in a circle to take in the still beauty in full view; he had felt the tug to channel the life surging around him, but was caught in momentary awe at the sensation. Since having his runes removed, he’d been desperate to practice magic as much as possible, for fear that his talents would be wasted if he did not utilize them in all ways imaginable. In the clearing though, he felt a sense of calm; the young boy realized he had so much time stretched before him to explore the depths of sorcery. 

    Thean stepped in between his siblings, gauging their reactions. “This is a place of the Old Religion,” he said, though he knew Ava and Clo could already sense that. “Whenever we want to learn new spells, we can practice them here before trying them throughout the castle- right, Clo?” His little brother had turned his attention to the still water in the raised stone bowl. At Thean’s voice, he swiveled his head and nodded with a confused look. 

    “And we can watch!” Eloise piped up, jogging over to Ava. “Show that rabbit trick again!” Ava smiled at the girl’s exuberance, and breathed out again; this time, squirrels formed to accompany the wispy rabbits. 

    “What’s this?” Clo asked, kneeling down to peer at a pile of wooden swords and shields. Thean grimaced at the realization that he and Anselm must have left the assortment there from the last time they had visited the clearing in the late fall. Moss had grown over the training weapons, rendering them unusable. 

    “Thean and I practiced here. I taught him sword work, and he taught me how to defend myself from magic.” Anselm trotted over to stand beside Clo, frowning down at the forgotten tools. He would have to somehow dispose of those without anyone seeing him and getting suspicious. 

    “Sword work?” Clo repeated in surprise, glancing at Thean, who kicked the chilly grass subconsciously. Merlin’s older son had feigned a lack of intrigue whenever they watched Anselm on the practice field, and had certainly never once mentioned practicing with the prince himself, nor purposefully using magic against him either. “Could I…” Clo began, but the question died on his tongue as he caught a glimpse of Thean’s hand in the moonlight; smaller bandages still lay on the back of his hand from where Clo had sunk his teeth during that violent afternoon on the field. He still remembered the way he had yelled at Ava, and how shocked tears had sprung to her eyes from his outburst. 

    But his sister turned to him with a soft smile then. “Maybe just a little bit,” she reassured him. She and Thean had been trying to be more lenient with Clo in the hopes that he would then truly listen when matters were most important. “And slowly- very slowly, alright?” 

    When Anselm had brought new wooden swords and shields the following night, Clo had tried to proceed slowly- at least, for the first minute of their fight. They naturally picked up speed though, with the prince matching the younger boy’s speed but holding back slightly. When the sword was knocked from Clo’s hand, he cried out a spell that created an invisible wall in front of the prince, buying time for him to scramble for his sword in the grass. Anselm had merely grinned and continued without complaint. 

    As the nights grew less chilly, they’d spend more and more time in the courtyard, occasionally staying until the moon began to set. Merlin and Arthur’s children would express their tiredness while initially wandering their way through the servant hallways, but once in the sacred place, renewed energy would seep into their bones. Even Anselm and Eloise could feel the energy that crackled in the air, though they were never able to harness the phenomenon as Thean and his siblings were. 

    When they did lay down their swords in the grass and still their tongues of spells, Ava and Clo would quickly fall into bed, their breaths becoming slower within moments. Exhaustion would overwhelm Thean as well, but since the brutal fistfight with his brother, his dreams- or nightmares, really- had kept him wanting to stay awake. 

    The first time Thean was startled from rest was when Helena finally permitted him to sleep without her observation. He had made his way back to his bedroom to find his siblings not inhabiting their shared space; he’d faintly recalled that Ava had gone into the citadel with Rufus to visit Gaius, and Clo was likely avoiding the room due to having gone stir-crazy after just two days of obligatory bedrest. Having no other options, Thean decided to embrace the vastness of the bed and wrap himself in the sheets until not an inch of him except his head was left uncovered. He drifted off peacefully enough- that is, until wind began to whip his face. 

    The force was enough to make him stumble on his feet as dirt swirled past. Putting up an arm to shield his eyes, he tried to look through the slits of his fingers to study his surroundings. Torrents of dust encircled him; branches whipped past, and shouting echoed in the distance, drowned by the cacophony of the air. Only two flickers of light remained still. 

    Thean latched his sight onto the shimmers of white in the gray mayhem and began shuffling forward; his progress was slow, but he eventually could make out that the glow came from the figure of a man. The light was becoming so intense that he felt he could not even look directly, for fear of harming his already strained eyes. 

    Only when he was standing close enough to the figure to reach out and touch him did Thean realize he knew that unfamiliar face. Dark hair much like his own ensconced their head, but the rest of his features were overwhelmed by the deafening light emitted by his eyes. They’re not blue. They’re not gold, Thean thought in a panic. “Pa!” he cried. He tugged desperately at his father’s shirt sleeves; he knew not why either of them were in this chaotic place, but he felt convinced that if they didn’t leave there soon, there would be no reversing whatever had caused Merlin to get into such an unresponsive state. His father’s clothes were strange, blacker than anything he had worn within the mines, and his arms were thinner than before. Thean cried insistently into his father’s unhearing ears, but the windstorm only grew louder with him, rising to such a crescendo that Thean could scarcely think until-

    He woke up. He always woke up, but in the dreams, he was never able to remember he had fallen asleep in the first place. 

    Thean had hoped that seeing his father unresponsive in his dreams would be an isolated incident. While images of his mother had tormented him for seasons, they had never been so vivid, and the few dreams he could remember of his father had until then been pleasant. 

    The dream of his father recurred, and each time, Thean was just as unaware that he was asleep as he had been the first night. His father never heard his cries. As if that weren’t frightening enough, the windstorm would at times melt into flames, and suddenly he was thrust into a version of Camelot he would rather not be acquainted with. He’d be in his father’s old room, and the sketches of runes that littered the walls would curl in on themselves and collapse as intense heat extinguished their existence. Other nights, he’d find himself in the cobbled citadel streets, shoved and pushed to the side by panicked people of all ages; one little girl always screamed as her coattails caught aflame. Thean was searching for someone, that much he knew; whoever they were, however, he was fearful they may have already joined the fallen that had been tossed aside on the streets, toppled by arrows, stab wounds, and flames alike. 

    He ached to tell his siblings, but he did not wish to worry them. They were only just beginning to trust one another again after his fight with Clo; these dreams were only another obstacle that set him apart from them. Thean thought of confiding in Gaius as well, but each time he watched the old man smile as he handed him and his siblings a mug of cider, he could not bear to move his tongue to utter words of what plagued him. 

    Besides, if he told Gaius or his siblings, word might get back to the King. From years of his father’s stories, Thean had pieced together that Morgana had been tormented by similar visions in the night that had been the start of her downward spiral into isolation and hatred. Though Thean himself knew that the visions didn’t directly cause her evil actions, he had little faith that Arthur was able to reach the same conclusion. If Thean admitted having similar dreams as Morgana, the King may believe him to be like her. After all, he’d already viewed Merlin’s son with momentary distaste after his bout with blood magic. 

    And so, when he’d seen that even Clo’s shoulders were beginning to slouch that night in the chapel clearing, he dared to make the suggestion that they practice some 2-on-1 combat. “If we ever really need to defend ourselves, we might not be evenly matched,” Thean explained at the surprised looks of his brother and prince. The past week, in an attempt to avoid the fear that ceaselessly followed him in his sleep, he had always sought reasons to stay a little longer in the chapel clearing. 

    “That’s a good idea,” Anselm murmured, much to Thean’s relief. “Clo, you and me against Thean,” he said, to which Clo bounced on his feet in excitement. Thean scarcely cared that the prince had been so quick to wish to team up with his little brother. Right now, Merlin’s older son simply wished to remain under the stars instead of the ceiling he stared at every night as he fought with the forceful arms of exhaustion. 

    Ava and the princess paused in their own practice with faux daggers to watch the new arrangement. Though Anselm and Clo had picked up their wooden swords in unison, Thean was unsurprised when he felt magic begin to weave its way into his movements, stumbling his feet and glazing his vision momentarily. Keen to show his little brother that he too had been spending time perusing through spellbooks, Thean exclaimed, “Auferetur!” 

    The wooden sword flew out of Clo’s hand, smacking against the opposite wall of the clearing. Merlin’s younger son’s mouth parted into an ‘o’ shape as he stared at the spot where his weapon had been called to. Anselm made to stride towards Thean, but Clo beat him to it, letting out a battle cry and launching himself headfirst so as to tackle his brother to the ground. Thean’s own sword and shield flew out of his hand then as well, making them evenly matched as they rolled in the grass. Anselm stayed back from the tumbling brothers, chuckling at the ridiculous sight. Through his puffing breaths, Thean could hear the laughter of his sister and Eloise as well. Clo’s blue eyes shone in front of his face, but where there had been anger when they last turned to fists, there was now glee. 

    “Alright, that’s enough,” Ava laughed, and she gently pulled her little brother up from where he had pinned Thean down. “Helena and Rufus will get suspicious if you have cuts in the morning.” None of the children had spoken a word of their nightly visits to the abandoned chapel to anyone who was not among them. This was their place; here, Anselm and Eloise were simply a boy and a girl, and Merlin’s children could pretend distance and time had never separated them from one another.

    Clo rolled his eyes, though still with a smile on his face from the tumble with his brother. “You could just heal anything we get.”

    “I can’t heal everything,” Ava replied with a frown, though her cheeks reddened somewhat from the compliment. Her prowess in the healing arts had spread throughout the castle; luckily, Ava’s brief use of instinctively violent magic during the fight between her brothers a month ago had not tarnished her reputation. 

    “No, you can heal almost everything,” Anselm said, walking up to Thean and reaching out a hand to help him up from the ground. Ava’s frown morphed into a smile at the comment; the prince himself had been healed by her just the other day for minor cuts he had acquired during his non-secretive sword training. 

    Eloise let out a drawn out yawn. “Bedtime,” she sighed, and that was when Thean knew his avoidance of sleep would not last much longer. 

    The prince nodded, reaching out a hand to steady his sister as she drooped from tiredness. “You should go to bed too,” he said, directing the suggestion to each of Merlin’s children. “You’ll be up to say good-bye to our dad, right?” 

    Thean nodded, and his already present nervousness increased at the reminder of the King’s impending departure. With the snowstorms having abated and spring steadily approaching with each warmer day, Arthur had announced his journey to Nemeth to the children a week ago. Though Eloise had made unheard proclamations of wanting to accompany her father, none of the other children expressed similar wishes.

    They went back into the chapel, exiting through the entrance beneath the altar in their usual manner: Anselm went down first, helping Clo and Eloise in after him; Ava went next, with Thean departing last. He used to move the stone covering back in place with his hands, but lately he had begun to guide the slab back in place with a single flicker of his eyes. 

    The prince and princess slipped away in the dark to their respective quarters, leaving Merlin’s children to meander their own path. Clo summoned a small flame in his palm, though the light was scarcely needed; each of them knew the servant hallways well enough, having explored the labyrinth in depth during their nightly excursions. One night when Eloise expressed being hungry, the five of them had gone down the pathway to reach the kitchen, laughing in the dark afterwards as they munched on blueberry scones. Thean woke up early the following morning to bake more before the head cook was able to notice the absent pastries. 

    He tried to remain optimistic as he laid his head down to rest alongside his siblings. He called to his mind the sight of his father smiling down at him with eyes that were blue and kind, and of the streets of Camelot blanketed only by the pink leaves of springtime. 

    The boy still dreamed. He found himself in the servant hallways that he’d only just stood in that night, and his feet began to carry him against his will. The path he took did not follow any familiar to him; the walls grew closer, and the ground sloped downward. Darkness thickened, but he feared what he would see should he shine a light. 

    When his steady steps did stop, he knelt down into the soft dust crumpling beneath. Now that his feet had stilled, his hands refused to remain unmoving; they scrambled on the stone walls, unhappy at the smooth surface. Then his fingers found a divot that spread into a branching pattern reaching past the width of his palm. Stone against stone, light against dark- an object beautiful in the blankness, and just when his eyes began to focus-

    They opened to the ceiling. 

    Instead of the usual panic that awakened him from his dreams, this one had only left him with an ache of quiet dread. Stars still gleamed outside, and Ava and Clo’s breaths rose in tandem with one another on either side of him. 

    Thean untangled himself delicately from the sheets, careful not to disturb the sleeping figures of his siblings. He walked toes-first, planting his heels down hesitantly until he reached the short door that was the entrance to their nightly refuge. His hand hesitated on the knob; he’d never gone in with the intent of being alone. It felt wrong to open the door without picturing Anselm or Eloise waiting for him in the clearing. 

    But he did not wish to go to the clearing. As if in muscle memory, his hand turned on the knob silently but quickly, and a sense of relief pervaded him when he managed to close the door without hearing any cries of protest from his brother or sister. Before he could lose further nerve, Thean followed the path he had walked just moments ago in his dream. 

    When the ground did began to slope, he held his breath in mounting fear. Dragging his fingers against the wall, he lingered on the spots that were so blissfully smooth. The divot did appear, though, and all denial slipped away. His hand spread out along the twists, and stone sunk into stone until the solid surface gave way to air. 

    Then, a light- a deafening light. Waves almost seemed to vibrate off the source, as though banishing the darkness that had long reigned in this desolate place. 

    Thean reached for the object; he needed to feel the object of his dreams in his palm before he could believe that this was all real. Eloise’s daggers. That was the first thought to spring to his mind, and he laughed at himself for the absurdity. The sound echoed unnaturally onward into the little dark spaces not frightened off by the light. Black spiraled around the blade, stretching down into its hilt. The glow was a blue-green shade, what Thean recognized as the color of rivers in moonlight. 

    And it was beautiful- so beautiful. Yet Thean felt tears streaming down his face not from awe, but horror. He’d known nothing of this blade before he’d closed his eyes that night. 

    He had not been dreaming- he’d been having visions, just like the ones that had tormented Morgana for so long before her spiral into evil. This blade was as real as the streets of Camelot aflame, and his father’s unseeing eyes. 

    How long does Pa have?

    How long until we burn?

*****

    Cheers for the King. 

    Bows and smiles, optimism flowing throughout the courtyard with the gentle breeze. The early morning sun shone shone down on the departing knights that stretched behind Arthur as he said his good-byes. The King had not been at breakfast that morning, much to his children’s disappointment; he’d been attending to last-minute changes in their planned route of travel. 

    Presently, Arthur was making his way down the line of well-wishers that extended to the courtyard gate. Queen Guinevere had been first in line, of course; he had lingered with her the longest, whispering words of comfort in her ear. She smiled, nodding and giving him one last brisk kiss before he continued on to their children. He ruffled Anselm’s hair, and twirled Eloise when she leapt into his arms, eliciting chuckles from those gathered nearby. 

    Ava curtsied, murmuring wishes of a safe journey. “Look after your brothers, okay?” Arthur said, to which she nodded with a smile. 

    “I’ll look after Eloise!” Clo exclaimed, eager for one last bit of approval from the King. 

    “Hey! I don’t need looking after,” the princess pouted from where she stood by her mother.  

    “I’ll be happy if you just watch where you step, Clo,” Arthur said with a grin, clapping one hand on the boy’s shoulder and giving him a little shake. Clo giggled, pushing the King’s hand off. Arthur pretended to stumble back, as if the force were one of considerable strength. 

    Thean didn’t understand how they could all be so joyful in the face of the King’s departure. Arthur had been successful in the vast majority of his liberation expeditions, and had a good reputation of returning unharmed- but there was always a risk. He was the King, after all; any enemy of Camelot would be happy to have his head. Thean’s visions had only proven to him that Camelot may have more foes than friends. 

    When he’d returned from the servant hallways the previous night, the glow from the mysterious blade had faded, leaving only a faint green reflection of the moonlight. Thean hadn’t had the mental energy to analyze the piece further, but he knew well enough to place it somewhere away from Clo’s prying eyes. With breath held from fear of waking his siblings, he had plied one of the looser floorboards away; a pang of guilt had gone through him as he placed the blade once more into the darkness it had only just escaped from. He pushed the thought aside though; it was merely a weapon, after all. Right?

    Thean pondered the blade’s existence and the truth of his visions until the sun rose. His indecisiveness oscillated; he was still young- if he spoke up, would Arthur and his counselors even listen to him? The King’s journey to Nemeth was solidified anyway, and Thean doubted there were many others within Camelot that would take the nightmares of a scared boy seriously. 

    And so when Arthur finally came to his spot in the line, Thean looked up and knew his guilt and uncertainty were palpable to his father’s old friend. The grin from Arthur’s words with Clo began to slip away, only furthering Thean’s sorrow. He found his arms wrapping around the King in a sudden tight hug; he did not want to be the cause of another’s sorrow again, especially not Arthur’s. 

    Arthur’s arms wrapped around him as well after a moment of surprise. “Is something wrong, Thean?” The confusion in his voice was evident. 

    Thean allowed himself one last moment before pulling away. He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious of the attention he’d drawn to their direction. “Nothing, I’ll just… miss you,” Thean admitted. That was true, but his words held a double meaning; he’d miss knowing for certain that the King was alive and safe. 

    Arthur’s forehead still crinkled in concern, but he smiled. “You too,” he murmured. He gazed down at Thean for another moment, before moving on to say good-byes to the knights and counselors that would not be joining him. 

    And just like that, the man whom Thean had not been far from for nearly a year now was out into the city and on to a possibly grim fate he believed himself powerless to prevent. Though his siblings and friends stood beside him, Thean had never felt so desperately alone.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    “Yield! I said yield !” 

    Arthur suppressed a sigh; he should have known they wouldn’t be able to reach their destination without trouble. Bandits and smugglers bloomed with the flowers each spring, hungry from the abandoned roads of winter. Arthur and his men had taken an alternate route from when they had last entered Nemeth; the countryside along Camelot’s borders was suffering from mild flooding. To avoid delay and soggy capes, the army had marched into Nemeth’s forests much sooner than they would have otherwise. 

    “What’s this?” Arthur asked, unable to keep disdain from his voice. He recognized the young knight as Sir Yorin, one of their newest recruits. Elyan had vouched that he was capable of attending the mission, which Arthur had listened to and now regretted. Two men of similar features, likely a father and son, were sprawled on the ground before the sword brandishing knight. The younger man clutched his knapsack to his chest with his mouth curled slightly in anger, while his father stretched a hand over him as if hoping to ward off the sharp point of the blade at any cost. 

    “Sire, they would not yield,” Sir Yorin replied, his chest heaving at the indignance of the situation. His sword was balanced unwavering in the younger man’s direction, scarcely a hair’s breadth from the father’s hand. 

    “Yield what, Sir Yorin? They carry no weapons.” The two men hardly seemed properly clothed, either; despite the damp spring air, their shirt sleeves only reached their elbows. 

    “We can’t know that for certain, though,” the knight insisted. “Both refused to show the contents of their satchels!” At this, he jerked the edge of the blade closer to the younger man, at which the father scrambled to insert himself fully between the knight and his son. 

    “Please,” the older man breathed, voice trembling as his eyes jumped to and fro between the king and the knight. “We were just passing through to reach Luthenber, and our usual trail was washed away by the rain. We mean no harm.”

    From what Arthur had learned from his prior travels through Nemeth, Luthenber was one of the poorest farming settlements- that would explain their lack of proper clothing. Even more unfortunate was that the village was fairly close to a suspected lumber slave camp, similar to the one Thean had first been found in. There was some stony glimmer in the younger man’s eyes, too, that bespoke of a harsh life. The gaze held the same tone as Merlin’s before Arthur had discovered the burdens his friend had carried in silence. 

    “Lower your sword, Yorin,” Arthur ordered. The knight’s mouth worked in anger at not being called by his new title, but he obeyed after some hesitation, stepping back to let the King forward. 

    Arthur began to reach out a hand to help up the older man, but he quickly scrambled up and looked at the outstretched arm with confusion. His son picked up a now dusty round of cheese from where it had rolled away, before straightening to stand close to his father. Arthur let his hand drop back to his side, brushing the lack of response from his mind as a result of their rough treatment. “I apologize for stopping you on your way,” he said to them, at which the older man appeared puzzled. “Please, allow some of my-” Arthur paused to glance at Sir Yorin, “other knights to guide you back to Luthenber.” 

    Sir Yorin scoffed from behind. The older man’s mouth gaped at the suggestion, but his son was quicker to speak up this time. “That is kind of you, my lord, but we will be alright on our own.” It was Arthur’s turn to be surprised now; he did not presently wear his crown, having put it away to prevent the metal being dulled by scattered showers earlier that afternoon. Despite having the appearance of a farmer, the younger man was keen enough to be aware of Arthur’s higher status without the laced gold as a sign. An echo of another man from a poor village who was wiser than he seemed rang through the King’s mind. 

    “I insist,” Arthur said, and found himself smiling. He turned to beckon to three of the closest knights, waving them forward. “Escort these men as far as Luthenber, then return to us.” 

    The two men hesitantly followed the knights towards the area of the line of Camelot natives where spare horses were kept. The older man nodded his head deeply to Arthur, nearing a bow, while the younger man only gave a cursory glance in his direction. Arthur did not have time to ponder their differing mannerisms, as Sir Yorin’s angry breaths grew closer at his side. 

    “Sire, they could have been hiding something. We should have searched their bags.”

    “On what grounds? We don’t punish people for simply existing.”

    “They walked right through our lines!”

    “They were lost!” Arthur’s waning patience had whittled down to dust. “Besides, we aren’t in Camelot, and I won’t have Queen Mithian hearing we are searching her citizens because they were there.” 

    Sir Yorin stood before Arthur for a moment more, narrowed eyes flashing to and fro, before he turned with the screech of his sword angrily returning to its sheath. Arthur sighed at the disappearing figure of the man; with the laws having been changed to allow those of non-noble birth to enter the knights ranks, the arrogance that had pervaded Camelot’s army in the days of Uther’s reign had slowly faded. However, young men eager to prove themselves like Sir Yorin still managed to wile their way in with persuasive sweeps of their handmade swords during summer recruitment. Usually their insolence dulled with the seasons that wore down the blades of their steel weapons, but some men took longer to mature than others. 

    Arthur felt hypocritical whenever he scolded new knights for misbehavior. He had hardly grown up quickly himself, and could never pinpoint exactly who or what had been able to guide him away from the path of blind self-confidence that his father had adhered to. In retrospect, multiple people had contributed to his growth much more than the fellow noblemen he’d looked up to in his boyhood. Gaius had been a constant reminder that there were more ways to help those in need than with a sword and shield. Gwen, that kindness and compassion were far more valuable traits in a person than power. And Merlin…

    Merlin, that respect should be given for one’s character, not their status. Merlin, that loyalty was demonstrated not in the words of an oath, but through following one repeatedly into danger when every fiber of their being may scream to flee. Merlin, that trusting someone without fully knowing them was not always a weakness. 

    Merlin, that Arthur could lose someone he considered half of himself, and 10 years later still wake every morning with an aching sense of the world being not quite right. 

    The King stewed over these dismal thoughts instead of his dinner that night. On most evenings before battle, he’d strategize with his commanding knights, or at least make rounds throughout the encampment to raise morale. Tonight, his men did approach him to finalize the finer points of their plans, but most had already been discussed throughout the winter. Besides, Arthur’s men knew him well enough to tell that on this occasion, he would not be joining in their merriment and embellished tellings of prior battles. 

    Merlin used to be similarly withdrawn on the eve before battle. Arthur had chalked his behavior up to nerves; only later did he realize his friend had not been nervous for his own life, but for everyone else’s. 

    Arthur was not nervous; instead, he felt a sense of detachment from the knowledge that he’d be freeing hundreds of enslaved people come sunrise. During his first liberations, his blood had raced with hope; as a few missions morphed into many throughout the years, stubborn determination still persisted within his bones. Tonight, however, he only thought of the events likely to follow the battle with resignation. His pulse would thrum in his ears, crescendoing with the clanging of steel and the shouts of his men, only to quell in the shocked aftermath. Perhaps he’d feel moved by the gratitude of those newly freed, but then he would remember that there were thousands more faces just like theirs throughout Albion, all lined with suffering and as unfamiliar to Arthur as owls are to the sun. 

    Two more liberations would take place after the first before Arthur would return to Camelot with his knights and likely a portion of the freed people. Normally his heart would swell in anticipation of reuniting with his wife and children; but this time, he dreading having to see the hope flicker and vanish in the eyes of Merlin’s children as he informed them of how he had once again failed to find their father. 

    Arthur and Guinevere had done their best to make Camelot a home for the three children. Though Arthur himself had not had much time to see his own children nor Merlin’s between preparing for journeys to Nemeth and managing his own kingdom, Gwen told him every night of their wellbeing in all aspects. Each had seemed to be progressing well- of course, until he had walked in to find both of the boys looking as though they’d fallen down a mountain, and Ava acting if she’d been the one to trip them. 

    Despite the drama of that day, Clo and Thean had remarkably seemed to recover enough with time, both physically and emotionally. Still, Arthur couldn’t shake his conviction that his own ineptitude at addressing the sadness that lurked beneath the small smiles of Ava and Thean and the wide grins of Clo had indirectly caused the tension between the siblings. He could house, clothe, and feed them, but he could never make up for what they had lost. 

    And then there had been the way Thean had clung to him just the other morning. Arthur didn’t think he’d ever seen such blatant fear in a child’s eyes- fear of losing even more than he already had. 

    “My lord?” 

    “Percival!” Arthur exclaimed, unable to suppress lurching upward in surprise. A bit of his soup sloshed out of its untouched bowl; the King of Camelot frowned down at the lost potato before turning his attention to his old friend. 

    Percival shifted from foot to foot, appearing acutely uncomfortable at having called Arthur out of his stupor. Nervousness was across his features as well, an emotion his troops and King alike had rarely seen there before. “They haven’t returned yet.” 

    “Who?” 

    “The patrol you sent with the two men Sir Yorin came upon,” Percival said, his brows knit together. Arthur cleared his throat in slight embarrassment; he should have known what the knight meant without explanation. Moreover, he should have been the first to realize that his men were missing. 

    “Perhaps they settled for the night,” Arthur murmured, though his mind did not match the hope he forced into his voice. 

    Percival shook his head. “Sir Mathias was with them,” he insisted. “He would know better than to not return before dusk.” Mathias was Percival’s young brother-in-law, and the two had become quite close since Percival’s early days of courting his eventual wife. Having no family by blood due to his own being killed, Sir Percival often took younger knights under his wing, and Sir Mathias was no exception. The nervousness etched across Percival’s face suddenly became clear to Arthur. 

    “If they’re not back come sunrise, lead a search party,” Arthur instructed, already raising a hand to silence Percival’s expected protestations. “You will meet us before the next liberation; Sir Leon can lead your men, since yours and his strategies are nearly the same.” 

    The bulky man’s shoulders relaxed, and the anxiety that had swelled his chest depleted somewhat, leaving only a man made small by worry. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said, bowing steeply and turning quickly to call out to a select few men. Arthur knew that Percival would have never explicitly asked to depart from the mission, and he understood better than anyone the wish to race out for those whose fates were uncertain. 

    When the morning light flickered Arthur’s eyes awake, the quiet stirring of the beginnings of battle could be heard. Though they were still an hour or so from the Foederis mountain that held the slave encampment, Camelot’s army was always quiet in the time before battle, as if the birds might carry news of their arrival on the wind. When Arthur emerged from his tent, the first person his eyes landed on amidst the milling crowd was Percival, who had been surreptitiously glancing in the King’s direction.

   Soft grass gave way easily underfoot as he trekked the short distance to his old friend. Percival rose from the slanted rock he’d been perched on to greet his commander’s arrival. Arthur observed the empty space beside the seasoned knight; though quiet, he rarely sat alone, as Sir Mathias was often at his side. 

    “Go,” Arthur said. “Be careful, and be well.” 

    Percival relaxed into a small smile that lessened the wrinkles of his brow. He bowed, and departed to where a small group of men were waiting for his instruction. Arthur allowed himself one last instance to watch Sir Percival’s figure be quickly swallowed by the surrounding forest. He ought to not wait, he knew; but his fear for the survival of the few friends who’d managed to make it this far in his life had grown over the years, dimming his faith in the good fortune that had once seemed to ceaselessly encircle those he cared for. 

    His heart felt still, not lurching with hope and fear as it once had on these journeys. Arthur’s horse was brought to him, along with a piece of bread that he chewed mindlessly as he listened to the reports of the patrol that had spied at the cave entrances from a distance. “All was quiet, my lord,” Sir Leon informed him. This was the first journey the knight had been on since the Medora mountains; while Arthur had been hesitant to send him on a mission so similar to the one that had once nearly cost him his life, the older knight was determined to prove himself capable. 

    “Did you spot any guards?” Arthur asked. 

    “No, we kept a pretty far distance; they do not have outposts that we could see. The fog hampered our visibility.” 

    The King nodded; presently, the whole forest was silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation of the chaos to come. Indeed, the fog was significant; he could hardly see twenty paces into the forest. 

    Arthur turned to the head sorcerers. Each was ensconced in scarlet robes, the protective but lightweight padding beneath poking slightly through the fine fabric. Helena was among them as well; though her magic was mainly for healing, she traveled with the more combat-focused sorcerers to supply advice on how to best tend wounds, and to consult with them on defense spells should she need to rush to the aid of a fallen knight mid-battle. “Can any of you see the path ahead?” he asked. 

    They shuffled their feet collectively in unease. “No, my Lord. That is far beyond our abilities,” one of the head sorcerers admitted frankly. 

    Arthur had expected as much; he suppressed a sigh, not wishing to make his disappointment evident. Without these sorcerers, the missions would doubtlessly be impossible, or at least procure far more casualties for Camelot than otherwise. Most encampments had magical barriers that (if not disabled) would prevent the knights from getting too close, or the slaves from escaping without bodily harm. And yet, though Arthur tried not to dwell on such dismal thoughts, he was painfully aware that there was so much his sorcerers couldn’t do, and so much of which Merlin could do- or did, rather. The longer he was without his friend, the more he realized the unique nature of Merlin’s powers. No Camelot sorcerer, even those that had practiced magic in secrecy under Uther’s reign, had yet managed to rival the extensive talents of his manservant. 

    “We’ll proceed slowly, and launch our attack as soon as the trees thin out.” At his words, the commanders sprung into action. Leon began to call out orders to fall in line, and before Arthur could fully process the prospect of impending battle, he was on a horse leading his troops towards uncertainty. 

    Beside him, sorcerers whispered ancient rhythms under breath, their eyes like golden orbs in the white fog. The breaths of the horses grew fainter, the hushed conversations of knights throughout the line became audible to only those whose ears the words were intended for. The silence of the forest grew to a deafening climax, until Arthur scarcely wanted to breathe for fear of disturbing the magic that now protectively blanketed his people. 

    Helena held up a hand to halt the procession, a gesture she only did without the King’s permission when necessary. Though she leapt from her horse, Arthur would not know she had if he had not seen the sight with his own eyes; her feet made no sound on the scattered leaves of the ground. A few other sorcerers disembarked to help her, spreading throughout the trees. They splayed their fingers against the bark, letting out low and guttural sounds. Symbols flashed and faded; Arthur had watched the process countless times before, but on this occasion, a chill ran down his back. He shouldn’t feel this uneasy at the display of magic; he’d had more than enough time to come to terms with the fact that many spells were for protection, not harm. And yet, the runes seemed to glow in a different way than he had seen before, more brightly than they had a right to. 

    Helena mounted her horse beside Arthur, a slight frown on her face. “What is it?” he whispered. 

    She shook her head, as though trying to shoo a thought away. He noticed she, too, was shivering despite the humidity of the air. “The runes… they faded faster than usual. And their glow was strange- gold, instead of black as barrier runes usually are.”

    Arthur tried to absorb the words without also allowing himself to reflect the same unease in her eyes. He tried to cast his stirring thoughts aside, reminding himself of all the times he had hoped against hope to find who he was looking for, only to return to Camelot without him at his side. 

    They continued to creep along the forest until they reached the end of the protection of the trees. A grassy field sloped down, and then gradually up again, leading to a line of rocks just below the crest of the widest hill. These inclines and declines were smooth and unremarkable, not nearly as dramatic as those of the Medora mountains. If one were to only pass by, they would not realize how many suffered in silence beneath their feet. 

    A whisper sounded from the sky, growing to a whistle, and then a dismayed cry. A man fell from the horse beside Arthur, groaning in pain as he stared dumbfounded at the arrow sticking from his lower leg. Already, Helena was disembarking from her own horse to aid the man.

    Arthur raised his sword; there would be no more time for hesitation. “ NOW!” he cried, and before the word was fully out of his mouth, he felt wind whip the hair from his brow as knights and sorcerers alike raced past. He longed to join them, to turn the air around him into a storm of justified rage at all these devils had taken from him, from Merlin and his family, and from so many others whose stories were now lost mysteries. 

    But the King stayed in the trees, even spurring his horse to backstep a few paces to avoid being assailed by any other arrows that escaped the notice of the handful of sorcerers who had remained to protect him. Thankfully, the skill of communicating through thoughts allowed the sorcerers to know the exact moment when the slave camp was safe to enter. Tense silence persisted among the small group as Helena tended to the fallen knight, who grimaced in pain despite her gentle movements. Arthur had seen enough wounds to know this one would not be fatal. 

    After a few minutes of listening to the distant shouts and clashes of metal against metal, the noise began to dim. That could either be a very good or very bad sign. 

    Helena straightened from where she had been kneeling beside the wounded man. “I’ve done all I can; I’ll be far more useful in the mines.”

    “Wait, Helena,” Arthur insisted. “It is too dangerous to go across the clearing now; there may still be archers.” 

    “There’s no need,” one of the sorcerers spoke up. “The mines have been secured.”

    Arthur felt his jaw dropping unbidden. “Already?” 

    The sorcerer nodded, and the other red-robed men and women congregated from where they had previously spanned out across the trees. Each confirmed hearing the same. “We start forth now then,” Arthur said decidedly. 

    Another younger sorcerer spoke up hesitantly. “Shouldn’t we wait a bit longer, to ensure Your Grace’s safety?” 

    Arthur nearly blanched at the title. “No, that won’t be necessary, thank you,” he said, trying to keep disapproval out of his voice. From the youth of his face, this may be the sorcerer’s first liberation. “Helena will need to tend to many knights and slaves, no doubt, and she won’t go in unprotected.” 

    With one sorcerer staying behind to guard the wounded knight, Arthur, Helena and the remaining sorcerers kicked their horses on across the downward slope and up to the long line of rocks. “This seems too easy,” Arthur admitted frankly as their horses trotted closer. 

    He had meant the words to be for Helena’s ears, but another sorcerer responded instead. “Many of the handlers looked weakened from some sickness. They couldn’t put up much of a fight,” the sorcerer reported. “It appears as though luck is on our side.” Despite the logical words, unease remained in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. 

    Multiple dark holes the width of three people littered the hillside. No arrows sang in the air, and two Camelot knights were posted outside of each entrance to ensure no handlers escaped justice. They nodded to Arthur as he descended with Helena at his side into the nearest entrance. 

    Darkness surrounded them thickly, spurring each sorcerer to light their palms with dancing fire. “The main cavern is this way, my lord,” a sorcerer murmured, having just received directions from a comrade. The ground continually sloped downwards, deeper and darker with every few steps. Arthur kept one hand on the sword clipped to his waist at all times as they made their way through the main stony path. Numerous unexplored paths branched out; in some of them, he could hear the echoes of Camelot knights subduing the protests of handlers. Though each sorcerer had assured him the mines were indeed secured, he never allowed himself to fully relax until hours after the initial attack on a camp. 

    The main cavern was unlike any Arthur had ever seen before; had it not been for his knowledge that so many lives had been lost here, he would have thought the place beautiful. The roof of the large space was shockingly high, making Arthur realize that they had traveled much farther underground than he had thought. A small stream babbled along one end of the cavern, glinting with natural light. He craned his neck up to see that at the top of the cavern, holes were scattered about, letting in small dots of light, the only proof to those who lived here that there was a whole world just beyond reach. Without those specks, nor the flames produced by the sorcerers scattered about the cavern, one could scarcely see their hand if extended in front of their eyes. 

    Most of the slaves (or citizens now, Arthur reminded himself- they weren’t slaves any longer) did not appear harmed as Helena began to move among them. There had to be at least a few hundred of them throughout the cavern, huddled in groups. Their shabby clothes were almost as black as the air around them, making their pale faces glow starkly in the dim light.  Fear still lingered in their eyes from the sudden shock of the battle; the joy would come later, Arthur knew. After having so much time taken from them, he had noticed that most did not seem to believe in their freedom until they were away from the place of their enslavement. 

    Sir Leon emerged from a branching tunnel only a short distance from where Arthur presently stood. With a deep but quick bow, Leon rose smiling. “We suffered no casualties on our side, Sire, save a few small wounds. All the handlers are being rounded up in a separate cavern.” Leon straightened, his smile turning into an outright grin. “This is a great victory.” The old knight was jubilant at such an easy win after the heavy loss of the Medora mountains. 

    “Yes, a victory,” Arthur repeated, his voice devoid of glee. Not suffering losses of at least a few Camelot knights was rare during a liberation. He should be happy. And yet, as he stared out at the masses of numb people before him, he felt a sense of despair. In this, he feared, there could be no victories, because there would be no end. 

    He raised his eyes to where Leon’s smile had began to slip away at his King’s silence. Arthur cleared his throat; he could not afford to sulk until his journey through Nemeth was over. “Send as many knights as you can to guard the handlers,” he began, thankful his mind could piece together some orders. “We wouldn’t want any of them-” 

    A cry of rage off to the side startled Arthur from his thoughts. A knight had been leading a handler across the cavern to reach what was likely the tunnel where the rest of the handlers were being kept. This haggard handler, who was covered in an array of ghastly boils, had managed to break free of the knight’s grip and was presently charging towards Arthur. “Death to the infiltrators!” A flash of silver- Leon moved to stand in front of Arthur, but he was too slow, and the blade was too fast. 

    That is, the blade would have been too fast, if it hadn’t stopped an inch from Arthur’s nose. Arthur looked from side to side, ready to thank whichever one of his sorcerers that had just saved his life. But their eyes were all normal colors of brown and blue, each pair trained to a spot just past Arthur’s shoulder.

    He heard a sigh from behind, dramatically drawn out and so, so familiar. And a voice, full of mirth and pouring into Arthur’s ears with the sound of hope long forgotten. 

    “Took you long enough.”

Chapter Text

Thean

    As Clo and Anselm darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clashing continuously, Thean pressed his back against the cool stone walls and gasped for air. 

    He had hardly sparred with Eloise until he began to feel the world spinning. His nightmares had increased tenfold since the King had left three days ago, rendering the night to merely be an extension of his waking hours. It took all of Thean’s mental effort to not cry out and wake his siblings each time he came back to reality, hands flying to his mouth to muffle his ragged breaths. Only Ava had seemed to pick up on his sudden increase in exhaustion, at times even ordering him to return to their room and take a nap in the middle of the day. He obliged, only to stare out the window, begging the sun to keep him awake. 

    Despite Thean’s insistence that his sleep was ‘just peachy’ (a phrase he had learned from one of Guinevere’s bedtime stories), Ava had offered him sleeping potions from the physician chambers. Thean had refused each colored bottle she’d placed into his palm. Guilt had wracked his mind every hour since the King had left; these visions were warnings of the future that he had ignored. If they were to come true, he knew he’d be at least partially responsible. Thus, he allowed the cycle of long waking days and even longer nights to continue as penance for his misuse of foresight. 

    Luckily, his sister’s eyes were not able to follow him with concern this night in the courtyard. An outbreak of the cold and flu had occurred in the slave sanctuary within the citadel, and Ava had gone with Gaius to treat the worst of cases. She had informed her brothers she’d likely stay in one of the spare cots in the old physician’s house overnight, so as to resume treatment quickly in the morning. Though Thean was nervous about her staying away from the Castle for the first night since his siblings had come to Camelot, he was relieved to not have her watching over him tonight, as his bones ached with exhaustion more than ever before. Keeping up the facade of being wakeful had worn him down as much as the lack of sleep had. 

    To avoid succumbing to lightheadedness once more, Thean turned his gaze away from the sparring of the prince and his brother, and instead allowed his eyes to settle on the still water of the raised stone pool. He hadn’t forgotten the calm feeling that had settled on his shoulders the night Anselm had led him into this secret place nearly a year ago. Seeing the untouched water that first time in the clearing had brought him a brief moment of tranquility he had thought impossible since being separated from his parents. Though fashioned similarly to a bird bath, no avian creatures had ever settled upon its surface during all the nights Thean had been there. 

    A familiar notion of serenity had just begun to settle within Thean's mind, when the reflection of the stars migrated to the center of the water, coming together to form a face. Darkness lightened to shades of mirthful blue, and a slight smile that Thean would have recognized anywhere. His father had bags under his eyes, and his skin looked somewhat paler, but faint remnants of happiness still danced in his expression. 

    In Thean’s dreams, his father had felt so far away even when he had been standing right next to him. In this pool of water though, his father felt so close that the boy started to reach out a hand to banish the remaining gap that had separated them for over a year. Just as his fingers breached the surface, the image shifted.

    “No,” Thean whimpered, uncaring of attracting attention to himself. The calm that had spread throughout his mind for a few blissful seconds dissipated with the fleeting image of his father. The water that his fingertips remained touching turned searing hot, and he lurched his hand backwards reflexively. 

    What had just been cooling colors of blue and black turned red hot with fury. Flames engulfed the image, spreading to the side to reveal the courtyard. In the water, Eloise stood at the opposite end of the courtyard, just as she was currently. Suddenly, the mirage shifted out of focus as though struck by a force, settling shakily back on Eloise as a large stone plummeted towards her. 

    “Thean?” 

    Anselm and Clo had lowered their swords to the grass, perturbed by Thean’s growing distress and sudden movement away from the stone pool. Eloise’s dagger whistled through the air towards an invisible enemy, oblivious to the other children. 

    The dark-haired boy turned to them in a state of growing panic. “Get down!” he cried. When they only stared at him in confusion, he yelled with more force, “The ground! Get on the ground now !” 

    Later on, Thean would thank the stars that for once in his life, Clo listened, and even had the clarity of mind to drag the prince to the grass with him. Eloise only stood still, startled by Thean’s sudden change in demeanor. In mere seconds, Merlin’s older son launched himself across the clearing; just as he reached the princess, his knees buckled from the speed, and his arms wrapped around her waist. They toppled to the ground as the earth lurched beneath them. 

    Rocks had sporadically fallen down the Medora mountains, but never enough to disturb Thean from sleep. The force that rippled through the clearing, however, could have woken the dead. Indeed, it shook all sense of tiredness from Thean’s bones to the point he did not think he’d ever be able to find rest again. 

    Eloise’s scream pierced higher than the ringing in his ears. The princess’ eyes were poised to an area above Thean’s head; without looking, Thean raised a hand and shouted “Propatulus!” 

    The chunk of rock from the clearing wall that had been hurtling towards them splintered into a thousand pieces, raining down on them gently. When Thean opened his eyes, he was met by the sight of Eloise looking much like many of the children within the mines had: covered in dusty gravel, and absolutely terrified. The fear did not still her this time, however; she grabbed Thean by the arms, and moved with him to where Anselm and Clo (similarly covered in a layer of dark dust) were still crouched on the grass. 

    The four of them huddled close to each other, searching one another for injuries and answers. Upon ensuring that no one was greatly hurt, Anselm turned his gaze to the unnatural orange glow of the evening horizon. “We’re being attacked,” he said, the weight of the realization making him look older than his twelve years. 

    “We have to find Mum!” Eloise said, and her statement sent the children into motion, all staying close to one another as they half ran and half stumbled out of the clearing and into the chapel. Pebbles fell from the ceiling with each new ripple from the earth; none were as strong as the first, but each elicited growing terror from the children. As Thean lowered Clo down into the servant hallway entrance, he could feel his brother shaking with fear. Anger coursed through Thean- anger at himself for not preventing this, and anger at whichever enemies of Camelot had caused his little brother to feel an emotion that should be foreign to him. 

    Once the four of them were all inside the halls, Anselm placed a protective hand on the heads of Eloise and Clo, making them duck to avoid any falling rubble. The prince only paused when Thean made no move to follow him in the direction of the royal chambers. “What are you waiting for? Come on!” His tone held a note akin to his father’s when Thean had disobeyed. 

    “Look after Clo; I have to go find Ava,” he said to his friend. 

    “But- who knows what the streets are like!” Eloise protested. 

    “Exactly! Glad to see we’re all in agreement.” And with that, Thean darted in the opposite direction before his friends could convince him otherwise. His heart tightened at the sound of his brother screaming his name repeatedly, but the sounds grew fainter with each corner Thean turned. Anselm would adhere to his request, of that much, he could be certain. 

    The stone walls refused to stay calm, meeting Thean eagerly each time the ground jumped with fright beneath his feet. In his frazzled state of mind, he was unsure if he had correctly remembered the directions of his desired destination. Only when he noticed the hall widening slightly was he reassured that he had not forgotten the path, despite not having explored the halls in depth since the summer. 

    Smoke swirled thickly in the air as he exited the inconspicuous wooden door into the stables. No friendly whinnies or neighs greeted the boy; the knights must have taken all the war horses at the first sign of attack. The courtyard offered no respite from the tension, either; the gates had been opened, allowing flocks of citizens to spill through. Soot and panic were splayed across all of their faces, old and young. Thean searched their faces and backs for Ava’s familiar dark braid, or Gaius’ unmistakable physician robes, but to no avail. 

    “Oi, Thean!” Elyan stepped forth from the seizing sea of citizens, grabbing Thean by the shoulders. “Get inside, it’s not safe out here!” 

    “Ava and Gaius are still out there!” 

    “Then I’ll find them, but you go in the castle!” Elyan made a few strides toward the gates, glancing back to see Thean bounding after him. With a quick sigh of frustration, he grabbed Thean by the shoulder once more. “Alright, but stay close to me.” 

    As the pair weaved their way through the streets, Elyan continuously shouted, “To the castle gates, get to the gates!” at fleeing passerbys. The air carried a heat unnatural for this early in the spring. Their journey was slowed by the frequent panicked questions of the citizens as they recognized a Knight of Camelot. Elyan, however, could provide little answers to their pleas for information; he knew not who was attacking Camelot, only that the people would be safest within the Castle. 

    Thean tried hard not to look at the stiff bodies interspersed throughout the streets, glancing merely to confirm they were not the ones he sought. By the time they reached Gaius’ house, his heart was beating almost as loud as the cacophony of chaos in the citadel. No gentle knock graced the front door; instead Thean unlocked the knob with a flick of his eyes, throwing his weight against the hinges in his haste. 

    Darkness greeted the knight and boy. The candles had long since been blown out. Elyan called out for Gaius and Ava a few times to be sure, but Thean knew he was wasting his breath; no signs of life or death were there. 

    “They must still be at the Chapel,” Thean said, following Elyan back into the tumultuous streets the physician’s house had provided them a brief respite from. 

    Embers and smoke in his vision, screams and whimpers ringing in his ears. Merlin’s son tried to tune out the excess external information, honing in on a repeating internal monologue: Just find Ava and Gaius. Just find Ava and Gaius, and then everything might be okay. 

    A little girl shrieked; Elyan held out a hand to stop Thean in his tracks. To their left, a family was gathered around a girl who was pinned to the ground by a pile of rubble. Sir Elyan rushed to their aid. Thean pumped his fists at his sides in frustration; the Chapel was just a few corners away, and every moment here stole away his chances of finding Gaius and Ava. He moved to aid Elyan, rifling through his brain for helpful spells, when he felt his foot step on something disconcertingly solid. 

    Pale fingers streaked with ash lay crushed beneath Thean’s black leather boots. His line of sight moved slowly, and his knees descended to the ground to settle beside Buckley. The boy who had just been laughing with Clo that morning in Camelot’s courtyard now lay discarded on the side of the street, only his head and one extended arm visible beneath the rubble that was piled atop him. His eyes are open, Thean thought numbly. Someone should close them. It was what Gwaine had done when the boy had first fallen beside his mother on the slopes of the Medora mountains; she had looked so much more peaceful after the kind and gentle act of the knight. 

    But Thean was not Gwaine, nor a knight. His hands remained open and unmoving at his sides.

    "Thean! " 

    The cry was full of shock but devoid of the happiness that had been in her voice in another citadel, where the streets had been rife with ice instead of fire. 

    Suddenly, Thean was being lurched up by his armpits, and his shoulders shaken as wild brown eyes scanned him up and down. “What on earth are you doing here?” After only waiting a second for a response, Ava shook her head. “Never mind! We have to go- the city gates are about to be breached.” 

    Just as she spoke, a large group of knights on horseback rode past, their hoofbeats thundering in haste as they sped towards the western gates. Elyan joined Merlin’s children and Gaius, having freed the trapped girl, and looked hesitatingly after his disappearing comrades. Then his gaze returned to the young boy and girl and old man before him, and his jaw set in resolution. “Come on!” he cried, using one arm to protectively cover Ava’s and Thean’s shoulders, his other arm brandishing a sword forward. 

    Gaius treaded alongside Thean as well, murmuring urgently, “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Thean could only shake his head. He kept his limited focus on the ground to avoid tripping over more solid objects. When he spared one glance in the physician’s direction, he was met with eyes that frequently flashed gold. With each flicker, Gaius’ pace would quicken slightly, and his lips would part to whisper words too low for Thean to catch. 

    Their efforts were entirely directed forward. Only when they had reached the crest of a hill just a street’s length from the castle gates did Thean spare a moment to glance back over his shoulder. 

    He wished he hadn’t. Plumes of smoke rose to the heavens, with spires of flames bordering the gray towers. Large groups of panicked people still wove their way in and out of the streets from all corners of the walled citadel. The western doors heaved and cracked until they burst open, allowing Camelot’s unknown enemies to spill into the cobbled streets along which Thean and his siblings had once safely inhabited. 

    Gaius’ hand on his shoulder sped the boy on through the castle gates. Knights were arguing with one another whether or not to close them. “The city gates have been breached! We must defend those we’ve already saved!” one knight argued, pulling on the leather straps to shut the door while another knight pushed to bring about the opposite result. 

    They followed the quivering groups of citizens through the courtyard and along the edges of the castle. Thean kept pausing to glance around in confusion, only to be coaxed forward by his sister. He didn’t understand why they weren’t reentering the castle itself. 

    Only when the line of people in front of him began to lower and disappear did he realize they were not intending to enter the castle at all. They were going underground. 

    So they are real, Thean thought, allowing a moment of childlike wonder to enter his mind. The network of tunnels Thean believed himself to be entering had been the subject of rumors whispered within Camelot’s court. Though conflicting information had spread, all versions of their existence agreed that they were a recent creation by King Arthur as a result of the numerous times in his reign that Camelot (including the castle itself) had been invaded. When Thean had asked Anselm of their purported existence, the prince had simply shrugged and refused to meet his friend’s eyes, saying he knew nothing of the sort to have been constructed. 

    The entrance had the appearance of a slightly uneven patch of grass, but directly underneath were wooden boards and stone steps with edges sharp. No torches were lit for the first twenty steps to avoid any smoke being made obvious through the wooden slats of the entrance, and thus Ava gripped Thean’s and Gaius’ arms for support lest one of them trip. 

    At the bottom of the seemingly endless steps, two knights were posted on guard. “File forward, file forward,” they whispered. 

    One of them Thean recognized even in the dim light of distant torches. “Gwaine!” he whispered in delight. 

    His hair was ruffled in welcome. “Hey little man,” the knight said, though the warmth in his voice was muffled by the grim circumstances of their encounter. “Gwen was looking for you; she’s five rooms up ahead, in the healing area.” Thean nodded and swallowed nervously, anticipating a stern talking to. 

    The space in which they entered was connected to several other branching off rooms. Cement walls separated each section, with only one torch per room, and at least four archways interspersed. Citizens of all ages sat despondently against the walls, some openly weeping, while others stared at nothing in particular. Blankets had been distributed to provide some protection from the damp, musty air. 

    Whimpers of pain signaled their approach to the healing area. Gaius immediately hurried to help Rufus lift a wounded young woman to a cot, already inquiring about a needed potion. Queen Guinevere rose from where she had been speaking softly with a woeful child. To Thean’s relief, trailing not too far behind her were Anselm, Eloise, and Clo. They were still covered in a layer of brown and black dust from when the attack had just begun, but otherwise looked no worse for wear than when he had last seen them. 

    After whispering a few more words of comfort, Guinevere hitched up her ornate skirts and wrapped her arms around Ava and Thean. “I’m so glad you’re alright,” she said as she stroked Ava’s hair with one hand. After a moment, she drew back and gave Thean’s shoulder a less than gentle squeeze. “You, mister , are far too like your father for your own good,” the Queen said, raising one eyebrow in challenge. Thean, however, managed to smile; despite her stern tone, he took that as a compliment. She eventually allowed herself a satisfied smile as well. 

    Clo was next to race up to his siblings. He leapt into Ava’s arms readily enough; once he relinquished her, he turned to Thean and promptly gave him a punch to the stomach.

    “Ow! ” Thean cried, though more from surprise than pain. “What was that for?”

    “For leaving me behind!” Clo snorted. After holding his older brother’s gaze with a scowl, he softened a bit and hugged him as well. 

    When the children departed from one another in their reunion, only confused glances were shared between them. “Who is attacking us?” Ava asked quietly, as though not fully expecting an answer. 

    A frown appeared on Gwen’s face, etched deep as though it had been there for years. Judging from the night’s events, Thean could guess that her dismal expression would remain there for some time. “We haven’t fully identified the motive, but several banners from groups of the Departed Lands were spotted by guards closest to the gates,” she explained to her and Merlin’s children. 

    Thean stiffened, and sensed rather than saw Clo and Ava do the same beside him. The Departed Lands were rarely mentioned except in disdain; no unity was known within the torn homeland of their mother. Lea herself had rarely spoken of the place, as though just its name could condemn listeners to a fate of surviving on scraps of life. “They were together?” Thean asked. “Different groups of the Departed Lands?” 

    “It doesn’t make any sense,” Anselm agreed, looking at his friend with brows furrowed. He had studied history since he could scarcely read. Lessons on the Departed Lands had always confounded him, but the one common theme was that hatred and petty strife between the most powerful families of the area prevented the people from uniting. Camelot’s prince had a hard time wrapping his head around them organizing an attack together when they couldn’t even agree on policies for taxation and farming. 

    “Of course it doesn’t make sense, because they’re stupid and have no sense,” Eloise said confidently. The fear that had emanated from her in the Chapel’s clearing had faded. “We’ll beat them and they’ll never come back here.” 

    Thean shivered at the nonchalant way the young girl talked of what was clearly an invasion of Camelot. It was easy to be brave here, where the princess was surrounded by people hellbent on protecting her. Eloise, however, hadn’t had the displeasure of seeing the horror of the citadel streets just outside the castle. 

    Queen Guinevere mustered a smile at her daughter’s brave words. “That’s right,” she murmured, brushing a brown lock of hair from the princess’ face. Addressing all five children now, she continued, “So do not be afraid; you are safe while you’re here. There are cots at the end of the hall to the right you can rest in, and food there in a sack if you’re hungry.” 

    “You aren’t coming with us?” Anselm asked. 

    “Not for now,” Gwen said. “But if I can’t be with you tonight, I’ll bring you all breakfast tomorrow, alright?” She ached to remain with the children, to hold them tight and give them more words of comfort. But Leon would need to give her regular updates on the extent of damage done to the city, she had to ensure that the sorcerers would provide illusion spells to prevent the siege tunnels from being discovered, and she wanted to consult Rufus on the state of the wounded. The thought of all that lay before her made her wish to weep; she felt not an ounce of the boldness her daughter displayed. Not for the first time during that dreadful evening, she longed for Arthur to be there. She watched with a throbbing heart as the children departed, obedient in this singular instance she wished them not to be. 

    Two heavily blanketed cots were on one side of the small room for Anselm and Eloise, whereas one cot somewhat less furnished was reserved for Merlin’s children. Thean and his siblings took no insult to what was provided for them, though; they were grateful to have even been thought of. The people that had littered the halls as Thean and Ava had initially made their way through the tunnels had mostly been sitting against the walls. Not enough cots were available for all that sought shelter. 

    Eloise wrapped herself quickly in the blankets, falling asleep as soon as her head hit a feathered pillow. Her brother, however, only sat on the edge of the cot provided for him, pensively meeting the gazes of his friends as they settled into their own bed. Clo lay in between his older siblings as they wrapped themselves in quilts as soft as clouds. When a heavy silence persisted among them, with no eyes closing to greet sleep, Clo turned his head to Thean and said, “Tell me a story.” 

    Thean thought for a moment, and then began and ended, “There once was a redheaded boy who was very tired and fell asleep immediately. The end.” 

    Anselm chuckled across the room as Clo scrunched his face. “That was boring.” 

    “I thought it was fascinating,” Ava laughed.

    “Your turn, Ava,” Clo said, sounding more hopeful for entertainment. 

    “I don’t have any memorized, Clo. That’s what Thean’s good at.” 

    “Then make one up!” Clo proposed, unperturbed. 

    Ava stared up at the ceiling, as though hoping to find inspiration there. After a minute of silence, she began a tale of a simple farmer and his family. His oldest son longed to be a bard, but one day mysteriously lost his ability to speak, write, or recall the language he had known his whole life. The father suspected his child hadn’t acquired this condition via natural circumstances, and thus set out with his younger sons to find a cure. 

    The story wove on; the man and his children met many challenges, from turbulent rivers without bridges, to bandits and barren deserts. Despite the troubles that faced them, Thean did not doubt the characters would reach their goal. Ava had always been partial to stories with happy endings. Clo did not seem to be worried either; his eyes drifted closed long before Ava ceased talking. Anselm had fallen asleep sitting up, his head leaned against the wall behind, and one of his hands resting on his wooden training sword. Ava’s words grew softer, until she too had fallen asleep, lulled into a sense of ephemeral peace by her own imagination. 

    Thean’s eyes remained resolutely open. He was not afraid of nightmares at that moment, for this night had been far worse than any of his nightmares. Only distant sniffles and shaky voices interrupted the silence of the room, allowing Thean’s thoughts to grow ever louder and impossible to ignore. Usually, stories like the one told by his sister gave him hope. Fictional people seemed to always have more courage than those in real life. They never stood still; they raced towards their problems, facing them head-on. Emotions were used to fuel their goals, not to hinder them. 

    I am tired of standing still. 

    He had allowed his nightmares and waking fears to paralyze him for too long. Whether it was fate or luck or whatever one wished to call it, some force within the world had been trying to warn him of the troubles to come at Camelot’s doorstep. Magic had given Thean a chance to prevent a grim future, and he had squandered it. 

    The events of that night replayed in his mind in an endless loop, settling longest on the images he had seen within the raised pool of water. He had nearly forgotten the image of his father due to the terror that had ensued soon after. Merlin had appeared alive, and more than that, maybe even happy. The dagger, his father, and Camelot burning- those were what his dreams and the pool chose to reveal to him. They must be somehow connected.

    Nearly a year had passed since Thean had last seen his father, but the ache to be with him had never faded. Merlin had a way of making sense out of senseless situations. All his adventures had been brought to a conclusion due to his actions, and though they were not always ideal outcomes, they at least restored momentary order to Camelot. 

    Thean’s actions, or lack thereof, had served to perpetuate the issues they addressed or bring about less than desirable outcomes. His insistence to travel to the Medora mountains, his numerous attempts to control his brother’s eagerness for learning spells- neither had led to any good. Pa would know what to do, Thean thought dismally. 

    Pa would know what to do , he thought again with hope instead of sorrow. 

    Why would he be shown images of Camelot’s downfall, followed by his father demonstrating unrestrained power (however alarming), if not to suggest the two phenomena were connected? Merlin had saved Camelot before in times of great distress, on small and drastically large scales. If Merlin was alive as Thean’s visions seemed to suggest, then there was still hope of an end to this nightmare for Thean’s siblings and all of Camelot. 

    The boy carefully shifted upright so as to not disturb his little brother. He had to move now, before he allowed his thoughts to lead him again to inaction. At the opening to the halls, he paused to glance back. Ava had wrapped a protective arm around Clo, who was sucking his thumb, a bad habit the boy had had since he was a baby. Eloise slept peacefully, and Anselm still sat upright. The prince’s hand on his wooden sword gave the appearance of a soldier falling asleep on watch duty. 

    Thean smiled at his siblings and friends. They would be alright without him; in fact, they’d probably be safer here, where countless knights could protect them. Of course, he knew each would be more than angry with him, but if he was able to bring their father back and help Camelot, all would be worthwhile. 

    “Where are you going?” a low voice murmured, and Thean startled slightly. Two guards were posted outside their room, staring at him curiously. 

    “I need to pee,” Thean stammered. 

    “Hmph. There are chamber pots in the leftmost halls; bring some back for the prince and princess.” 

    Merlin’s son nodded a little too eagerly. “Of course!” he said, starting off with a slight jog in that direction. Once he had rounded a corner, however, he began to drift to the right with one hand dragging against the wall. At some points, he closed his eyes to better focus on the magic pulsing through the walls. He could sense that throughout these halls, sorcerers were putting up more and more protection enchantments. A complex web of magic was being created, but Thean had to hope it wasn’t quite strong enough to resist bending to his will. 

    The surface of the wall smoothed where just before mini crags and crevices had been interspersed. When Thean opened his eyes, the dusty stone appeared unremarkable, which was precisely what made it quite remarkable. Putting both his hands splayed against the wall, he whispered, “Patentibus.”

    Dark lines appeared where smoothness had just previously persisted; wood shimmered into view where a mirage of stone had been. He hadn’t been entirely certain he’d find such an entrance; the servant hallways were old, and these tunnels were new. Perhaps one of the workers had gotten tired of trekking all the way through the tunnels to reach the surface, and had devised this passageway instead. 

    Thean basked in a moment of self-satisfaction before pushing the wooden door open and tripping over the small ledge. His pride was gone before he hit the ground, scrambling onto his knees and shutting the door behind him in haste. “Corium .” False and unnaturally smooth stone reappeared, blocking out the small strips of light that had been allowed by the now hidden wooden door. 

    Rising to his feet, he moved quickly. Trepidation of being discovered as missing fastened his pace as he wound up the sloping pathways until they grew familiar. He had not explored the part of the servant hallways he had originally emerged in, but felt as though he had been there before in a distant dream. When faced with branching off pathways, Thean went down whichever one seemed most welcoming. 

    Upon reaching the short wooden door to the chambers he and his siblings shared, he paused. He could hear faint voices. None of the castle’s knights had stayed behind, knowing that their numbers would be easily overwhelmed by that of the enemy. He suspected that the faces these voices were coming from would not smile down at him as most in the castle had always done. 

    Thean pressed on, trusting the dreams he had tried so desperately to ignore. His chambers were thick with shadows; this was the darkest hour, so the sun would soon be up to start him on his journey. Grabbing his father’s old satchel, he tried not to stare too long at his siblings’ possessions; the rock with a smiley face chiseled into it from Buckley, the golden hair bands Eloise had given to Ava. He had to believe they’d be able to reclaim these precious trinkets, or else he’d stuff the satchel with them, leaving no room for more practical objects. 

    The map Ava had been studying was pried from the wall and neatly folded; two of his father’s old shirts and a set of pants were tucked in as well. With faint annoyance, Thean realized the red neckerchief he had been wearing must’ve fallen off at some point in the night, so he grabbed a blue neckerchief instead. A tin water jug, and the wooden dragon his grandfather had made were also packed, leaving only one last object to be sought out. 

    Wincing at the creak of the wood, he eased the floorboard up slowly. The dagger’s ethereal green glow strengthened as he picked it up, as though it were saying hello. He wondered once again about the blunt weapon’s origin, guessing that perhaps his father could explain the odd nature of the object if they were ever reunited. 

    Wisps of light- or smoke?- seeped out of the blade suddenly, tickling Thean’s hands. They branched out and then swirled into one thickening strand that ended at the closed door to the servant hallway. The boy was overcome with the feeling of no longer being alone. 

    Footsteps confirmed that someone else was nearby. As he startled into motion, grabbing the leather satchel, the strands of green light fell to the ground and disappeared. 

    “Hello.” 

    The voice was sweet and unassuming, but Thean felt dread at its sound. He turned slowly, expecting to be seized by guards before he had the chance to process being sighted. 

    But only a girl stood at the doorway to the chambers. She appeared to only be a year or so older than Thean, but much better dressed. Short brown hair that scarcely passed her ears was adorned with strands of golden beads. Her white dress was nearly the same shade as her skin, and bedecked with diamonds glinting softly in the moonlight. 

    Thean remained silent, paralyzed with fear. The girl took a few steps into the room, eyeing its contents curiously. Her gaze settled longest on the pillow Eloise had made depicting Thean with his siblings. “I like this room too,” the girl said, coming to stand by his bed. “I think a few children must have lived here.” 

    His hands were shaking as they lay over the satchel at his side. “Mm-hm,” was all he could manage. 

    “You can have it though. My father found me much bigger chambers- they were the princess’s, I think.” She said these words with faint sadness, as though speaking of old friends. She looked at Thean with no spark of ill intent, but he felt as though he were withering under her gaze. “What’s your name?” she asked. 

    Such a simple question, with no simple answers. Thean glanced at the window in a desperate plea for inspiration, just as a black bird flew by. “Raven,” he said quickly, already berating himself for coming up with such a ridiculous name. 

    The girl laughed with delight, to which the boy winced at the loud tinkling of the sound. “Hello Raven, I’m Robin!” she said with glee. “I guess we both can fly.” Thean forced a chuckle, grinning with quivering lips. Either he was better at lying than he thought, or this girl was more unobservant than he could have hoped for. “I’ll see you at the Grateful Dance.” The sentence held no hint of a question. She paused to smile at him one last moment, before turning with a swish of her white dress, closing the door to the chambers behind her. 

    Thean didn’t think he’d breathed during that entire encounter. His muscles thrummed with a scream to move; without so much as a glance back, he departed from the room that had provided him sanctuary for the past year. With the servant door closed behind him, he sank to the ground, his feet pushing aside pebbles stirred up by the attacks on the castle. The problem was that he had stopped moving; it was easy to not think too much when he was moving towards a goal. But the meeting with that girl- Robin- had stilled him. If he had been so paralyzed by the sight of a girl without an ounce of aggression, how would he find his way out of Camelot?

    Don’t cry. 

    If he started crying now, he wasn’t sure he’d stop. A storm would break out and not abate. Little raindrops. That’s what his father would refer to tears as when Thean was small. He’d get upset when darkness pervaded the mines, scared by the fact that he could not see his father’s eyes. “It’s ok, Thean,” Merlin would say, brushing away the tears with the palms of his hands. “The sun will come out again.”

    The sun will come out again, Thean thought as he sat in the darkness. I just have to find Pa. 

    A pulse that was not his own sparked beneath his hand. The blade had grown marginally warmer, and its light had returned, spreading out towards the rightmost path. “Alright,” Thean whispered. “We’ll do this your way.” He almost wanted to laugh at himself for already beginning to talk while alone, despite having hardly started his journey. He might become a madman by the time this whole ordeal was over. 

    Thean’s faith in the blade grew with each step he took; its light did not waver throughout the servant hallways. Green strands the shade of grass on a rainy morning accompanied the boy at each turn. The path was unfamiliar to him, but he did not fret, trusting that the light would lead him somewhere safe. 

    When the blade’s beacon finally reached a conclusion, the door at which it halted did not lead into another section of the castle, but rather the outside world. Thean emerged onto a thin path where the castle wall and its ramparts left only enough space so that multiple people would have to walk single file. The light of the blade dimmed slightly once it was out in the world, but still steadfastly led the Thean to another unremarkable wooden door. He pushed on its frame, but it refused to yield. “ Reserare ,” he muttered, bending wood and iron at his heed so that the door swung graciously open. 

    An eerily quiet scene greeted him. What with all the attacks having taken place just a few hours ago, Thean had expected to see enemy troops lining every street. However, the dirt path directly in front of him was vacant. Small huts with poorly thatched roofs burned with dimming embers, their crackle interrupting unnatural silence. Pots and pans were strewn about the streets, but few bodies. Thean realized this must be Hovel Corner, one of the poorest sections of Camelot. Any looters that had come here following the attacks would have quickly realized that those who lived here likely owned little more than the clothes on their backs. 

    Merlin’s son was grateful for the thickness of the shadows at this hour; they allowed him to not look too closely at the piles of ashes that resembled more solid shapes. He walked till his legs tingled with numbness and exhaustion, only allowing his eyes to drift occasionally away from his compass of light. A forgotten doll, a sack of worn-out clothes, an unlit torch; each served as a reminder that life had filled these streets just a few hours before. 

    Another door, another entrance and exit (torn down and decrepit- he’d have to tell the King and Queen to fix that if he ever saw them again), and he was outside of the citadel walls and into the surrounding forest. Distant echoes of laughter filled his ears, making him feel nauseated that some may find joy in the events of that night. The last time he had escaped alone into woodlands, he had been chased by people in red capes. He’d been trying to find his family then as well, however futilely. If he were to be chased on this night, he doubted his pursuers would wish to help him as King Arthur had. 

    But Thean was older now, and smarter too. He knew far more about magic, and that would have to be enough to see him through. He repeated such thoughts in his head until the words became as jumbled as his boots tripping over rocks and roots. The orange hue of the horizon foretold of the sun’s arrival, so Thean knew he would have to rest soon.

    The further he walked, the more he became aware of how quiet the forest was, as though all the woodland creatures of Camelot had fled the land once the attacks began. The glow of the dagger remained Thean's one companion; its line was straight for the most part, until he saw it curve a short distance from him. In the growing light of dawn, he could see the ground fell away at the point the blade's light had curved away from. A deep hole lay there, as if a giant had reached down its hand to scoop up the dirt and stone. 

     Giants did not exist, but sorcerers did. At the pit of the hole, stones had blackened edges from fire. Whoever had attacked Camelot had not used catapults, as may have been assumed from the flaming rocks that rained down on the citadel. No; the attackers had used magic to turn the land of Camelot against its people. 

     Thean walked faster. He could feel the sinister magic of that awful wound of the ground, and he wanted to get as far away from it as possible. 

    Just as he was starting to slow down, shadowy figures shifted out of the bushes, spurring Thean to brandish the blade in his hand as if to ward off evil spirits. The ethereal glow of the dagger faded to a cold glint of plain steel. 

    Dark hair atop a pale face, blonde hair above freckles. They were not the formidable figures of an enemy patrol, but rather that of his sister and the prince. His shoulders slouched; he wasn’t surprised that he had been followed, but rather disappointed at his own ineptitude to prevent such a result. Thean expected them to run up and hug him in relief at having tracked him down, but both remain several paces away. 

    Ava was the first to speak, her voice heavy with disapproval. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

    Her brother simply lowered his blade in response, no longer aware of its cold sting. Tendrils of light were still absent from the air; no clear path was present to navigate him out of this conundrum. 

    At Thean’s silence, Anselm asked with more gentleness, “Why did you leave the castle?”

    Thean swallowed nervously before answering. “I have to find Pa. You can’t stop me.” His words rang with weakness to his own ears. Having to speak his plans aloud made it all the more clear they were not truly plans at all. 

    Ava’s lips curled with incredulity. “By yourself? We don’t even know if he’s alive, let alone-”

    “He is alive! ” Thean shouted, making the other two children step back in fright. His disturbance of the air slipped into silence, and he continued more softly, “I’ve seen him, in… visions. I even used a spell to contact him, before I found you and Clo. It was just for a moment, but I knew it was him. He said my name.”

    Ava shook her head with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “How could you not tell us? All this time, Clo and I thought he might have ended up like Ma.” 

    Thean closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. The guilt he had managed to bury due to keeping the secret from his siblings now rose to the surface like a dead fish floating on water. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want either of you to get any ideas. The spell to contact him required blood, and wasn’t secure. I should have told you about my visions, but… there were rather unpleasant parts of them. I had hoped they were just nightmares.”

    “Unpleasant parts? What do you mean?” Anselm asked. The revelation that his father’s old friend was alive was wonderful, but the prince was far too focused on keeping his own friends safe to pay that much mind. 

    “You knew the attack was coming,” Ava said numbly. Her brother’s restlessness the past month made more sense. In his dreams, he had often muttered, “Where are you, Ava?” The same thought must have been racing through his mind that night while he searched for her in the streets of Camelot. 

    “I couldn’t be sure,” Thean replied. “But yes, I had my suspicions.”

    “You should have said something,” Anselm said, frowning. Arthur’s son thought of all the lives that may have been lost that night that could have been saved if one boy had had enough courage to speak up.

    “Who would have believed me? I didn’t even believe myself for a while.” Thean crossed his arms over his chest defensively, more to hug himself than for any other reason. Ever since his nightmares had begun a month ago, fear had clouded his judgment. It was only now that waves of shame pierced through his worry as he burned under the disappointment of Ava and Anselm. 

    “I  would have believed you.” Anselm stepped forward. He was covered in soot, his blond hair was littered with small twigs, and his once polished boots were muddy from trekking through the woods. And yet, though he resembled a dirty peasant boy, Anselm had never appeared more princely than in that moment as he held Thean in an earnest gaze. 

    Thean glanced away, wanting desperately to change the topic of his shame. “How did you find me?”

    Anselm smirked, his serious expression morphing into a more playful one. “You left your handkerchief wedged under the stone wall,” he explained, chuckling slightly. Thean’s hand flew to the blue neckerchief he’d grabbed from their room, now realizing where the red one had disappeared to. 

    “I could tell there must be some pathway behind that part of the wall,” Ava said. “Also, you didn’t cover your tracks very well. Don’t worry, I took care of that.” 

    Thean wanted to thank her for doing what he had failed to do. But he worried that if he showed his gratefulness, it’d only reassure them that he did indeed desperately need them. “You should both turn back. What about Clo, Ava?”

    Ava narrowed her eyes at her brother. “You didn’t seem to have trouble leaving him behind, so don’t lecture me about that,” she said angrily, with more bite to her tone than Thean was used to. 

    “Because I thought you were going to look after him!” Thean spoke the sentence loudly at the start, trailing off as he remembered through his frustration their need for silence. 

    “Clo will be safest underneath the castle; the sorcerers and knights will protect him,” Anselm said.

    Finding that line of reasoning explained away, Thean turned his attention to Anselm. “And what about you? You’re the prince; when the Queen realizes you’re missing, she’ll send out search parties.”

    “Not many, though,” Anselm said, shrugging in an attempt to feign nonchalance. In truth, he felt ever increasing guilt at leaving with no explanation to his mother or sister, but he had known that Thean needed help more than he’d ever admit. “Most of the city streets have been taken over. The path we took to get into the forest will probably be discovered soon anyway, and then no one will be able to leave the tunnels, at least not for a while.”

    Thean shook his head. “You don’t have to do this,” he sighed in one last attempt to persuade the stubborn prince. “You don’t have to protect me, Anselm.”

    “I want to. So, where are we going?” He transitioned easily, as though the decision was finally settled upon. 

    Thean tried to think up more reasons for Ava and Anselm not to accompany him, but upon glancing at the determination in their stances, he realized he had little chance of persuading them. “Well, I was just about to figure that out when you two came along,” he said frankly. 

    Ava’s jaw dropped slightly. “You didn’t know where you were going?”

    “I was going to, um… “ Words failing him as they often did, Thean raised the blade he had clutched at his side. Its green glow was fainter than before, settled in the center of its length, but there all the same. Ava and Anselm said nothing, uncomprehending of his silent explanation. “It helped me find a safe path out of the city,” Thean continued. “I think it can help us find Pa.”

    “A dagger? It’s an inanimate object, Thean,” Anselm said. 

    “I don’t think it’s meant to be used as a weapon, though. I think it’s more than that,” Thean said, undeterred. He wasn’t sure of much in his life anymore, but his instinct told him what he spoke then was true. “My dreams led me to it; all my visions have only tried to help. Why would this be any different?”

    Ava approached closer to Thean until her fingers could graze the blunt tip. “How do you use it?”

    “I just have to concentrate, and think of where I want to be.” In his head, he thought: Please help me find my Pa. He tried to picture his father handing him a bruised but delicious apple, a bit of sweetness on an otherwise bland day. Wisps of green light flowed out of the blade, curling around Thean’s side and leading past a tree behind him.

    “How pretty,” Ava whispered, slightly fearful her breath would blow away what was emitted from the blade. She wore an expression similar to when she had first stepped in the chapel of the castle. 

    Anselm remained where he had been standing, not as eager as Ava to approach the magical object. “How do we know if it’s safe?”

    “How did you know the chapel in the castle was safe?” Thean asked.

    “It just felt… right,” Anselm said slowly. He tried to think back to that first night he and Eloise had come upon the chapel entrance, many moons ago. Despite the cobwebs and darkness reigning in the old place of worship, he and his sister had known immediately that this was a place they could be completely and unequivocally themselves. 

    Thean smiled at his friend, allowing himself to be glad of Anselm’s presence. “Exactly. This feels right.” 

    Anselm nodded slowly. “Okay. So we’re following… a glowing dagger?” The prince tried to keep a straight face. He had been mostly accepting of the strange habits and unique talents of Merlin’s children, and wanted to maintain that reputation. 

    Thean nodded. “Yes, for a little longer, and then we’ll rest for a bit.” He turned his gaze to the horizon, where streaks of natural illumination were just beginning to break. 

    From behind he heard his sister say, “The sun is coming out again.” 

Chapter Text

Arthur

    He stepped out of the shadows. A line of light from the cavern’s ceiling illuminated one of his eyes. Gold faded back to blue, and the dagger that had still been hovering behind Arthur just a moment before dropped to the ground with a clang . 

    His eyes were the same as Arthur had remembered them, but the rest of him was not. Indentations were scattered about his face, both from age and scarring. His thin frame was donned in black clothing, so unlike the colorful garbs he had worn during his years in Camelot. Black hair reached past his ears in unkempt locks, scraggly and darkened by grime. But despite all that was different, somehow his baffling departed manservant was still smiling. 

    “Merlin,” Arthur breathed. “You’re… you.” 

    “And you’re still slow,” Merlin chuckled, maintaining a sad smile. “That much hasn’t changed.” Arthur’s face was lined with age more than Merlin remembered, but he looked far less worse for wear than his manservant. 

    It was then Merlin started to move towards Arthur, and then he began to sink to the ground. Arthur went down with him, grasping for his arms to slow the descent. Even through the black cloth, he could feel Merlin shaking with a strange heat.

    “Helena!” Arthur called, uncaring of how strangled his voice sounded as it echoed through the cavern. 

    The physician was soon kneeling beside Arthur, wrapping one of Merlin’s arms around her shoulders. Arthur took the other side, and together they crossed a span of the cavern to where makeshift piles of hay were where the slaves had likely slept. Those same slaves looked on with wary curiosity at the spectacle. Just like Thean, Merlin had rarely talked to the other slaves once he had been separated from his family. Thus, they knew little of the man the King seemed to be focused on. 

    “Is there anywhere better we can get him to?” Arthur hissed to Helena as they laid Merlin down. Underneath a forehead beaded with sweat, Merlin’s eyes rolled back and forth as he drifted in and out of consciousness. 

    Helena shook her head. “The place where the handlers slept would likely be better, but I don’t think he’s fit to move right now.”

    “What’s wrong with him?” Arthur asked. “I mean, other than the obvious.” 

    “Oi,” Merlin muttered, though his eyes were closed. Arthur couldn’t tell if he was trying to respond, but just hearing his old friend speak eased his mounting worry. 

    “He’s burning up,” Helena said, resting a hand on his forehead. “We just need to find what- ah…” She had rolled up one of Merlin’s sleeves to reveal an all too thin forearm covered with runes. But these runes did not have the oddly peaceful black and blue appearance Arthur had seen on the arms of Merlin’s children. No, these runes glowed with a sickening red hue. 

    “That’s not normal,” Arthur said thickly. 

    “No,” Helena agreed grimly. “Runes only look like this when someone’s been fighting them. He’s been using magic too much.” 

    “Can you help him?” Arthur found his hands shaking, as he feared the answer.

    “I’ll do my best.” Helena reached for Arthur’s hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. She had rarely dropped her facade of professionalism to show compassion to the King, but could tell in that moment he needed reassurance more than ever before. “Gaius has always been better at this, but I’ll have to remove at least some of the runes right away, otherwise he may… suffer.” The last word was said hesitantly, so as to not worry the King even moreso. 

    As she reached into her satchel for potions, Merlin stirred slightly, opening his eyes just wide enough to see Arthur. “Did I cause a scene?” he murmured. 

    “Yes. You always do,” Arthur forced himself to smile. He could not succumb to despair now; he had to at least feign that all was right, for Merlin’s sake. Merlin moved to sit up, confusion entering his face, but Arthur gently pushed him back into the hay. “Lie still. Do as I say just this once, alright?” 

    Merlin returned the King’s smile and closed his eyes. “Hmm. Maybe,” he said absently, already fading back into the snares of fever. Hesitantly, Arthur reached a hand to lay on Merlin’s head. His hair felt like Thean’s. 

    “I won’t be able to remove all the runes,” Helena reiterated as she carefully place bottles on the stone floor. “Some will have to wait until Camelot, but I’ll try to get rid of the ones that may be causing him the most harm.” 

    All Arthur could do was nod. He was the King, but in so many ways, he was powerless. He hadn’t been able to find Merlin for over 10 years despite his efforts, and even now that they were reunited, all Arthur could do at this moment was observe the damage that had been done to him. 

    Helena raised Merlin’s black shirt to reveal a sunken abdomen cluttered with runes, at least half of which had a sinister red glow. As the physician set to work, Arthur did his best to not notice the frightening way in which Merlin’s ribs jutted against pale skin, or the scars that intersected the few spaces not covered in runes. He knew better than to think that all of those scars had been acquired after Merlin had been captured. 

    The process for rune removal was a long one, so Arthur shifted to rest his head against the cool stone wall of the cavern. In the distance, he heard Sir Leon answering all questions from other knights. No doubt, many sought to ask the King in person of these matters, but Leon knew Arthur may not be in a very focused frame of mind right now. 

    The light within the cavern brightened; from that, Arthur could surmise that it was noontime when Helena finally finished what she had set out to do. “I’ve done all I can, for now,” Helena said to the King, who had remained silent throughout the process. “I must move on to treat some of the others. I’ll be back later to check in on him.” 

    “Thank you, Helena.” 

    Arthur only had to wait a few more minutes for Merlin to wake up. His hands scrambled across his chest, sensing rather than seeing the absence of the mark beneath his shirt, and he held one of his arms up to the light. More than half of his runes had been removed. 

    Arthur leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, grateful to see alertness back in the man’s eyes. “How do you feel?”

    Merlin takes a moment to answer, and Arthur is once again struck by the similarities in features as well as some mannerisms between him and Thean. “Better than I have in a long time.”

    “I’ll bet,” Arthur said. More softly, he continued, “You were in quite a bad way.”

    “Don’t,” Merlin said wearily. He continued to stare at his arms as though they weren’t his own. 

    “Don’t what?”

    “Blame yourself. I can already tell that you are, and have been for some time.” As he said those words, Merlin turned his gaze directly to Arthur’s, and a rush of nostalgia flooded the King. He had forgotten what that felt like; to feel as though all the thoughts at the surface and depths of his mind could be seen and understood by another person with just one glance. 

    “If it had been up to me Merlin, on that day… I would have never stopped looking.” 

    Merlin nodded, grimacing not at the sentiment, but at the memory of the day that had severed them from one another. “I know.”

    A heavy quiet persisted between the two men, but Arthur did not want to stay in silence. So many times he had thought of all that he may say if he were to find Merlin, but now that the moment had come to pass, he could not think of how to make up for a decade of being apart. Instead, he chose to focus on the present rather than the insurmountable past. 

    “The protection runes outside the camp- they were different than usual, easier to break.” Arthur narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Any idea why that was?”

    Merlin pretended to look befuddled. “Hmm, strange. I’ve no idea.” Arthur chuckled; encouraged by the entrance of jest into the conversation, Merlin continued, “Even in Medora, we’d hear of the ‘great King Arthur of Camelot’ liberating slaves. So, I figured I’d make it easier for you. I couldn’t do anything drastic with the runes on, but I was able to slowly unwind the net of magic around the camp. And it was quite convenient that all the handlers kept getting ill, too.”

    Arthur thought back to the hideous boils he’d seen on the handler that had tried to attack him. “That was you?”

    Merlin shrugged, feigning innocence and casting his glance downwards, where he was once again struck by how unlike his usual self he appeared. “How did this happen?” he asked, gesturing to his arms. “There was a woman…”

    “Helena.”

    “Helena,” Merlin murmured, testing the name out. “I’ll have to thank her.” He shifted uncomfortably where he sat, struck by the magnitude of how many people may reside now in Camelot that he had never met. 

    Perhaps sensing this, Arthur said, “And Gaius- he taught her all she knows.”

    Merlin’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Gaius? He’s…”

    “Alive and well, and stubborn as an old goat.”

    Merlin broke into a wide grin, speechless with joy for a moment. “It’d be good to see him again.”

    Seizing on to his friend looking like his old self again, Arthur began to ramble. “Well, you can now, once we’re back in Camelot. And on the way, we can stop in Ealdor and you can visit your mother-”

    “My mother?” Merlin interrupted, joy morphing into anxiety. “Have you seen her?”

    “Yes, last spring,” Arthur said, nodding in reassurance. He didn’t care to admit that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to Ealdor until more than ten years after Merlin’s disappearance. “She met Thean.”

    “Thean?” Merlin repeats, utter confusion in his gaze. “How do you… he’s staying with her?”

    Arthur bit his lip, realizing he had spectacularly failed to mention the safety of Merlin’s children before. “No, Merlin. Thean’s in Camelot with Clo and Ava.”

    Merlin stared at Arthur’s face for a long moment; he then glanced away and wrung his hands, rocking back and forth slightly as though he was a lost child. Arthur reached out a hand to place lightly on Merlin’s shoulder; though he was glad to notice his friend no longer burned with fever, the shaking was still present.

    Staring through a distance of darkness, Merlin finally spoke. “All this time, I thought… There was a moment in the winter, when I heard Thean’s voice, but I thought I might just be going crazy.” He shook his head, laughing in slight hysterics. “I had some hope, but I worried they might all be…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, for the fears that had plagued him the past year were too grievous to put into words. Mustering enough strength to meet Arthur’s eyes once again, he asked, “And Lea? Is she with the children?”

    Arthur swallowed and gripped Merlin’s shoulder more tightly. “No, Merlin,” and the light went out of his eyes. “We went to the Medora mountains to try and look for her, but it was too late. I’m so sorry.” His words sounded so empty and futile. 

    Merlin shifted away from Arthur, out of reach of the hand that had lain on his shoulder. He pressed his back against the stone wall and drew his knees to his chest, tilting his chin upward to stare at the roof of the cavern. Minutes of silence passed between them, with only their breathing and the stirrings of people shifting about the stone floors to enter their ears. 

    Merlin, still not looking in Arthur’s direction, said, “And the children? How did you find them?”

    Arthur then told at length of how he first found Thean running through the woods, of the way in which Thean had met Gaius and Anselm, and bonded with the prince and princess during his time within Camelot. He tried to speak more of Thean’s time in Ealdor than of the grim events of Medora, but he still noticed the look of abject horror upon Merlin’s face when he realized what his son must have seen. Arthur paused to let Merlin absorb this before launching into happier tales of Thean’s growing talents for cooking, magic, and mischief. 

    It was easy to tell Merlin of when Ava and Clo were found in Nemeth, and of how they had been housed and well-fed. Merlin even managed a smile as Arthur told him of how Anselm goaded Thean into playing tricks on the children of other nobles, and how Ava had taken up lessons with Gaius, and of course how Clo bounded across the streets of Camelot with a gaggle of children at his beck and call. It wasn’t easy to tell Merlin of how all three of his children still struggled to live without their parents, so Arthur did not. There was no use in focusing on the negative aspects when Merlin would soon be reunited with them, to comfort and guide them in all the ways Arthur had failed to. 

    “Thank you for taking care of them,” Merlin said earnestly. To hear that his children were alive and well made him feel more free than the removal of the runes had.  

    “It was the least I could do.” In his head, Arthur thought, And I should’ve done so much more. He had to bite back the instinct to talk his way around the grief in his friend’s expression, to pretend that the approximately 12 years that had separated them had never really transpired. Growing up, Arthur had been taught by his father and mentors that strength meant not allowing yourself to feel or show sadness, and that as a leader he should encourage the same trait in others. Only when he had become a King in his own right did he begin to realize that burying emotions made a person weaker in every aspect. Thus, when Merlin did not say anymore, Arthur asked, “What was she like, Lea?”

    Merlin took a long moment to answer the question, to the point Arthur feared he was not going to speak again until he murmured, “It’s hard to describe her in words, but she was… magical.”

    “She had magic too?”

    “No, that’s not what I meant. She didn’t need magic.” Merlin’s eyes were then lost to memory as a flurry of emotions spread across his face, some joyful and others tinged with despair. “I don’t think I would have made it through a day in Medora without her. When I woke up, she was the first person I saw…”

*****

    Soft singing. A breeze at his lips. Darkness beyond his eyelids stirring into light. 

    And a voice saying, “Ah, you’re finally awake. Took you long enough.”

    Pain radiated through Merlin’s back. Unable to gather his thoughts yet, he instead took in his surroundings. Light only came from his right side, revealing half of a pale face a few inches from his own. Brown eyes and hair the color of a flame but streaked with layers of dirt spilled over her shoulders. She wore a tan dress, if the rags could even be called that. 

    He allowed his eyes to wander away from the woman only briefly; indiscernible shadows moved behind her. Some slouched against the other side of the narrow cave, looking as miserable as Merlin currently felt. Their appearances were as uncomfortably strange as the stone beneath his back. “Drink,” the woman said, pressing a cup made of the same stone to his lips. “You’ll feel better.”

    Only then did Merlin realize quite how thirsty he was, and he eagerly gulped down the cool (albeit foul tasting) water. “Where am I?” he asked, startled by how raspy his voice sounded. 

    “The Medora mountains,” the redheaded woman explained, taking the cup from his hands and placing it by her side. Her arms were covered in strange shapes. 

    “Medora…?” It was then he noticed that his arms were not his own- or at least, they couldn’t be, because Merlin’s arms did not have such ghastly markings. Black, blue, and all grotesque, they swirled across his vision. “What are these?” he asked in growing panic. 

    “Those are why you feel like you’ve been dragged through mud,” she said frankly. “You’ve got more than most; handlers seemed real angry when they brought you in, so I guess they took it out on you. I wasn’t sure you’d ever wake up.” 

    “How long was I out?”

    “Three days.” 

    “No,” Merlin says, shuffling back from her. Even his palms could barely support him as they scuffed against the ground. He felt as though he was no longer himself; the energy that always faintly pulsed beneath his skin was gone, replaced by a feeling of hollowness. “It can’t have been three days. Arthur would have…” 

    He would have found me. 

    But he hadn’t. Merlin was still trying to piece together how he’d wound up in this godforsaken place, but he remembered having been alone. No knights had been there to aid him, and usually that wouldn’t be a problem. Merlin could always defend himself; he could run, and use magic, of course. 

    When he’d first seen the men emerge from the trees, he ran, and he had used magic instinctively, throwing one of the men far away. However, pain had suddenly sparked between his shoulders, and he had fallen to the ground. Neither his muscles nor his thoughts could move after that. He remembered feeling himself lifted by the back of his shirt, and then feeling nothing more for a long time. 

    “Who’s Arthur?” the woman asked, though she sounded only half-interested. 

    Merlin’s thoughts raced as he stared unanswering at the woman. If he revealed his true identity to the handlers, they’d either not believe him or kill him out of hatred of Camelot, Arthur, magic or all of the above. They might even think to use Merlin for ransom. None of those were good options. 

    “Just a friend,” Merlin said, casting his gaze away from her. Wanting to change the subject, he continued, “Thank you for healing me. What’s your name?”

    “Lea,” she said, rising to her feet. 

    “I’m Merlin,” he said, then grimaced at his stupidity, hoping she would not recognize his name. However, she showed hardly any reaction at all to his introduction, instead pulling him up wordlessly by the arm. Merlin groaned as spots appeared in his vision, though Lea kept a hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

    “I know you’re probably hungry, but you’ll have to work first,” she said. “The handlers are already annoyed enough that you’ve taken so long to recover from the runes.” 

    “I don’t think I’ve fully recovered,” Merlin sighed. “I feel awful.”

    “Yeah, get used to it,” Lea said, guiding him deeper into the cave. “That won’t go away.” 

    The blackness drew closer, still and heavy. Sharp pebbles prodded Merlin’s feet as he walked, startling him into the realization that he no longer had his boots. His traditional clothes were gone as well, replaced by tan and torn rags similar to Lea’s. He shuddered to think of who had changed him while he was unconscious, and did not wish to wonder why the clothes were so ragged. 

    These clothes were someone else’s. The thought was enough to morph his hunger into nausea. Only Lea’s persistent grip on his shoulder kept him from leaning over to vomit. 

   The tunnel widened, allowing the two to weave their way through bent over strangers clothed similarly as them. The chiming sounds of metal against stone rang in Merlin’s ears, reminding him of the sounds outside Tom’s blacksmith shop, before he had met an unfortunate end. Even though such memories of the man were tinged with sadness, they made Merlin ache to be home, where he could chat with Gwen, eat with Gaius, and argue with Arthur over matters both trivial and drastic. 

    “Ya look like the bottom of me shoe,” a nearly toothless man remarked, grinning at Merlin. He held a lantern, making Merlin wince from the brightness. Chuckles sung off to the side of the man from shadowy figures not nearly as lean as those bent over the stones. 

    “And you look like the bottom of my feet,” Merlin said, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could consider the insult. He wasn’t sure what his feet looked like at that moment, but given the soot surrounding him, they couldn’t be too pretty. Any comeback was better than none, as he had learned from years with Arthur. 

    And then Merlin was on the ground, not knowing what had hit him, but feeling the pain in the side of his face anyway. Something sharp and something flat were dropped on his back, eliciting guffaws from the well-built spectators. “Learn to use yer hands and not yer mouth.” As laughter and footsteps receded, Merlin sat up. Three points along his temple pulsed where knuckles had connected with his skull, the blow not at all helping the general lightheadedness he had been feeling. 

    I didn’t use my magic. 

    Even in the days when he had lived in constant fear of his sorcery being discovered, Merlin had used his talents instinctively. They rose to his fingertips in times of danger, making the urge to use spells nearly impossible to resist. This feeling wasn’t quite the same as when he had lost his magic completely before the Battle of Camlann. Rather, his magic felt as though it were in a deep sleep, from which only great effort would allow it to be roused. 

    With sound and sight becoming more apparent, Merlin realized he couldn’t recover for long if he did not want to be hit again. The objects that had been thrown at him were a bucket and a small pickaxe scarcely the length of his forearm. Only when he saw Lea’s pale figure disappearing into the dark did he summon enough strength to stand up again. 

    He half fell, and half knelt beside where she was working. Lea did not glance up, focusing only on the mounds of rocks before her. Having never had the need to mine, Merlin observed her actions for a moment before trying to mimic them. 

    “You shouldn’t provoke the handlers,” Lea breathed, revealing that she had indeed been aware of his presence. 

    The word she used- handlers. As though he and Lea were farm animals instead of human beings. “They provoked me,” he insisted. 

    “I’m serious. They’ll kill you,” she said matter-of-factly, pausing only a second to meet Merlin’s eyes so he knew she meant business. 

    “They can’t kill me if I escape.”

    Though she was no longer looking directly at him, Merlin could still see her eyes roll from the distant light of a torch. “Very funny. There’s no way to escape.”

    The sorcerer was undeterred by her pessimism. “That can’t be true. There’s always a way out!” He had learned that much from the countless times he had been captured, either by bandits or sorcerers or any other hellish places he had been thrown into. 

    “Yes, I suppose dying is a way out,” Lea hissed, her voice turning venomous. “And we’ll certainly both be dead if you keep talking about escaping, so do us both a favor and drop it. You’re here, and you’re going to stay here, just like everyone else.”

    For the first time since opening his eyes, Merlin felt something other than shock and weakness. He felt angry- angry at himself for falling into this situation, and angry at Lea for being so stubbornly devoid of hope. “So that’s it then?” he asked stonily. “You healed me just so that I could live in a place like this?”

    “Oh, sorry, would you prefer I’d have left you alone?”

    “No, but-”

    “I healed you because someone once did the same for me, and because if I didn’t, no one else was going to save your sorry hide. So stop asking questions, and stop acting like I’m your friend. Maybe you had friends back where you came from, but you won’t find any in here.” She left Merlin to mine by himself, turning deeper into the cave with a swish of her dress.

    He was only able to scrape a few chunks of copper that day, as he found he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. The food provided after several hours of mining did little to stifle his hunger. Merlin was used to flavorless oats, having grown up in the harsh winters of Ealdor, but these meals (termed ‘slop’ by the other slaves) were dreadful from blandness and gummy texture. He tried to sit down by Lea, but she moved to a different location as soon as his feet were placed in her direction. 

    At the end of his first week in Medora, he woke up staring into the dead eyes of a woman who’d passed away in the middle of the night. 

    During the third week, Merlin watched as one man broke off into a sprint from the main cave’s opening. The man laughed hysterically as he was beaten to death halfway down the mountainside by a handful of handlers who had noticed his escape. 

    Merlin was only able to fall asleep by pretending he was safe back in Camelot once his eyes were closed. He told himself that his arms and back only ached from lugging Arthur’s armor around, or from stooping in the forest to collect herbs for Gaius. Next morning, he can draw up a hot bath for himself. Arthur will yell at him for being late, and everything will be alright again. 

    And since in his dreams he is still in Camelot, he can use his magic freely. Only on his third night in Medora did Merlin finally summon enough strength to produce a blue butterfly, the same spell he had first done after regaining his magic before the battle of Camlann. 

    He vomited thrice that night as a result.

    Merlin began to feel farther from his past self as his first month in the mines drew to a close, thinking of all that he was missing. Their faces flickered in his mind: Gaius and his mother. Arthur, Gwen, and Gwaine- all the people he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. He even thought of little Anselm, who was only just a baby. He had been quite looking forward to watching the prince grow up, and making sure that he didn’t become as arrogant of a prince as his father proved to be. Instead, Merlin was stuck in darkness, unable to recall the last time he opened his mouth to share his thoughts with another soul. 

    One evening when the sky was gray at dusk and without stars, Merlin found himself at the opening to the main cave. A drop littered with stones and ledges separated the cave from the rest of the sloping mountainside. Anyone who wished to escape had to proceed slowly down the rocks before running. If one were to fall from the very top, they most certainly would not be in this world once they hit the bottom. 

    “Don’t let my hard work go to waste.”

    He recognized her voice, but not her meaning. “Sorry?” he said, turning his gaze away from the sharp cliff face. 

    “It’s okay.” Lea stepped closer to where he stood, staring down at the precipice with him. “Everyone here has stood right where you are.”

    Realization slowly dawned across Merlin’s features, and his gaze flitted from her and back to the stones. They looked less tempting then than they had before Lea's arrival. “Why didn’t they go further?” he asked her. 

    “For the same reason you haven’t yet.”

    Merlin thinks of how he still visits Camelot in his dreams. He sighed. “Hope.” That stubborn shred that kept him clinging when he only wished to let go. 

   “Hmm, yes, I suppose that’s it,” Lea murmured, and he saw her smile then for the first time as she looked out into the forest. “Look, Merlin.”

    Merlin followed her line of sight to where a blue-gray bird perched atop a tree branch. He let out a small laugh, the first time he had since an arrow had pierced his shoulder. “It’s a merlin!” He had rarely seen his namesake in Camelot, but a flock of them had always lived near Ealdor.

    “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lea said.

    Merlin turned to look at her. Red hair caught the sun in just the right way, making him think of pumpkin tarts and fallen leaves, and her brown eyes were reminiscent of the mahogany table where he and Gaius shared meals. Still gazing at her, Merlin said half to himself, “Yes.”

    Noticing where his attention was now focused, Lea swallowed self-consciously, her cheeks turning slightly pink. “I meant what I said earlier; no one really has friends in the mines.” Her tone had gotten harsher, making Merlin steel himself for more stern words. “But, if I ever have a little extra slop…” She let her words trail off.

    “I’d love some slop.” A grin came to his face, eliciting a small laugh from Lea. It was the kind of light noise he’d only thought could be released from those unburdened by life’s sorrows. He hadn’t expected such a sound from an otherwise somber woman, but he was glad for it. She must still have hope as well. 

    Cold air at their backs and warmth in front of them, they remained at the ledge in a comfortable silence. 

*****

    Merlin’s tale of his time in the mines wound on. He told Arthur of how he and Lea gradually began to work together more; she taught him tricks to breaking up copper so that their buckets looked as though they’d mined more in a day than they truly had. At night, she would sing him songs about heroes and commoners alike, and he would tell her tales of Camelot. Lea hadn’t believed his seemingly grandiose stories at first, but as they wove on and grew more detailed, and he showed her his abilities to do small acts of magic despite the runes, her belief in his true identity grew. “She told me to not tell anyone else of my real name, lest they discover who I really was and try to use my magic for bad. When we were near other people, she would call me Merls instead,” he explained, chuckling at the memory. “Not the best cover name, but I suppose it did well enough. Besides, none of the handlers really asked what my name was. To them, we were all the same.” 

    But Lea never told Merlin stories of her own life. He had tried to ask her, but she clammed up every time. “She told me she was from the Departed Lands- I could guess from her name, but that was all. Sometimes, I felt as though I hardly knew her, but… I loved all the parts I did know.” 

    Happiness was exchanged with fear when he told Arthur of the time Thean and Ava had been born, and later of Clo. “We were so scared, Lea and I,” the warlock told his old friend, shuddering from the memory. “There weren’t any healers in the mines; handlers would just replace anyone who died with new people whenever our numbers got low. I had to just use what little I had learned from Gaius to help Lea. And then, I thought of us five trying to escape once the children were old enough to walk. Illnesses were so common, and I couldn’t always protect them from the handlers.” 

    At this, Merlin paused, his hands balling into fists. Arthur looked away from him and at the ground; the feeling of powerlessness must have been at times unbearable. With a sigh, Merlin continued, “But every escape attempt we saw from other slaves was futile, ending as soon as it started. There were times when I…” His voice grew closer to a whisper. “When I felt guilty for having ever brought them into such a place.” 

    In the lapse of silence, Arthur knew he should speak, but it took him a frustratingly long time to come up with any semblance of comforting words. “They’ll live good lives now, in Camelot.”

    “Not all of them,” Merlin said. His tone had become flat, no longer rising with a mixture of joy and sadness as it had before when he told of meeting Lea, and of the birth of his children. “I love them, and I thought that would be enough to see us all through, but it wasn’t.” 

    There was no reversing that, no softening reality by bending the truth into a falsified picture. Knowing this, Arthur could only rest his hand on Merlin’s shoulder to provide the smallest bit of reassurance. “Get some rest, Merlin,” the King said to his servant. “Tomorrow will be a long day, but it will be a better one.” He wished to provide only better days for the man henceforth. 

    Merlin nodded wordlessly, closing his eyes at the order. The way in which he so quickly followed the advice unnerved Arthur, and he wondered if some of the runes on Merlin still rendered him unnaturally obedient. He longed for the retorts and insubordination of olden days. 

    The King of Camelot didn’t stray far from Merlin’s side, only walking a few paces away to ensure the security of the cavern with Sir Leon. They would move out for Nemeth at midnight, when they would be safely enshrouded by darkness, hidden from the peering eyes of other slave camps within the area. 

    Once he checked that Merlin’s breathing was still normal, Arthur rested his head against the stony wall and his feet upon the hay at Merlin’s side, falling asleep faster than he had in a long time.

Chapter Text

Thean

    When Thean had first arrived in Camelot, he had been happy to listen to Anselm’s chatter, as the initially one-sided conversation had provided a pleasant white noise to drown out his otherwise dismal thoughts. 

    Presently in the forest, Thean bargained silently with the gods of the Old Religion to have one uninterrupted minute of silence. Anselm had been remarking constantly on their surroundings since their journey had begun. “That’s where we have the annual summer picnic!” “I wonder where we can find some food?” “Why are we going up this hill? There’s a field up ahead that’d be much easier to walk through.”

    At that moment, Anselm was studying the map Thean had taken from his Ava’s rooms with similarly irritating inquiries. “I don’t know about this, Thean. At this rate, we’ll be going along the edge of the Valley of the Kings. In all of our fathers’ stories, that was rarely a good idea.”

    While Thean shared his friend’s unease, he stubbornly wished to display some semblance of confidence. He kept his gaze on the green glow stretching out into the thickening woods, practically feeling the questioning gazes of Ava and Anselm at his back. “We keep going where the light leads us. It hasn’t failed us yet, has it?”

    The prince couldn’t argue with that reasoning, so he remained quiet for a moment. Thean knew Arthur’s son was only talking so much to distract himself from the distress of the previous night’s events. And yet, Thean was plagued too much by his own distress to be very sympathetic. He scanned their surroundings constantly, ears alert to any noise that did not resemble that of a squirrel or rabbit. Anselm and Ava had followed him out of their desire to keep him safe, but he knew that if anything were to happen to them, he’d be at least partially to blame. 

    “I wish we had a horse,” Anselm yawned absent-mindedly. They’d only slept a few hours before continuing on in the afternoon sunlight. “Can’t either of you magic up a horse?”

    Thean paused to turn towards him, mouth parted in disbelief. “‘Magic up a horse?’ It’s not that simple.” 

    “Why not?” Anselm asked, genuinely curious. “You created a blue butterfly back in Nemeth.”

    Thean struggled to recall that memory, a hazy recollection of the first time he’d shown his siblings what magic could do without restraint. He was surprised that of all the spells he had conjured, the prince had remembered that one in particular. 

    “A horse is a bit more complex than a butterfly,” Ava said, though she smiled sympathetically at Anselm. It was easy to forget that despite the legality of sorcery in Camelot, its ways were still somewhat mysterious to those who did not practice magic. 

    “Yeah, I suppose so,” the prince sighed. “Maybe we could stop at a nearby village, though?” He consulted his map for a moment, before brightening and exclaiming, “Tabertown is just up ahead, we could get there before sunset! It's not very big, but they might have a few horses if we’re lucky.” 

    “You’re crazy,” Thean said dismissively. “We can’t go near the villages; any one of them may have been attacked.” 

    “We won’t know until we try.” 

    “And what would we say to them, if they weren’t attacked? Hi, can we borrow your horses without pay and lead them throughout gods know what dangerous places?” Thean’s voice was thick with bitter sarcasm, and he felt a pang of guilt as Anselm’s optimistic features folded. 

    “I’m sure if we explain our situation, they would help us,” Anselm said, though he sounded less certain than before. 

    “No. It’s too risky; we can’t let anyone know who we are, especially not who you are,” he explained. “Even if the village wasn’t invaded then, if they help us and are taken over later, they could be forced to tell Camelot’s captors about us. You’d be too valuable as a hostage, Anselm.” 

    The prince grimaced at the reality of their situation, and his fright gleamed more obviously in his brown eyes. Thean didn’t want him to be terrified, but he did wish him to be afraid enough to be careful. This wasn’t like Merlin’s stories; the end to their journey hadn’t already happened. If they didn’t take caution with each step, their misadventure may never come to a conclusion worth telling. 

    As they walked on, with Anselm treading more and more behind, Ava fell into step beside her brother. “You don’t have to be so harsh on him,” she murmured, quiet enough to not be heard by the glum prince. 

    Thean sighed. “He needs to understand that not everyone is going to help us.” 

    Ava nodded. They had grown up in a different world from Arthur’s children. In Medora, they had scarcely had the means to help themselves, let alone others. “Yes, but he did have a point that we need to find resources,” she said. “Maybe not horses, but at least some food.” 

    Thean’s stomach growled in agreement. “Soon,” he said. “We can stop by a stream, try our hands at fishing.” 

    “Alright. I bet I’ll catch more than you.” She waggled her eyebrows playfully at him. 

    Thean let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, you probably will.”

    They walked on for a few more hours. Thean knew they needed to rest and eat once Anselm grew silent. The three children diverged slightly from the path of the blade to follow the sound of a babbling stream, at which the light flickered and snapped back into the dagger as though it were annoyed at their deviance. 

    As soon as the water came into sight, Anselm and Ava darted forward, kneeling down to cup the liquid to their parched lips. Thean stayed behind for a moment to take in their surroundings, ensuring none of the shadows came from malicious sources before following their heed. 

    “There are fish!” Ava exclaimed, catching flashes of silver in the reflection of orange light on the stream. 

    “Hardly. They’re the size of slugs, and look like them too,” the prince said despondently, wrinkling his nose in disdain. 

    “They’re better than nothing,” she argued, slowly drawing herself closer to the edge of the water. Ava waited until several silver shapes were gathered near her, then murmured, “Rebus .” Tiny fish soared to the pebbled shore in an arc, dropping at Thean’s feet and flopping in confusion. Ava picked up a rock and trotted over to where her catch lay clinging to life, grimacing as she raised the stone in the air. 

    “No,” Thean said, catching her arm. “They’re too tiny; you’d crush them with that. Let them die out on their own.” 

    Ava frowned. “That’s cruel.” 

    “But necessary,” he insisted. Thean knew his sister had a fondness for creatures of the forest, but if they were too empathetic now, they’d go hungry. He walked over and knelt beside Anselm, who had continued to drink eagerly from the stream despite the siblings’ display of a unique form of fishing. When Thean repeated the word his sister had uttered, several more fish flew from their home and onto the earth. Ava reluctantly continued to help him with the task, glancing back at their catch occasionally to ensure they did not escape their fates. 

    In the end, they were only able to catch twelve little fish before the stream’s supply was depleted. Ava carried them by cupping her skirt as Thean and Anselm searched for a suitable place to rest. When they found a thick copse of trees, Anselm collected nearby twigs and leaves so that Merlin’s children could start a fire. Upon being faced with the issue of cooking the fish, Thean wracked his brain for a useful spell, until he remembered the word, “Supernatet,” that caused the fish to float just above the flames. 

    When the growling of their stomachs was slightly stifled by their measly meal, Ava laid down to rest on a pile of moss she had found by the stream and quickly fell asleep. Anselm collected some leaves to create a makeshift pillow, but they prickled his hair and neck, so the prince shifted closer to the fire in the hopes of finding some comfort. Thean pressed his back against a tree, allowing rocks to dig into his spine so that he could remain wakeful. He was not keeping his eyes open to ward off nightmares, but rather to keep watch for the first third of the night. Then, he would wake up Anselm, and later Ava; that was the setup they had agreed upon. 

    Anselm, however, was starting to believe he may not be able to rest at all that night. Unlike Merlin’s children, he had never slept anywhere except in the softest and warmest of beds. So when the moon hung high in the sky, he shifted over to where Thean sat keeping guard, pressing his own back against the same tree. Thean watched him with a question in his eyes, but said nothing. 

    “Do you think my dad already knows of what happened in Camelot?” Anselm asked. All his chatter earlier in the day had been to keep the question from pulsing in his mind. 

    “I’m not sure,” Thean admitted. “Maybe, if a messenger was able to make it before the citadel was seized, but… maybe not.” 

    “Then we’ll be the messengers,” Anselm said, staring resolutely into the shadows. “We’ll make sure he knows.” Then, almost as a guilty afterthought, he added, “After we find your Pa, of course.” 

    Thean nodded, trying to ignore the spark of doubt he saw in his friend’s eyes. He knew too well that most of the occupants of Camelot, including the prince, had believed for many years that Merlin had perished. Even with Thean’s assertion that his father was alive and well, he wouldn’t be surprised if Anselm had trouble believing a man who had only existed in his bedtime stories to be alive. And to a person who was not able to produce the simplest of spells, supposed visions and a mysterious glowing dagger may not provide sufficient proof. 

    “Are you mad at me?” Anselm murmured, absorbing Thean’s pensive silence. Anselm had learned that he wasn’t like Ava, who was always keen to express exactly what she was thinking. Instead, Thean’s thoughts were like a puzzle that Anselm had lost some of the pieces to. 

    Merlin’s son smirked, letting out a short laugh. Of all the things Camelot’s prince had to worry about, Thean’s emotions towards him should be the least of his concerns. “Only a little,” he reassured. 

    Anselm smiled slightly and nodded. “Alright, I can deal with a little.” They settled into a comfortable silence, with Thean scanning the forest, and Anselm turning his head to the stars. One pair of eyes remained open while the other closed. Thean felt a weight settle on his shoulder, and turned his head slightly to see Anselm had fallen asleep, leaving blond hair to cover the green fabric of Thean's shirt. The dark haired boy sighed, but made sure not to move his shoulders too much thereafter. He’d have to wake the prince up soon enough anyway. 

    As his friend rested beside him, Thean allowed himself to try and enjoy the silence he had craved that entire day. Yet, he found his thoughts stirring up slight noise in his head. He’d thought when he was in the mines that if he and his family were to ever be freed, that would mean they would never have to be afraid again. His past year in Camelot had proven that belief woefully false. Even during the times that he had not feared for his own life, he still feared for the lives of those around them. And when faced with choices with no clear direction in sight, he often became paralyzed by thinking of all the possible outcomes he may face should he make the wrong decision. 

    For he knew that of all the heroes Merlin told him of, and from all the bedtime stories Guinevere had read to Thean and his siblings, the characters’ choices were what set them apart as good or evil or anywhere in between. I am no hero, he thought to himself with resignation. Nor was he a curious and lively wanderer as his namesake had been. He wished only for the world to calm itself so he could put back the pieces remaining of his family. Life had gotten so complicated that a guilty part of him longed for his time in the mines, when there was only one right course of action: to survive. 

    Troubled thoughts turned to confusion when he woke up without realizing he’d fallen asleep. Anselm still lay softly snoring on his shoulder, and the stars gleamed all the same; not too much time could have passed. Still, Thean felt annoyed with himself for having fallen asleep on this night in particular, when he’d been able to remain awake in Camelot on many prior occasions.

    His annoyance had not woken him up, but rather the rustling of weight against leaves sounding across the small clearing they had settled into. He leaned forward, startled, jostling Anselm in the process, who groaned as a result. “Thean, what-” The boy in question clapped a hand over the prince’s mouth, gesturing with his other hand to the source of noise. Anselm’s eyes widened in understanding, and he reached for the wooden sword at his waist. 

    Crawling on his hands and knees in case they hadn’t been spotted yet, Thean made his way to where Ava was curled on her side. Her eyes opened before he had even approached her fully, a question already in her expression. Thean placed a finger over his mouth, gesturing for her to stay where she was. She shook her head, slowly shuffling to where he and Anselm were. 

    More rustling, this time louder and more persistent. Thean approached the thicket of bushes, standing up in case he needed to defend himself quickly. A bizarre wish of being a dragon flitted across his mind in his mounting panic. At least if he were a dragon, he’d have nothing to fear but his own power. 

    With sounds growing to levels unlikely to be that of an ordinary forest creature, Thean decided to be bold. He raised his dagger, which at the moment gleamed only with the silvery reflection of the stars. “If someone’s out there, don’t come any closer. We’re armed.” 

    “Yeah, whatever. My weapon’s bigger than yours!”

    Thean would be afraid, if he hadn’t known that taunting voice. It was-

    “Eloise?” Anselm asked in shock, drawing closer to the bushes from where he had stood protectively between Thean and Ava. 

    Eloise it was; she stepped out of the bushes, spitting a twig out of her mouth in disgust. Her dress was more brown than purple from the dirt of the forest, but she looked unharmed. Nor was she alone; Thean tensed, raising the dagger he had begun to lower once again, only to nearly drop it in surprise as red hair appeared. 

    “Clo? ” Thean asked. “What are you doing here?”

    Clo crossed his arms, letting out a huff. “I could ask the same of you three.” He wore the same blue tunic he’d been wearing the night of the attack, as well as a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. 

    “Honestly, Anselm,” Eloise murmured, her playful tone dispersing. “How could you just leave, without saying a word? You’re getting to be worse than Thean.”

    “Excuse me?” Thean said, still having the clarity of mind to be offended. 

    “She’s right.” Merlin’s younger son looked tired, but resolute in his words. “You couldn’t have expected us to just let you disappear to do… well, what are you doing?” 

    Ava spoke this time, seeing the guilt on Thean’s face. “Finding Pa. He’s alive. It’s- it’s a long story.” Thean turns his gaze to hers, and she nodded to him; he had been criticized enough as of late. She wanted to let Thean tell Clo on his own terms. 

    “Well, I like stories,” Clo retorted, in a tone oddly quiet at first. “And I’d love to hear the one about how Pa is alive, and how the three of you know that, and why you didn’t tell me!” The last part he shouted, making the gathered children jump. Aware of their precarious position despite his fury, Clo clenched and unclenched his fists to channel his anger without yelling again. 

    “And I’d also love to hear about why you left Camelot without a word,” Eloise said as the silence settled, looking pointedly in her brother’s direction. 

    “It all happened so fast, Elly,” Anselm murmured, shoulders slouched and feet shuffling. “Ava and I didn’t know where Thean had gone, and we picked up his trail, and then I couldn’t just leave them and the next thing I knew… we were here.” 

    Thean didn’t think he’d ever heard Anselm talk so quickly, but that was probably because he’d never heard his friend talk with such remorse before. Is that my fault? 

    But before he could contemplate that question, Ava spoke her own. “How did you find us?” she asked of her little brother and the princess. “Thean and I made sure our tracks were covered, so you couldn’t have followed our footsteps- right?” An ounce of doubt lay in her voice. If two young children were able to find them, who else could?

    It was Clo’s turn to shuffle his feet now. “I, um… smelled the path.” 

    Thean wrinkled his nose in confusion. “You mean you saw the path?” He knew his father to have had such an ability before Medora. 

    “No, I meant what I said. Ever since the runes were taken off, I can smell things better. So Eloise and I were able to find you three because I, heh, followed your scent.” Clo’s eyes shifted nervously between the faces of his siblings and friends. 

    A beat of silence. 

    Then, a burst of laughter. 

    Thean was the first to laugh, bending over from sudden glee. Ava’s shoulders shook, and she raised her hand to cover her mouth in futile attempts to stifle her chuckles. Anselm’s laughter, meanwhile, was in the form of unabashed howls, throwing his head back to the moon like a wolf.

    Eloise elbowed Clo and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, I told you so. That small gesture pulled Clo out of his embarrassed stupor. “Oh, c’mon- it’s not that funny!”

    Finally catching his breath, Anselm clapped Clo on the shoulder. “No, it’s not that funny,” he said, giving the boy a seemingly sympathetic smile. “It’s hilarious!” Leaping onto a nearby slanted rock, Anselm cleared his throat ceremoniously, pursing his lips to appear dignified. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he began in a voice akin to the announcers he had heard at jousting tournaments. “I present to you, the mighty Clover- the greatest sniffer in all of Camelot!” 

    Anselm’s theatrics were met with renewed laughter from Ava and Thean, as well as louder chuckles from Eloise and a red hue rising to Clo’s cheeks. “Fine, have your laughs!” Clo said, waving a dismissive hand in their directions. He unslung the rucksack from his shoulder, reaching in to grab a shiny red object. “I’ll just enjoy all these delicious apples to myself in the meantime.” 

    At the sight of the red skin glinting in the moonlight, Thean approached his little brother with Anselm and Ava at his heels. As they sat in the dirt and ate the fruit with humming noises of satisfaction, Eloise eagerly told the other children of how she and Clo had found their way out of Camelot. She regaled Clo’s use of spells on their way out of the siege tunnels, eliciting a groan of woe from her older brother. “You mean to tell me you knocked out the guards at our door?” Anselm massaged his temple in stressful anticipation at the stern talking to they’d get from their mother. 

    While Clo nodded his head, Eloise murmured, “‘Knocked out’ is a strong way of putting it. Clo just… helped them fall asleep a little faster.” 

    “Yes. Hurling buckets at them made that quite easy,” the princess’ accomplice said as he grinned at the prince, who did not return his glee. 

    Thanks to Clo’s sniffing abilities, he and Eloise had been able to adhere to the safe path Thean’s blade had traced out for them. They came upon few troubles, only sparsely spotting caravans in the distance heading for Camelot. 

    Thean frowned at that information. “The people in the caravans- what did they look like?” 

    Eloise shrugged. “We didn’t get close enough to tell much. Some of them had swords, some looked like maids, and some were children.” 

    “Maids and children?” Anselm repeated. “Why?”

    “Whoever attacked us, they’ve already taken over the castle, and they must think the majority of Camelot is dead or have fled,” Ava ruminated, hugging her knees to her chest. “So maybe they’re bringing their families into the citadel, not realizing most of Camelot’s people are beneath their feet.” 

    Anselm gave a weary sigh. “I just don’t understand. Why would people from the Departed Lands travel all the way to Camelot? We’ve hardly interacted with them- none of the kingdoms want to, they’re a lost cause.” 

    “Apparently not,” Thean said, frowning at Anselm’s contempt filled tone. Though he knew only vague details of those chaotic lands, they had given him his mother, and for that he could not hate the area completely. “They were able to take over the citadel quickly, and with magic. Maybe they were disorganized once, but not anymore.” 

    Eloise bit into her apple, looking bored of where the conversation had turned. “Then we’ll just find their leader and kill him, and they won’t be organized any longer.” 

    At that, a stiff silence settled over the group, allowing the tiredness within their bones to become more apparent. As Ava laid down in her makeshift pillow of moss, Anselm went to sit on a boulder to watch over the group for the next few hours. Eloise followed him, and he tried to tell her to go sleep somewhere more comfortable, but she stubbornly leaned her head against his shoulder, falling asleep quickly despite the cold stone by her back. 

    Thean, however, did not have sleep come so quickly. He glanced over to his brother, who had laid down a pace away from him. Clo, too, had not fallen asleep, instead choosing to gaze at the stars above, looking more lost in thought than usual. 

    “I want to tell you,” Thean said, feeling time slow as he spoke the words. 

    Clo peered in Thean’s direction, only one half of his face visible. “Tell me what?” 

    “About Pa. About how we- well, how I knew he was alive.” 

    Clo stared at him for a moment before allowing his gaze to drift back to the night sky. “I’m listening.” 

    So Thean told him of the night he’d contacted their father, and of the visions he’d had for the past month of Camelot’s dire fate. He even spoke of the blade, figuring it was easier to explain their strange method of travel now rather than later. All the while, he watched as the corner of Clo’s mouth drew further downward. 

    “Why were you afraid to tell Ava and I?” Clo asked. 

    Thean was about to reflexively recite the explanation he had given the day before, then paused. He had told his sister and Anselm that he’d been afraid his siblings might use the same dangerous communication spell he had, and that he had thought his visions might be just abnormally vivid nightmares. But truly, neither of those explanations had been the heart of the matter. 

    “I was afraid I’d be like Morgana,” Thean whispered, closing his eyes as a shiver went down his spine. He had been lucky to never have the displeasure of living in the same world as Morgana, but he felt as though he almost knew her from all the stories his father had told. 

    “Well that’s stupid,” Clo said bluntly. “Morgana was crazy. You’re not.” 

    “She wasn’t always crazy,” Thean countered, wanting to be understood. “She went crazy because of all the awful things that happened to her, and because she lost everyone she cared about. That all started with her visions.”

    His little brother was silent for a long moment, to the point that Thean was afraid he may have fallen asleep until he heard him say in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, “Don’t worry, Thean. We’ll make sure you don’t go crazy.” 

    A warmth spread through Thean’s chest. Clo’s words were devoid of contempt, bringing comfort to him that he hadn’t known since departing from Camelot. “You’re not angry with me?” he asked hopefully.

    Clo let out a derisive snort. “What kind of question is that?” he said, sounding once more like his usual self. “Of course I’m angry with you. I’d punch you now if I didn’t think Ava would be upset about it.” Thean laughed at the plainness of his jest. “I’m angry, and I still don’t really know why you had to hide the truth, but… I’m trying to understand.” 

    Thean nodded as he absorbed the words, smiling at his little brother. “What?” Clo asked, shifting onto his side so that he could face Thean fully. 

    “I never thought I’d say it, but I think you might be smarter than me one day.”

    “One day? I’ve always been smarter than you!” Clo protested, punctuating his statement with a light kick to Thean’s knee. Instead of shouting in annoyance, Thean chuckled, returning his brother’s attack with two kicks. For several more minutes, they had to stifle their giggles as they jostled one another playfully as if they were still in the mines without a thought for their pasts or futures. 

Chapter Text

Arthur

    His head ached, hunger clawed at his stomach, and his neck felt stiffer than ever before. Spats of hay poking at his back made him feel as though he’d slept in a barrel of needles. Furthermore, he had somehow shifted during his nap so that his face was only a few inches from Merlin’s bare and blackened feet. 

    And yet despite these less than ideal circumstances, Arthur felt no annoyance as he sat up. His long lost servant was still steadily resting, so he moved carefully, stretching to stand in the torchlight. Turning his gaze to the ceiling of the cavern, he saw through the small holes above the unique shade of gray and blue that signaled the sun had just left for the night. 

    Those newly freed were in varying states; some were asleep as Merlin was, others eagerly eating the rations provided by Camelot’s people, and still yet more gazing wordlessly at the same ceiling as Arthur, too overwhelmed with the futures before them to do anything else. He moved about them en route to his destination; an elderly woman who looked lost reached her hand out to grasp his, and he had to fight down the urge to flinch away. This woman only nodded her head as tears streamed down her face, her mouth parted slightly to reveal no tongue. Arthur choked back a gasp of disgust and moved his other hand over hers. “I know,” he said, and he did, and he didn’t, but she was comforted by the answer and let her hands drop back to the floor thereafter. 

    He found Sir Leon by the crates of rations that had been dragged into one of the larger cave passages. Salted fish, apples, and sprouted bread- those were the simple portions that were most easily tolerated by the freed people. Leon brightened at Arthur’s approach, gesturing to another knight to pause the conversation they'd been having. “How’s Merlin?” Leon asked of the King. 

    “As well as he can be,” Arthur responded truthfully. 

    “He’ll be able to rest up before the journey back.” 

    Arthur nodded; they still had to liberate two more slave encampments before their return to Camelot. Nemethian knights would meet them halfway to the next camp to escort the freed people to a safe point just outside the citadel, as well as to provide reinforcements to Arthur’s men for the next two liberations. Only after the third liberation would the collective freed people who wished to start their new lives in Camelot be converged into one group. 

    Which, unfortunately, meant Arthur would have to leave Merlin over the next few days, a fact which he had not brought up yet and dreaded to think about. He would have almost completely trusted Queen Mithian and her troops to look after the freed people faithfully until the third liberation, were it not for the history lessons concerning Nemeth that had been drilled into his head as a child. Nemethians have soft hearts and hard minds, his father had always said. In that respect at least, King Uther had been right. He didn’t doubt that if Mithian had to choose between upholding a promise she had made to Arthur or protecting her own current citizens, she would choose the latter. Still, he felt as though he had no other option, as his knights needed all the help they could get if they hoped to liberate the other two camps with as little bloodshed on their side as possible. 

    To distract himself from dreary thoughts, Arthur turned to more mundane matters. “Tell Sir Percival and his men to take stock of any useful supplies found within the caves.” He loathed to give anything to those who had suffered that reminded them of their time here, but certain weapons and fabrics could be deconstructed and rearranged past the point of recognition. 

    Arthur began to turn away, but Leon’s voice called him back. “Percival isn’t back yet, my lord,” his knight said apologetically. 

    The King stiffened at this news, and unease made his breath catch slightly. “Alright. Let me know if- er, when he returns.” 

    “If, sire?” Leon repeated, his voice showing he shared the concern. Arthur only nodded his head, grimacing as he picked two apples and two portions of bread from the rationing sacks. He continued his short search to a darker region of the cave, all the while trying not to rehearse within his head the faces of the two men he had met in the woods just that morning. They were a father and son, that was all. Perhaps Percival or one of his men had suffered a slight injury on the return journey. Knights unused to traveling without horses sprained their ankles all the time, slowing down their comrades as they were aided. 

    His hands moved through piles and piles of shoes as his mind scoured the past, both recent and long ago. These were the footwear of generous Camelot citizens, who had either outgrown the apparel or were rich enough to buy a new pair each season. Several boots he chanced upon looked hardly used at all, but they did not have that still familiar shade of brown, or the ridiculous amount of buckles that descended down well-worn leather. 

    Merlin had loved those damn boots, and while Arthur hadn’t thought them anything special at the time, he was now hellbent on finding something that would give his friend a small piece of his old life. Gods knew where Merlin's favorite shoes were now; probably on the feet of some handler who had fancied them. The thought made Arthur feel sick to his stomach. 

    In the end, he settled upon a pair of brown boots several shades darker than those Merlin had once had, with only two silver buckles instead of several gold ones. They would have to suffice for now; he could dedicate more time to seeking out something more fitting back in Camelot. 

    As Arthur approached Merlin, he was surprised to find him sitting up awake and alert, gazing down at the padded down hay pile on which Arthur had napped beside him. A spark of relief lit his eyes once the King entered his line of sight. 

    “Got you something,” Arthur said, laying down the boots, apples, and bread and sitting across from him. He expected Merlin to reach first for the food, but instead both his hands clasped the tops of the boots. “They’re not much, but they’ll do for now.” He tried not to watch too closely as the man’s frail fingers fumbled with the buckles. Merlin must have not had the opportunity to wear shoes in over a decade, and the mechanisms felt somewhat foreign to him. Nevertheless, the smallest of smiles appeared on his face as he curled his toes within the shoes. There was ample space at the front, as the pair was likely several sizes too large. Seeing the awkward way in which the boots slumped at his ankles, Arthur consoled, “We’ll get you a better pair once we’re back in Camelot in a week.” 

    At this, Merlin’s head snapped up to meet Arthur’s gaze. “A week? What- why would it take that long?” 

    The King grimaced. “We weren’t just here to liberate this camp, Merlin. Nemeth is lending us troops to free two larger ones as well, but we can’t afford to send back all the sl- everyone who was in this camp until we liberate the rest, or else there won’t be enough guards. Queen Mithian has granted those freed in this camp to wait just outside of the citadel, until we can reunite again.” 

    He expected anger, shouting, blame, or all of the above. He did not expect Merlin to raise a hand to half cover a weary face, closing his eyes. “My children, Arthur,” he sighed. “They need to know.” Opening his eyes once again, and with his jaw set, he continued determinedly, “Gods, they haven’t known anything for so long. Please, just… send them a message. Tell them I’m safe, that I’ll see them soon.” 

    “Of course,” Arthur said without hesitation. There may be protests from his advisors on the waste of parchment, or chance of interception of such a message, but he would not heed them. An idea then sprang into his mind, one not dismal for once. “Merlin, you could even write the letter yourself, if you’d like. Thean would recognize your handwriting from your spellbooks.” 

    A drop of tension left Merlin’s shoulders at the proposition, and he nodded. Arthur expected- hoped, more accurately- that he would smile, but no such expression soothed his features. Then again, this man, who was at once both foreign and familiar to the King, had just a few hours ago been told his children were alive and his lover was dead after not knowing otherwise for nearly a year. Arthur couldn’t fathom, nor did he wish to fathom, the depths of the black pit swirling in Merlin’s mind at that moment. 

    “How are the knights?” Merlin asked suddenly, calling Arthur back from his contemplation. At the King’s blink of confusion, he continued, “I thought I spotted Leon earlier, but I haven’t seen any of the others.” And by that, of course, he meant the knights that had known him. Merlin had seen several knights stride across the cavern while he had waited for Arthur’s return, but he’d recognized none of them. 

    “Most of them are back in Camelot, helping Gwen handle the kingdom in my absence,” Arthur explained. “Percival and Leon were the only ones to come on this mission.”

    A trace of disappointment flickered before Merlin summoned up enough energy to jest again. “And where is Percival, then? Breaking boulders in half somewhere?” Arthur forced a short laugh at the joke; it was one Gwaine had often used to make in the early days of the Round Table, back when Merlin had accompanied them on every journey. 

    “Percival’s on a- er, on a patrol,” Arthur murmured as Merlin arched an eyebrow at his obvious hesitation. “I’m sure when he’s back he'll be thrilled to see you,” the King of Camelot finished lamely.

    Merlin nodded slowly, suspicion still in his gaze as he began to bite into one of the husks of bread. Arthur himself only tore off a small piece from the other sample, partially because he wanted to leave the majority of the food to Merlin, as well as because his appetite was scarce then. Worry chewed at his mind- worry at not having Percival’s whereabouts known then, and at the thought of not having Merlin at his side in the coming days. 

    Arthur did not try to hide his silence, and had forgotten how observant the man before him could be. Merlin easily noticed his pensive gaze and how his eyes flitted anywhere and everywhere except towards his manservant. Clearing his throat, he murmured, “Something's on your mind?” His voice carried the tone of a statement rather than a question. 

    “Yes. I’m thinking,” Arthur admitted absently. 

    Merlin’s eyes widened in faux surprise. “You do more of that than I remember.”

    Merlin chuckled slightly at his own joke, and Arthur wanted to laugh with him, but all he managed was a sad smile. “I’ve had to. You weren’t there to think for me.” He knew he’d chosen the wrong words when Merlin’s laughter quickly subsided at that. Ducking his head in regret, Arthur added, “Not that you were to blame for that.”

    Merlin sighed, glaring at the bread in his hands as if it were the cause of all his woes. “Indeed. Someone was to blame, but neither of us were.”

    “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Arthur said. “We liberate camp after camp, and yet there are always more. Slavery’s been around as long as people have, but it wasn’t always this common.” Or at least, Arthur assumed such; his father hadn’t been as keen as him to meddle in the affairs of lands other than Camelot, and had for a long time instilled in Arthur’s mind that slave camps were only an issue that plagued barbaric lands. Merlin’s capture, and that of so many others, had proven otherwise. “And we question the handlers, but they do little else than spit on us. If we could just get to the center of it all- if there truly is a center- then maybe we’d be able to stop all this madness permanently.”

    “Hmm. Nip it in the bud, so to speak. Although I suppose the whole situation is more like a mountain than a bud now,” Merlin murmured, voice drifting off and face scrunching in consideration at his own words. The King smiled at his friend; he had not lost his ability throughout the decade to get lost in inane thoughts. Arthur had often called Merlin a child, and though he had said so with contempt, silently he’d admired the man for his ability to find strings of wonder within any tangled mess. At least that much had not been beaten out of him in his time away from Camelot. 

    “Merlin…” Arthur began hesitantly, not wanting to speak the question that sprung to his mind. “I know you probably don’t have many fond memories of the handlers, but I have to ask- did you ever learn anything about them? Where they’re from, why they do what they do?” 

    Merlin furrowed his brows in consideration, carefully turning the questions over in his head to unearth answers. “They were all pretty secretive, most of the time. When they were guarding us, they wouldn’t say much to one another other than to, well, poke fun at us. But I do think I’ve recognized some of the handlers from Medora in this camp.” 

    Arthur leaned forward at this key bit of information. “If we went to where they’re being guarded, could you point out who you recognized?” Merlin nodded, moving so as to rise to his feet, but Arthur gently guided him back to the ground with a hand at his shoulder. “Finish your food first- we’ve still got a few hours till midnight.” 

    “Yes, sire,” Merlin said, his tone reminiscent of when he’d spend his days half adhering to the King’s orders and half attending to his own mischief. 

    With a few glances back to make sure Merlin truly was listening to Arthur’s orders to stay put, the King made rounds about the cavern and into some of the wider branches off. When he’d checked on Helena to make sure her medical supplies were adequate for their short journey, he wound his way towards the entrance where he had originally entered the cavern that dawn. 

    The morning light seemed so long ago. He’d felt alone then. He didn’t anymore. 

    The glint of the moon accompanied his steps to the entrance; even in the dim light, he had to blink several times to adjust. He wondered faintly how Merlin would feel upon exiting this last place of his captivity. 

    Arthur raised his head at the sound of arguing. 

    “I have to see the King! No, I- you’re not listening to me!”

    “We need to see verified documents with the seal before we can let you in.” That was spoken in the solemnly confident voice of a knight. 

    “Oh, alright- but if anyone dies for this delay, their blood is not on my hands.” 

    A spike of alarm pushed the King from the remaining darkness and out onto the grass. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded

    The wide-eyed man from whom the complaints had come from bowed succinctly. Arthur could forgive him for his grouchiness, though; he looked as if he’d been dragged through a mile of mud. “My lord, forgive me; I wish I did not have to bear the burden of such grave news,” he said in a shaky voice. 

    “Out with it, then,” Arthur ordered, worry snatching away his patience.

    “Camelot has been attacked.” 

    He blinked. He could not think, so he spoke. “Guinevere.” And then, “Anselm, Eloise.” 

    The messenger shook his head. “Some escaped the citadel, others… well, I am not sure. I do not think they were among those who left.” 

    “Who? Who attacked?” Arthur pressed, resisting the instinct to grab the man by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him. 

    “I- am not entirely sure of that, either. Some suspect the Departed lands, but that simply doesn’t make sense, so…” The man, just moments before having ordered the knights around, now shuffled on his feet apologetically. 

    “Is there anything useful you do know?” Arthur shouted. Had he been of a clearer mind, he would have felt remorse for yelling at someone just doing their job, albeit poorly. As the situation was, though, he hardly even saw the person standing before him. All he could see was Camelot’s streets littered with the dead, Eloise crying, Anselm and Thean- 

    “My lord, that was the extent of my original message, but it is not all I have to tell you. I passed near Luthenber on the way here, and from the crest of a hill I saw what looked like a large group of… soldiers of some sort. Heading in this direction.” 

    The blood rushed in his ears, and as though from a distance, he heard one of the guards to the tunnels say, “Sire, if what he’s saying is true, then we must- sire!” The knight had suddenly startled and jabbed his finger to the sky, interrupting his own words with the gesture. Arthur turned to follow his line of sight, and at first, he saw nothing of any concern. The stars flickered and the moon shone; crests of grass waved to and fro in the breeze. Had Arthur not known of the devastation currently besetting his kingdom, he would have almost felt serenity at the landscape’s appearance. 

    Almost- save for the distant dark figure whose outline was like a blemish against the blue night sky. Their head was oddly shaped, likely due to a hood. One arm was raised slowly from their side to the space above their head, and for a bizarre moment, Arthur thought the figure was waving at him in greeting. Then, more hooded figures appeared lining the side of the raised arm. When the other arm rose, still more spots of blackness appeared to hide the stars. 

    Arthur did not wait to see what would happen if and when those arms lowered. The King ran into the cave, stumbling slightly in the shadows that his eyes had been grateful to depart from just shortly before. 

    He emerged to a deep sound he’d not heard since Anselm’s birth- the sound of Merlin’s laughter. Sir Leon grinned with Merlin, who leaned up against the cavern’s side for support through his laughter and weakness. His friends appeared lost in a moment of rekindled companionship, and were there no haste, Arthur would have let them be for some time. 

    But as things were, he ran to them, his need to look kingly before the freed people tossed aside. Merlin pushed himself off from the wall at Arthur’s approach, and Leon stood straight in attention. “Sire?” The two men said near simultaneously. 

    He wished to confide in them immediately, to have someone to share in his turmoil, but his gut told him to give orders before the panic set in. “Merlin, what is the quickest way out of here?” 

    “Er, there’s a thin tunnel I see most of the handlers bring water back from- but, why? I thought we weren’t leaving till-”

    “And the widest tunnel? Where would that be?” the King pressed.

    Growing befuddlement made Merlin speak slower, looking at Arthur as if he’d lost his marbles. “Well, I suppose that would be the tunnel you just came from.” 

    Arthur nodded, turning to Leon then. “Gather all those who are well enough to walk and take three quarters of the knights and most of the mages with you through the main tunnel. Send the rest of our knights to me. No matter what, you keep going, and protect them at all costs. I’ll meet you at Nemeth.” 

    This the King said in a torrent of words, to the extent that he did not know if Leon had understood him until he gave a quick, “Yes, Sire!” and departed, shouting out for various other knights and helping those with color in their cheeks rise from where they lay. 

    “Merlin, take those who are weaker from the main cavern to the entrance of the shorter tunnel. I’ll meet you there.” He turned away from the fear reflected in Merlin’s eyes, only to be confronted by that same image once again as his arm was pulled back. 

    “No, tell me what’s going on first!” Merlin had meant such words to come out full of command, but to his own ears he sounded more akin to a whining child. Resigned to his helplessness, he said, “Please, Arthur, don’t leave me in the dark.” 

    And with that, Arthur knew he must put his voice to the truth. Merlin had been in the dark too long to deny such a request. “Camelot’s been attacked, and we are about to be as well.” He saw it there already, the despair that had been shifting in and out of the man’s face throughout that day. Arthur placed his hand on one bony shoulder. “I know,” he murmured, swallowing thickly at the thought of their children in a battle torn city. “Merlin, I know. But we can’t help them if we don’t get out of here.” 

    The tired sorcerer didn’t give much acknowledgement other than to shift away from Arthur’s grasp and give a short nod. Knights directed by Leon to the King began to circle around their liege, each with furrowed brows of confused obedience. Only two mages were among the group, but that was still better than none at all. Once the King affirmed that Merlin was beginning to help the elderly shuffle to what he presumed to be the thin tunnel’s entrance, he led his group through the tunnel to the infirmary. Helena was mashing together herbs and speaking calmly with a frail old man just before her eyes lighted upon the alarming amount of healthy men entering the area. 

    “Take those on cots first and bring them to where Merlin is,” Arthur ordered, turning to the gathered knights. Then, realizing some of the men may be unaware of who his old servant was, he added, “The man with black hair and big ears.” He hoped such a description would suffice. 

    “Wait a minute, what are you doing?” Helena made her way with arms crossed to stand before the cot of a coughing child. “We weren’t supposed to be moving till midnight. They need all the rest they can get, Sire,” she said, directing the last sentence to him in a half plea. 

    “I wouldn’t move them early if we didn’t have to,” Arthur insisted, though he felt a growing sense of frantic panic at the limited time they had before-

    The earth erupted. 

    His eyes filled with fire- or at least, that’s what the dirt felt like, drowning out all the moisture in his throat as he heaved the dust out. When his ears stopped ringing and he could think loudly enough to wipe the dirt from his eyes, he became aware of the sounds of screams and moans both near and echoing. 

    The majority of the torches had been snuffed out in what had been an inner avalanche of dust and stone. The main feature Arthur could make out in the encompassing darkness were wide eyes, and hands scrambling for someone or something to hold onto. “Follow my voice!” Arthur called out. “Follow my voice! Follow my voice!” He repeated the shouting, unsure how many were able to heed his orders as he slowly wove his way through the debris to the main cavern. 

    Cascades of settling dirt tossed about by a breeze greeted him and those who had survived the initial downpour. Vast chunks of the main cavern’s ceiling had collapsed to the ground, stained with red and misshapen heaps shining in the moonlight. 

    “Over here!” A voice called, and Arthur nearly sobbed in relief at the sound. Crouched at the other end of the cavern were Merlin and scores of the elderly and frail. They were covered in dust, but otherwise appeared mostly unharmed aside from shock. 

    En route to Merlin and those he had gathered, Arthur spared a glance behind him. He saw Helena carrying a small child towards the back of the group, and a handful of knights carrying the cots of the elderly. The robes of the mages were nowhere to be found, and they along with the rest of the original inhabitants of the infirmary had not made it there. 

    More than halfway across the cavern, Arthur turned his eyes skyward at the feel of a wind unnaturally strong for somewhere that was just before so deep underground. A single black hood appeared just at the edge of where the cave-in must have begun. Their hands rose to cover the stars. “No,” Arthur whispered, and then shouted to those who trailed behind him, “Run !” 

    As his feet pounded against the earth, he waved Merlin forward to start without him. The ever infuriating man only shook his head, standing stock-still until the King was only a few paces away. Merlin then darted ahead into the narrow tunnel, fueled by adrenaline more than muscle. Breathless from panic, Arthur struggled to keep pace with him over the dislodged boulders. The footsteps of the weak and their helpers were growing fainter. Arthur paused to help an elderly lady from where she stumbled, recognizing her as the same tongue-less woman who had reached out for his hand shortly before catastrophe had beset the cavern. Merlin stopped hesitantly as well then, setting out again once Arthur stood from where he had knelt. 

    Another jolt robbed all sound from the world as a force pushed Arthur to his stomach. The dust settled more quickly this time; though violent, it had still been weaker than the initial avalanche, and as the King stood he even pondered that perhaps their attackers may be low on stamina. 

    He turned to help up those who had fallen, only to be met with a wall of tumbled rock. Silence prevailed, with only Merlin’s short gasps from behind him to be heard. No sound stirred from the lost half of the tunnel. 

    “NO!” His palms cut across rocks that only slightly gave away. She had been there just a moment before, the old lady without a voice whose eyes spoke volumes. Helena had been just several paces away as well, not far at all really, and carrying a child. “No, no, what?” 

    Still only pebbles departed from the wall, and Arthur let out a scream of fury the likes of which he had not cried since he’d become King. “Arthur…” Merlin called out softly from behind. 

    And having no one else to turn to, Arthur turned to him. Merlin had the answers- he always did, long before Arthur knew there were even questions to be asked. Yet now the man who was both bewildering and wise stood with his hands at his sides. “Why are you just standing there?” Arthur yelled. “Do something!”

    “I can’t!”

    Chest heaving and fists clenched, Merlin’s skin flashed a sickening white color from the distant moonlight of the tunnel’s exit. 

    In that still moment, as the initial shock of the past few minutes seeped into his bones, Arthur felt as though he was truly looking at Merlin for the first time that day. He had been so desperate to see signs of his old friend, that he had tried to ignore the fact of the matter: that he had lost his servant that day at the edge of Camelot, and he may never fully have him back again. The man who stood before him now was still Merlin, still his friend, but to an extent irrevocably different. 

    Aching with a renewed sense of loss, Arthur looked away from where Merlin still stood shaking with powerlessness. “Right,” he murmured, and walked away from the wall and towards the dim but growing light. “Come on.” He gave a light pull on the man’s shoulder to edge him forward, surprised at how easily he gave way to the movement. Merlin and the King stumbled onward with dissipated haste, unable to turn back but not eager to find what fresh hell awaited them on the other side of everything. 

    The tunnel ended slowly, and Arthur had to suppress a hysterical laugh at how peaceful the thin glimpse of grass looked beyond. Taking a few gasps of fresh air, he turned his attention to Merlin. “We should run. It’s the best chance we have. Are you up to it?” 

    Merlin gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’ll have to be. There’s no other option.” 

    Such words did not inspire confidence in the King, but they were true. As they covered the decreasing distance to the moonlight, Arthur wondered when the last time Merlin had been able to run was. He assumed it must have been before their children were born; before time took its toll on him and the King alike.

    The field they entered was full of silvery light, but they ran with the sense of blindness, unknowing of what was before or behind. A stream was growing closer, and a copse of suddenly thick trees just beyond that. Their feet splashed into the water, and Arthur was thankful for its shallow depths; a swim would have fatally slowed them down, allowing the shouts rising at their backs to catch up and swallow them whole. They were soon back on solid grass and rock, but the world rippled unnaturally, and Arthur could not help but glance over his shoulder. 

    Just on the other side of the stream behind them, cracks had appeared in the shore, crevasses of unknown depths. The creators of the unnatural were not far behind, and Arthur was struck by how ordinary the shadows of their eyes and chins looked beneath the hoods. They were human, but terrifying all the same. 

    Merlin started to turn his own head as well, slowing down slightly to get a better view. “Fast now!” Arthur cried, pulling his friend forward by torn black fabric. “Don’t look back.” 

    For a moment, he thought his servant would heed his words. Even now that they were under the shadows of the trees, Merlin’s runes were still visible, and a few oscillated between white and red as conflict grew on the sorcerer’s features. As Arthur was starting to pull slightly ahead, Merlin made a mistake. 

    He looked back, and tripped over a root. 

    So great was his own velocity that Arthur was not able to skid to a complete halt until after he had crested the edge of a gully, barely maintaining his balance until he chanced a grip on rough stones halfway down. From that vantage point, he could not see Merlin, and terror turned his fragmented judgment to mud as he scrambled up the gully’s face. When he reached the top, hands scraped and dripping blood, he was met with the sight of Merlin scrambling to his feet, surrounded by at least ten hooded figures. 

    One broke the circle, grabbing Merlin by the throat and throwing him to the ground. A kick to the head, the ribs- Arthur was moving forward, he was shouting, and perhaps there really were gods somewhere that were hearing his cries, because then the kicking stopped. 

    The hoods turned in his direction. He could hear their whispers, soft but carried by the wind and growing like the crest of a wave. “ The King. ”

    Their feet moved away from Merlin and towards Arthur. The wind began to pick up, as if warning Camelot’s King to run. He did not; he stood still, curling his toes in his boots as he rooted his stance. Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword, knowing the steel would be no use against magic, but wanting to die with dignity anyway. Any cut he was able to lie on them would give Merlin a better chance of escaping; he could find refuge, maybe even find a way to help Camelot in Arthur’s stead. Merlin would find a way- he always did. And as for Arthur, well-

    Arthur was saved by the gods of the wind. 

    And they were quite angry gods, he thought to himself then, for they flung the hooded figures from the ground as though their feet had never been there at all. The air became sharper than any sword that had sliced flesh. Those that managed to maintain their balance for a few more seconds than their comrades were betrayed by the air in their lungs that stabbed like needles cast about in a tornado. They clutched and clawed at their throats, trying to utter deadened words before their inevitable fall to the earth. 

    Even the trees were taking the toll of nature’s wrath, bending outward as dust and dirt roared past. Arthur saw the wind and feared its power, but felt unharmed aside from a chill running down his back. As he took a hesitant step forward, raising one arm to shield his eyes, he found that he could walk relatively easily. Guided by the faint sounds of the last desperate struggles of those who had just before been trying to murder him, the King made his way to the approximate area he had last spotted Merlin. 

    The dust thickened as he searched desperately for a black thicket of hair. He must have taken shelter, Arthur thought to himself. He’s just behind a boulder, or a tree. He’s alright. 

    Merlin was not alright. 

    Arthur was not able to spot him until he was almost an arm’s length away, for the wind and dirt were so thick that the two men might as well have been back in the darkest corners of the cavern. The main source of light came from Merlin’s eyes; but there in his irises were not the blue kindness usually there, nor the golden sheen that Arthur had once feared but then come to accept. Instead, there was a glowing whiteness the likes of an eclipse, pouring over Merlin’s features and out onto the ripples of his black clothing. The runes on his arms shone the same hue, but were dimming with each second. Arthur watched with awe as the white marks began to dissipate off his friend’s skin, seemingly evaporating into the air as though they were reversed raindrops. 

    Slowly, starting to feel pushed back from the pressure of the air’s maelstrom, Arthur clutched at one of Merlin’s now barren wrists. “Merlin, you did it! You’re free now!” He shook the arm he clutched to emphasize this, trying to find relief in the chaos that surrounded them. 

    But Merlin just stared on ahead, expressionless and eyes still glowing unfamiliarly. “Merlin? We’re safe, you can stop this now,” Arthur said, uncaring of the desperation beginning to enter his voice. 

    The wind howled, and he didn’t respond. Arthur tugged on his arm again, feeling as though he were a child in a nightmare. And those eyes- why wouldn’t they return to blue, or even gold? 

    Hands shaking, he reached forward and pressed two fingertips above the white orbs where Merlin’s eyes should have been. He closed his friend’s eyelids, ridding himself of the awful light and begging as he did so, “Come back to me.” 

    Merlin’s eyes remained closed as he stood there; the unwelcome strength seemed to relax from his posture, dragging his shoulders back earthward. The wind died down, swirling into the ground and letting branches snap back to their place of belonging. Merlin’s head began to pitch forward, as though the torrents were still behind him even as they left the world around them. Arthur reached for him quickly, wrapping his arms under Merlin’s as the two men fell to their knees. 

    The air stilled just as Merlin began to shake. Arthur had not heard him sob since his confession of having magic on that dark evening many moons ago. His crying then had been full of fear, but now sounded empty. Arthur had turned away from him then in disgust and betrayal. He clutched him close now. 

    “I just didn’t want to lose again,” Merlin said in a muffled voice, face buried in Arthur’s shoulder. 

    The King looked out onto the trees that had been pushed away by a decade of pent up helplessness festering into rage. They bowed backwards, giving way to the epicenter at which Merlin and Arthur now knelt.

    “You won’t,” Arthur promised. “We won’t.”

Chapter Text

Thean 

    The slim branch shook beneath his weight, and he half-expected to be above empty air in the next second. 

    The nest was so close now, just a few paces away. He could see the way the sun glinted off the gray and speckled surfaces of the eggs. With his stomach growling persistently, he thought they might just be one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen. 

    Thean had first spotted the perched potential food when he’d woken up that morning. Anselm had taken Eloise down to the stream to wash the grime from themselves. After years of living in the mines, Merlin's children were unperturbed by only two days worth of dirt, so they sat and stewed on their hunger while they waited. Though they had grown up with empty stomachs most of their lives, the past few seasons had been kind to them, and in Camelot they’d grown gratefully accustomed to being able to reach across a garnished table for any dish they could dream of. 

    As the branch quivered again with a slight breeze, Thean carefully wrapped his father’s shirt around his shoulders for comfort. He’d used the garment to shimmy his way up the tree, much to the protests of his sister. “Don’t look down!” Ava called out very unhelpfully as she spotted her brother shaking with the branch. All she could offer were words of comfort now that he had stubbornly made the decision to continue on his stomach-focused journey. 

    “And don’t worry, Thean!” Clo yelled up as well. “When you fall, I’ll catch you!” Shrill laughter at his own joke swelled up to where Thean balanced, and he could sense rather than see Ava glaring at their little brother. 

    He focused on taking deep breaths instead of thinking of a comeback. For perhaps the hundredth time since having left the citadel, he berated himself for not learning any spells to conjure up food. Learning such sorcery had seemed pointless while in the castle. Oh how naive I was, Thean thought bitterly then. Right now we could be having roasted carrots and whipped potatoes with honey and little sprigs of-

    And suddenly his stomach was in his throat and his hands scrambling for purchase as the ends of a thin scream dissipated from the air, punctuated by the splat! of the eggs cracking on the ground below. The pattern of the bark was surely etched into Thean’s hands from how tightly he clung to the branch. Through the gap between his feet that dangled in the air, he could see Clo rushing away from Ava’s side to follow the noise. His sister reached out a hand futilely, then threw a desperate glance to where Thean hung precariously. The fear was enough to make his hands reluctantly move along the branch until he reached the trunk again. Having let go of his father’s shirt in his momentary fall, he had to hug the width of the tree with only his arms instead, wincing at the scrapes made against his chest in his unceremonious descent downward. 

    When he grew close enough to the ground, Thean reluctantly loosened his grip and let himself fall through the short distance, twisting partially in the air to land on his feet and hands. Ava sprang to his side, helping him to stand before they both began to run in the direction their brother had disappeared to. It wasn’t long before Clo’s red hair was spotted through the undergrowth, alongside the figures of the prince and princess. 

    Eloise was sitting on the pebbly shore, weeping openly and cradling one foot as if it were a baby. Blood ran through the slits of her fingers, flowing freely from the injured foot. Anselm knelt beside her, frowning at his inability to prevent his sister’s pain. Clo, however, brightened at the sight of the twins’ approach. “Ava! You can help her, right?” he asked, as though the question were more rhetorical than inquisitive. 

    Eloise paused in her sniffling, turning her gaze from the object of her woes to the other girl. Ava came to her side, reaching for the princess’ foot, who swallowed nervously but remained unmoving. “How did this happen?” Merlin’s daughter asked as she studied the wound. 

    “A stupid stone,” Eloise sobbed, and reached with one hand to hold up a rock as large as her palm and speckled with blood. “Sharp as a dagger, curse the thing.” 

    “I told you not to go that far into the stream,” Anselm said, but he sounded weary rather than annoyed. 

    “Bad luck,” Clo murmured. “Wouldn’t have happened if I was here,” he added cheekily, throwing a grin in Thean’s direction. Thean nodded with a small smile. He used to roll his eyes when his mother recited Clo as being their good luck charm, but given the events of the past few days, he was willing to continue letting his little brother think that just his mere presence brought some good fortune. The world had become full of too many dangers, sharp stones and all; Clo deserved to have at least a little hope against them. 

    “The cut is deep,” Ava sighed. “I know spells to take away the risk of infection, and to stop the bleeding, but not to heal it completely.” 

    “Why not?” Eloise whined. “Why can’t you do more? It hurts, Ava.” Anselm reached out a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder, and Thean knew when she did not shove him away that she must be truly feeling poorly. 

    “I’d do more if I could,” Ava said earnestly. “When we find my Pa and the King and the others, Helena will be able to help you further. But until then, this is all I can do.” 

    The princess bit her lip, sighed, and nodded. “Okay.” Then, in a smaller voice, “Sorry, Ava.” 

    “Nothing to be sorry for,” Ava whispered, splaying her hands in front of the Eloise’s wounded foot and starting to utter ancient words of protection. She’d been with Helena long enough to grow unfazed by the unkind words uttered by those who were in pain. 

    When her mouth stilled, Ava helped the princess to awkwardly rise, one foot poised above the ground hesitantly with the other leaned on heavily. “Better?” Merlin’s daughter inquired. 

    Eloise shrugged with uncertainty. “A little,” she murmured. 

    “Here, I’ll help you,” Anselm said, stepping forward to wrap one arm around his sister’s shoulders. The duo tested a few steps forward, and Thean winced at how slowly they had to maneuver in order to maintain balance. 

    “We should grab our things and keep moving,” Thean insisted, gesturing back beyond the tree line where their few belongings lay. 

    “No breakfast?” Eloise asked, pouting. 

    “Thean tried to get us some, but then he fell off a branch,” Clo responded, as though that provided a perfectly clear answer.

    “I’ll explain on the way,” Thean said hurriedly when the prince and princess turned inquisitive gazes on him. The sun was beginning to climb to heights of noontime, making him anxious to be afoot. The blade’s light ensured their safety while it was unsheathed, but presently it was in the satchel back at their campsite, making Thean feel as though they were all especially vulnerable out here. 

    Perhaps sensing Thean’s thinly shrouded distress, Anselm nodded and half-pulled his sister forward. The children were able to pack up relatively quickly, with Ava using both her hands and magic to leave no trace that they had ever inhabited the area. Thean sighed with relief as he carefully wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the blade and unsheathed it. Green light uncurled along its edge, extending out into the trees at a sharp angle, following the path of the sun in the sky. 

    Comfort dampened into a sudden chill running down Thean’s spine. “What is it?” Ava asked, standing from where she had purposefully displaced the rocks that had surrounded their campfire. 

    “The path,” her brother said, momentarily unable to assemble his thoughts into words. “It’s different than last night- a new direction.” 

    “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Anselm piped up. “We won’t be going near the Valley of the Fallen Kings then.” 

    Thean nodded, but did not share in his optimism. The change in direction disconcerted him; whilst following the blade, they had to some extent been able to stay in a protective bubble that had made it easy to forget that the world surrounding them was plagued with disorder and ever changing. But that morning, Thean felt all too aware that outside influences were unfolding all around them, just out of sight. 

    They wove on slowly through the remaining woodland, edging away from the stream they’d found respite by the prior night. A break in the trees occurred where a meadow lay; Ava grinned at the sight, and Eloise even asked Anselm to halt momentarily so she could lean down to pick some blue flowers. All the while, Thean kicked the grass anxiously, soon calling for them to continue on back into the tree line on the other side. Ava and Clo were able to do so quickly, but Anselm and Eloise struggled, trailing behind more and more as they left the meadow and the undergrowth thickened once again. 

    “It’s going to rain. I can smell it,” Clo said suddenly, eyes drawn up to a sky spotted with only a few clouds. He smiled as he spoke; Merlin’s youngest son had always loved the rain. The sound of droplets slapping against stone gave a tempo to the dreary work of the mines, and on stormy nights, he was calmed to sleep by the distant hum of the endless world beyond the mountains. 

    “Say, Clo,” Anselm panted, pausing where he stood with his sister leaning against him. “You said you followed our scents from Camelot, right? Well, what do we smell like?” 

    “You smell like the training field in the morning, after it’s rained at night,” Clo said easily, then wrinkled his nose slightly at the prince. “Perhaps that’s just ‘cause your cloaks don’t get washed enough.” Turning his attention to Ava then, he said, “You smell like marigold and oak trees.” 

    While the prince was still trying to process Clo’s comments, Eloise cried in excitement, “Ooh, my turn! What about me?” 

    “Like gold and linen.” 

    “And me, Clo?” Thean asked, only mildly curious. 

    For his older brother, Clo took the longest to consider. “You smell like… pumpkin, I suppose.” 

    “Oh?” 

    “And horse dung.” 

    “Oi!” Clo laughed as his brother shoved his shoulder, quickly springing to the side to avoid another push. Thean, too, laughed despite himself, letting his own chuckles escape with those of his siblings and his friends. For a moment, they forgot about the hunger in their stomachs and the uncertain path ahead. 

    But the moment passed, as all moments tend to do. Thean and his siblings walked quickly; Anselm and Eloise did not. Quiet fell with the thickening of clouds. They would stop wordlessly when the prince and princess lagged too far behind, waiting for the duo to catch their breath before continuing on. 

    Clo had strayed slightly ahead when he stopped suddenly; Thean had to back up quickly to avoid walking straight into him. “I smell horse dung,” Clo whispered in awe, turning to his older brother with eyes widened. 

    Thean rolled his eyes, too weary from their journey to enjoy the joke. “Haha, very funny Clo. No need to rub it in.” 

    Then it was his little brother’s turn to look impatient. “No, I mean I really smell horse dung,” he insisted, closing his eyes to better focus his sense of smell. “And people- and carrots and onions!”

    “Carrots? Really?” Eloise’s bright voice carried through the breeze as her brother helped her hop forward on her one good foot. 

    Anselm shifted to let his sister lean against Ava, who had been waiting for them to catch up. He took his map from his cloak’s pocket and furrowed his brow at the paper. “Birkstone,” he announced with satisfaction. “Looks like we must have just crossed into Nemeth if it’s nearby. We should check it out.” 

    “We’ve already discussed this,” Thean said, stamping down a patch of grass with his foot and avoiding their hopeful gazes. “The blade hasn’t led us to any villages so far, why should we risk it now?” 

    “Because we’re moving at a snail’s pace,” Anselm insisted. “And Elly and I can’t move any faster if we keep going on foot. We need horses.” 

    “And food,” Ava added in a small voice. Thean couldn’t help but turn to her with a feeling of slight betrayal. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly at him; though she too worried of the risks, the growling of her stomach and the aching of her own feet made their predicament seem all the more urgent. 

    “So all of you are okay with stealing horses and food?” Thean asked in disbelief. 

    “We don’t have to take that much food,” Clo argued. “And as for the horses, we can return them when we’re able to go back to Camelot.” 

    Being so outnumbered in opinion, Thean turned his eyes to the tree line to try and gather his thoughts, but was quickly interrupted by the sound of leaves crunching underneath Eloise’s feet as she hobbled over to him. “Please, Thean,” she pleaded, tugging on one of his hands with both of her own. “I’m starving .” 

    Despite the pitiful nature of her words, Thean couldn’t help but feel a knot of anger form at the pit of her stomach. The princess of Camelot, who had been fed three meals a day her whole life, claimed she was starving after just two days of little food. He had to fight down the urge to emit a bitter laugh- how could she even think she knew what starving felt like? 

    And how could I be so heartless? 

    The hunger must have been affecting him more than he’d realized. He was startled by his lack of empathy at that moment as he took in the big green eyes of the princess. She was all of eight years old- she didn’t deserve to go hungry, and he never wanted her to feel anything close to what he and his siblings had experienced in the mines. 

    “Alright,” he relented, and heard the collective sigh of relief from the other children at his admitted defeat. “But we should come up with a plan first.” 

    “In all our fathers’ stories, when they were stealing keys or whatever, one of them would usually provide a distraction,” Anselm said. 

    “Ooh, I’ll do it!” Eloise offered, waving one hand in the air as though she were in a lesson. “I can pretend I hurt my foot on my way to another village- Ava didn’t heal it all the way, so it’s believable- and while they’re helping me, you three can swoop in and do your magic stuff!” At her last remark, she gestured widely to Merlin’s children, a proud grin on her face at her masterful plan. 

    “Not a bad idea,” Ava murmured, a worried frown on her face. “But you don’t quite look the part of a normal village girl.” 

    “She’s right, Elly,” Anselm said, relieved to find a reason to not use his sister as the bait. “We might not be in Camelot anymore, but they could still suspect you’re a princess, or at least someone of noble birth. Especially with that hair of yours,” he added pointedly, smirking at his sister. He thought with nostalgia back to when his sister’s biggest worries had been about the other noble children pulling on her hair. 

    Eloise gaped in disappointment at the other children, lost for words. Then, her expression grew stony, and just when Thean was about to ask her what was the matter, she withdrew her dagger from its sheath and raised it to the back of her neck. In shock, Ava cried out and stepped forward, but Eloise’s intention had already been fulfilled. 

    In one fist, the princess clutched long strands of her brown locks. Where just before her hair had extended to the small of her back, now the harshly cut ends barely reached past her ears. “Oh, Eloise, not your hair,” Ava sighed. The younger girl had spent entire afternoons chatting with Merlin’s daughter on her favorite ways to do her hair, and on the many ways she’d style Ava’s once hers was longer as well. 

    Eloise knelt down on the ground and began digging a small hole with her fingers to bury the hair in. Sporadically, she’d raise a hand to smudge her face with dirt, and Thean thought he could see her brushing away tears in the process as well. “Now no one will think I’m a princess,” Eloise said thickly, keeping her head down and away from the other children. 

    Thean sheathed his emerald blade solemnly, moved by the determination of the young girl to aid him and his siblings. “Lead the way, Clo,” he said once Eloise had been helped up by Anselm. Clo straightened his back, sniffing the air and then setting off at a quick pace. 

    Soon enough, even Thean could detect faint whiffs of horses himself despite a village not yet being in sight. White and gray clouds began to cover the sky above, and the air around them took on that heavy feeling characteristic of rain to come. “Should be close,” Clo whispered. “Just at the bottom of the hill.” With wide eyes and cautiously placed steps, the children descended the gradual slope, sticking close to the trees. 

    “There!” Anselm said softly, using the arm not around his sister’s shoulder to point to a humble wooden hut at the base of the hill. Four other similarly fashioned houses were nearby in the clearing, but no people were in sight, and no voices were carried on the wind. Only the sighs of five horses with makeshift wooden rafts above them indicated the village was inhabited. 

    “This is Birkstone?” Ava asked of no one in particular, the disappointment evident in her voice. She had been hoping for someplace at least the size of Ealdor, as then there’d be more food available for the taking. 

    “Most people don’t want to live too close to any borders,” Anselm explained. Contrary to popular belief, he did pay some attention in his geography classes. He may not know specific details on the location of cities or what type of trees were particular to a region, but he could pick up on larger scale patterns of inhabitance. 

    “Even small villages must have some crops,” Ava sighed with resignation. 

    Clo nodded, waving them forward to advance slowly with crouched backs to the western side of the trees surrounding the clearing. There lay a small plowed field; some sections only had the turned dirt of freshly sown seeds, but in several others lay the heads of carrots and onions ripe for the picking. Thean salivated just at the sight of them, their shoots green and full of promises to fill his belly. He had to shake his head slightly to regain focus on their precarious goals of thievery. 

    “We should split up,” he said. “Ava, Clo, collect as much food as you can while Anselm and I untie the horses. Eloise, go forward and call for help only when you see that Anselm and I have gotten to where they’re tied- okay?” 

    Eloise nodded slowly, looking paler beneath her dirt-smudged cheeks than usual. Her eagerness to volunteer earlier had dimmed, and the strange feeling of wind against her now barren neck made her shiver. “We’ve got your back, Elly,” Clo whispered, and she cast her eyes gratefully to him. The two younger siblings were alike one another in some ways, both trying to prove themselves braver than their age warranted. Underneath their bravado, however, lay layers of carefully contained fear. 

    “Say you’re from Stogard. It should be small, and not too far from here,” Anselm said, proud of himself for recalling the name from when he’d last unraveled his map en route to Birkstone. 

    With their plan solidified in words, Ava and Clo remained just beyond the crops, while Thean, Anselm, and Eloise made their way to the horses. Eloise stopped once they were near where they’d first descended the hill, gesturing that she’d take up her post there. Anselm squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, and Thean offered her a tight smile, which she could not return despite trying to. 

    As Merlin and Arthur’s sons approached the back of the shoddy building containing horses, the gentle beasts thankfully raised no alarm. Thean wondered if perhaps even creatures of another species could sense that they were only children- albeit, children of magic or royalty. Whatever the reason, it gave him enough peace of mind to nod to where he could faintly see Eloise’s shadow waiting in the trees. Whether she could see him or not, the princess seemed to sense that it was as safe as possible to initiate their deception. 

    “H-hello?” Eloise called out, her voice sounding small in the silence. She limped on even when no response came, looking all the part of a scared and injured girl. As Thean remained still in the shadows of the shack, peering out slightly with Anselm from the edge of the structure, he reflected that perhaps she didn’t really need to act too much to fit her role. “Please, can somebody help me?” Eloise cried out again, and her voice seemed to crack slightly on the word ‘help.’ 

    The sound of a door slapping shut caused Anselm to startle beside Thean, who quickly raised a finger to his lips. A second door opened and shut quickly after that. “Oh dear, what’s happened to you, love?” a woman’s voice called out. 

    Eloise had shifted out of Thean’s line of sight, likely to approach the questioning woman. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I got separated from my mother, and I slipped and hurt my foot,” the girl explained. 

    “Hmm, it doesn’t look pretty, but I have some salves to spare.” The woman’s voice was warm, and the tension in Thean’s shoulders relaxed slightly- at least Eloise’s part of the plan seemed successful thus far.

    “Where’re you from, girl?” This voice was also a woman’s, but older and more weary. 

    “I’m from Stogard,” Eloise said. “My name is Poppy.” Thean nodded to himself at her words- Eloise had chosen a name that was believable for a village girl. 

    “Stogard’s an hour away. You sure got lost,” the first woman said in surprise. “Well, no matter- let’s patch you up now.” 

    “Do you need some help, Yithen?” the second woman asked. 

    “No, thank you- it’s nothing Shanny and I can’t handle,” the first woman- Yithen- replied pleasantly. “Perhaps if Toreg and Urin get back soon, you could stay for dinner, eh?” 

    Before Eloise/Poppy had the chance to respond, the second woman did so for her. “Stogard’s an hour away, as you said, Yithen. Best to have the girl out before the sun’s down.” Though there was logic in her voice, her tone had grown stony, hinting that there were more reasons to be rid of the injured girl than the obvious. 

    “Ah, aye, good point,” Yithen said, the brightness dissipating from her voice. “Come along then, Poppy.” 

    A door soon creaked shut, and after a long pause, a second similar sound alerted Thean and Anselm that the two women had departed back into their respective homes. They moved from the edge of the back of the stables slowly, eyes scanning the clearing. When it was affirmed that no other women weary or welcoming were in the open, the two boys set to the task of readying the nearest horse. Worn out saddles lay in the hay. Anselm worked deftly, leaving Thean to stroke the long nose of the horse calmingly to keep it quiet. All the while, their thoughts and gazes strayed periodically to the two wooden houses in the direction of where they’d heard the women’s voices, wondering which housed Eloise then, and how she fared…

*****

    Arthur’s daughter expected the inner area of the house to resemble Gaius’s back in Camelot, albeit with less herbs and potions. What she found instead was a single room home that was only a distant echo of the old physician’s. One bed, one table and three chairs, and a fireplace- that was all. On the bed lay a young child that couldn’t have been more than two years old. Yithen strode over to pick up the child, cradling her against her hip. “Shanny, this is Poppy,” the mother murmured. “We’re going to put together some salves for her, okay?” 

    “Okay mommy,” Shanny mumbled whilst sucking on her thumb, shyly averting her gaze from the strange and dirty new girl. 

    “Nice to meet you, Shanny,” Eloise said, and guilt settled in the bottom of her stomach, stifling her hunger. When she had begged Thean to let them steal from a village, she had thought only of the food they’d find there, not the people, and certainly not little children who could go hungry as well. 

    Eloise took one seat, shifting uncomfortably at its lack of cushion, while Yithen sat in another with her daughter on her lap. Using a mortar, Shanny ground a hardened paste with fumbling fingers while her mother did the same in a larger bowl. “You’ll have to excuse Tyldat,” Yithen said to fill the silence. “Even she’s usually kinder to strangers, but the last few days have been hard on us. Our husbands left for a hunt at dawn, and said they’d be back by noontime, and well…” She swallowed, her smiling demeanor dimming as she tightened one arm around her daughter. “We’re worried is all. Perhaps they just got a little lost along the way, like you. Usually some of the men would stay behind, but the other three families here left for the citadel a few days ago after hearing about Camelot.” Here, the woman paused to help raise Eloise’s foot onto the other spare chair, gently beginning to apply a mixed salve to the cut. “Toreg tried to convince Tyldat to leave as well, but she refused- said that even if the savages do come our way, she’d rather die in her own home than take the charity of the Queen that condemned them to their fates.” 

    Wincing slightly at the dismal words and stinging salve, Eloise asked hesitantly, “What does Queen Mithian have to do with the- the savages?”

    Yithen raised an eyebrow at the girl in surprise, and Eloise chided herself for letting her curiosity get the best of her. “What doesn’t she have to do with it?” the older woman said. “It was her that got involved with King Arthur. That man’s brave, I’ll give him that, but foolish to think he could storm through other kingdoms  without having to pay a price. And now, his own kingdom’s dying for it.”

    “But he freed all those people! And some of them were Nemethians,” the princess argued, voice trailing off uncertainly. 

    “Aye, some were,” Yithen relented, starting to wrap Eloise’s foot with scraps of cloth yellowed with age. “But there will always be one man taking advantage of someone in one form or another. The kings have their servants, the tradesmen their apprentices, and the savages their slaves- the powerful and obedient, they’re what keep the world turning. So long as that continues, most of us normal folk can continue living without restriction.”

    Eloise had to bite her tongue, fighting down the urge to yell at the lady for expressing such thoughts. In Camelot, her opinion was never out of place; even those who were older would take her complaints into account, because she was the princess, and thus the blood that coursed through her veins made her voice one worth listening to. But to Yithen, she was just an unfortunate girl, one who should know far more about farming than of politics. More than anything, the conversation made Eloise ache to see her father and mother once again, to be held by them and told bedtime stories where morality was always a better option than willful ignorance. 

    Absorbing the girl’s silence, Yithen frowned as she finished the last touches on the bandaging. “I’m sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t be talking so poorly of the world to your young ears.” A bittersweet laugh escaped her mouth, and her daughter instinctively echoed the sound with a giggle. Smiling down at her, Yithen continued, “I speak aloud to my Shanny sometimes about such things- I know I shouldn’t, but she can’t yet understand me too well yet, and my husband doesn’t like to talk politics, so- well, I guess I just got carried away.” Giving her knee a comforting pat, the woman said, “You should be ready to go now.” A tapping sound filled the room from above, and Yithen frowned at the ceiling. “And not a moment too soon, apparently- it’s starting to rain. Good thing you have a cloak.” 

    Eloise pushed her hood up and stood from the chair, slipping her foot back into her dusty boots. “Thank you- for everything,” she said earnestly, but avoided the woman’s gaze. 

    “Ah, no problem- it was the least I could do. Folks like us, we got to look out for one another, right?” 

    “Right,” Eloise whispered. She stood shuffled on her feet, not knowing what else to say and anxious to be out the door and back with her friends and brother. “I should really be going- my mother…” 

    “Of course,” Yithen said, and she began to stand herself as if to lead the girl out. Instead, Eloise turned, vowing not to look back as she nearly leapt out the door. Her heartbeat pounded within her head as her eyes lighted on three horses- one with her brother, one with Thean, and the last with Clo, Ava, and a satchel stuffed to the brim with stolen goods. 

    “El- er, Poppy!” Anselm called out in haste, waving her frantically forward. 

    Eloise listened to her brother- she ran. Just twenty paces, then ten- then the sound of a door opening and another after that. 

    “No, Tyldat! They’re just children!” 

    Anselm’s hand connected with his sister’s, yanking her up with a cry of pain. She managed to struggle into a sitting position behind him, clinging to his back for balance. 

    “Go!” Anselm yelled to Merlin’s children, digging his heels into the horse’s side to spur it forward. And as they neared the protection of the trees, Eloise broke the promise she had made to herself moments before- she looked back. There in the center of the clearing, just behind their line of sprinting horses, Yithen clung to Tyldat from behind, pinning the older woman’s arms to her side. At their feet lay a crossbow, one arrow notched in it and several more at its side. 

    “Thieves! ” Tyldat screamed with rage, her voice hanging in the air and rising high above the rain that slapped the ground. Eloise turned her gaze away from the source of her shame, grateful that at least the hoofbeats drowned out the sob threatening to rise from her throat. Burying her face into the back of her brother’s cloak, she closed her eyes, trying to tell herself that she was still a princess, and not that word which Tyldat had cried. 

*****

    Thean did not know how long they rode. 

    Long enough for the rain to thicken and then thin again, leaving only a fine mist to cool their faces. The sun began to peak out from the horizon behind the last of the rainclouds. Their frantic pace had slowed to a more steady gallop, with Thean allowing his horse to take the back of the line. Each of the three horses they’d taken were shades of black and gray, and were slightly overweight from lack of exercise. They were a far cry from the beautifully white and muscled Arrow, Thean’s favored horse back in Camelot, but were still able to carry he and his friends swiftly enough. Being alone on his steed, it was easiest for Thean to shift in his saddle to glance frequently behind them to check for pursuit. Despite the yells of anger that accompanied their departure, and having left behind two of the horses of the village, none could be seen or heard following them. 

    As they neared a stream- perhaps the same they’d been beside earlier, but deeper and wider at this section- Thean called for their directionless procession to come to a halt. “Clo, what do you smell?” 

    “Rain, trees, the carrots and onions in the bag- there’s a family of squirrels nearby I think, some rabbits too, maybe we’ll be quick enough to catch them, and-” 

    “Are there any people ?” Thean asked impatiently. 

    “No, none that I can tell.” 

    Thean nodded, scanning the area. The trees were tall but sparsely interspersed, allowing sunlight to dapple the width of the stream and create a shimmering effect on the scattered raindrops. In the distance lay a field of tall yellow grass- should the blade direct them there, they’d have to cross quickly in case Clo had failed to detect anyone. But the horses were panting heavily and likely parched, and their occupants were looking much the same. “We can stop here for a bit,” Thean said, and none of the other children protested. 

    “Dinner time, dinner time!” Clo laughed, quickly disembarking his and Ava’s horse. He sat down on the forest dirt, hands fumbling with excitement as he opened his satchel to reveal beautiful mountains of orange and purple within. Unable to choose what to eat first, he took a carrot and an onion, promptly biting each in succession. 

    “Leave some for us!” Anselm cried, though in good cheer. The children gathered around the precious food they had risked their necks for, and silence reigned while they indulged. Thean hardly tasted the first carrot he ate, but tried to savor the onion. It was sweet and bitter all at once, and though he wished it could be sauteed alongside some pork, he supposed this would do for now. 

    Only Eloise seemed to eat with less enthusiasm, still nibbling on her first carrot while the others were on their third helpings. “Want an onion, Elly?” Anselm asked, reaching for another himself. 

    “No, I’m fine…” she said despondently. Noticing the surprised glance of her brother, Eloise added, “‘Cause I don’t want to have stinky breath like you!” 

    “We all have stinky breath now,” the prince said, gesturing to Merlin’s children. “But it’s better than going hungry.” 

    “Fine, whatever,” Eloise huffed, snatching an onion from Anselm’s proffered hand. 

    “How’d the lady treat your foot?” Ava asked curiously. With Eloise’s boots still on, she couldn’t inspect the wound herself then. 

    “Yithen,” Eloise said, supplying an answer to a question unasked. “She treated me well. She had a little girl. She was cute.” 

    “Good,” Ava said softly, and paused in munching her carrot. The vegetables were delicious, and Yithen and her daughter probably thought so as well. She and Clo had made sure to leave half of the small field unharvested, due to the lack of space in their satchel as well as their guilt. 

    Thean took in the somber mood of the group- their bellies had been filled enough for their thoughts to become rational again. They had stolen, and while they hoped to make up for that crime, those families would still suffer for now. Not knowing how to cheer them up, Thean instead busied himself with the horses, who they’d tied to the trees in their haste to eat. He led his own horse to the stream by its rein, taking off his shoes, rolling up the cuffs of his pants, and stepping into the water himself. 

    He had done so unthinkingly, as though he’d carried out the task a hundred times before. But as he felt smooth stones beneath his feet and water lapping at his knees, Thean came to the realization that this was his first time standing within a stream. He and his siblings would sometimes fetch water in Medora, but there the water had always been too deep or too cold to venture in safely. Clo and Ava had had their fair share of time spent in streams in the gold panning camp they’d been sent to afterwards, and while Thean had passed by plenty throughout their travels, he’d only ever stooped to drink from them. Even on his journeys with Arthur and the knights, Gwaine had noticed Thean’s timid mannerisms and spoiled him by bringing him buckets of water to wash up with. 

    As the horse slurped large gulps, Thean gazed at the watery reflection of his face flickering with the waves. In the clear water within the buckets and chalices of Camelot, he’d been able to see his face perfectly well. There was some calming quality to the nondescript face that stared back at him now, though- as if he could truly be any other boy. 

    “It’s quite nice in here!” Thean called to his siblings and friends. 

    Anselm is the first to stand to join him, with Clo fast at his heels. Together, they led the other two horses to drink from the stream before stepping in. Clo waded in slowly, but Anselm went down on his knees so that he could dunk his entire head under the surface, blonde hair plastered to his forehead when he arose. Clo giggled with laughter at the sight, and promptly received a wave of water sent by the prince, nearly knocking the small boy from his feet. As Thean watched, the two yelped with equal parts indignation and delight as they waged a mini water war. 

    When Clo was soaked to the bone and panting, Anselm raised his arms victoriously. “I win!” he cried for all the children to hear. 

    “Not so fast!” Ava cried in return, jogging into the stream herself and kicking a shower of droplets at the prince of Camelot. She had helped Eloise to the shoreline before taking pity on her little brother and joining him in his valiant efforts. 

    Seeing Anselm outnumbered, Thean decided to join his side so that it was a fair fight, and the two began to shovel water at Merlin’s other children. “C’mon, Anselm! Thean, is that the best you can do?” Eloise yelled very encouragingly from where she watched. 

    Spurred by her words, Thean cried out “Fluctus! ” and summoned a wave larger than he could make with his hands using magic, bowling over Clo. When the redheaded boy regained his feet, he used the same trick against his older brother, managing to create an even larger wave. 

    Thean’s vision turned into a tumble of water and sky until his eyes finally focused on a new world around him. Above him were waves, and below his feet was a complete absence of the pebbly ground he’d stood on before. He watched, mesmerized, as his feet moved slowly, suspended above white and speckled fish of all sizes. None were perturbed by his presence. Thean knew from the sunlight which way was up, but he allowed himself to float there for a few moments more, marveling at how a whole other world could exist below the surface of this ordinary stream. Only when he heard the foggy sound of his name being called did he bid a silent farewell to that underwater world and push himself to the surface. 

    Anselm had waded to where Thean had disappeared, and he sighed with relief when the boy’s head broke through the water. Behind him, Clo and Ava also looked on with growing concern. Merlin’s eldest son grinned at them reassuringly through strands of sodden black hair. 

   They played on for a short while more, though a tad less dramatically after Thean’s underwater adventure. Once Anselm was the first to depart from the water, the others followed, setting up a small fire to dry their clothes before they planned to walk on for a few more hours. Thean lent his brother one of his own spare shirts that he had packed hastily before escaping Camelot, and chose one of their father’s old blue shirts for himself. Hugging the dry fabric to himself for warmth, he walked a few paces away from where the other children sat by the fireside and gazed out across the expanse of tall grass, squinting in the dying light of the sun to survey their surroundings. 

    Unclasping the blade from his side, he extended his prized possession before him, nervous for the path it would lay before him. Though his grip on the hilt was strong, he nearly dropped the blade then from surprise- the ray of light it emitted was more brilliant than ever before, thicker than the width of Thean’s hand and pulsing with power. Even more striking was that the interwoven wisps did not maintain a single direction as usual, but instead swept out steadily through the yellow grass and forest beyond, as if their path was changing a step at a time. 

    As if the one whom they sought trekked steadily just along the horizon. 

    And with his eyes only on the light, Thean raised the blade above his head and ran forward. He knew he should really stop making a habit of this, of running off into unknown places in desperate search. Just a year before he’d raced through a forest in a similar manner, running from uncertainty and fear of those who wished to save him. 

    But Thean wasn’t afraid now, and he wasn’t running from anyone. He was running to someone- and he had a feeling this would be the last time, the last time he’d ever have to run again to find those he’d lost to the tides of misfortune.

    He entered the open field, the sun-kissed sky at one end and the rising moon at the other. As Thean ran with one arm raised, the tall grass bowed at either side of him, and their height and color made him think of trumpets lining the streets of Camelot and filling the air with the sound of joyful triumph. 

    “Pa,” Thean whispered under his breath as he ran, and then finding his courage, he started to yell, “Papa! Papa!”

    Once he’d been three years old, clinging to his mother’s back as she stooped in the dust. 

    Once he’d been seven years old, hugging his father for comfort after a long and hungry day of work. 

    Once he’d been nine years old, and his parents had watched, smiling, as he and his siblings bickered over who would be tallest when they were all fully grown. 

    He was eleven years old when, as he crashed through a new break of forest in a land foreign to him, he saw the King of Camelot watching with trepidation as his servant reached a hand towards the strange green circle of light floating before them. 

    Thean was eleven years old when he could cry “Pa!” and hear his own name shouted in return as he launched himself into his father’s arms, enveloped by the sense of being someone’s child once more. 

Chapter Text

Arthur

    He kept glancing over at the sleeping figures of the children to reassure himself they were really there. 

    Before good fortune had smiled down on Merlin and Arthur again, they’d been stumbling through the expansive woodlands of Nemeth for the better part of a night and day. Their sights had been set on the citadel where Queen Mithian dwelled, following the path of the rising and setting sun. Trudging with a stumbling gait, Merlin was largely silent, only reluctantly pausing in their journey when Arthur requested to stop at a stream or rest for a moment. They had stopped for longest at noontime, with the King keeping watch and Merlin pretending to sleep to ease his worries. 

    Arthur had fretted both silently and aloud that the sudden removal of Merlin’s runes could still have resounding effects, as it had for all of his children. But however Merlin had managed to expel the remaining runes from his skin when they’d been set upon by the attackers at the cavern, he’d done so without any residual harm to himself. Indeed, the tiredness Arthur’s friend showed afterwards was only from the natural exhaustion of the past twenty four hours they’d endured together. 

    At times, Merlin would stride ahead of Arthur despite the King’s protests. When Arthur caught up, he’d see Merlin’s eyes oscillating between blue and gold as he scanned different areas of the land ahead. When the sun was nearly set, Merlin repeated the mannerism, turning to the King and sighing. “No enemies, but so many trees, Arthur. It’s like they’re following us.” 

    “Perhaps they’re bitter over how you treated their friends back there,” Arthur pondered, nodding his head back in the direction of the cavern where they’d escaped from the clutches of their attackers. Merlin only huffed in reply. 

    Dewy shrubs and skittering bugs greeted their feet as they trekked on. Arthur had never noticed until then how devoid of edible plants Nemeth was, to the extent that as the stars were entering the sky he let out a gasp of delight at the sight of a bush with glistening red berries. He stooped to inspect them, checking the patterns of their leaves to confirm that they weren’t the poisonous kind. 

    “Are you sure you want to eat those?” Merlin asked, glancing over to where the King foraged. 

    “I’m sure I don’t want to be hungry anymore,” Arthur quipped, popping one into his mouth. It was more bitter than he would have liked, and he scrunched his face up as a result, nonetheless extending a cupped palm of the fruit towards Merlin. 

    “I’m good,” Merlin said after catching the King’s sour expression. 

    “Suit yourself.” 

    There was silence for a moment, and Arthur was just starting to feel a faint sense of peace as his stomach filled when he heard Merlin cry out, “Arthur!” 

    The berries rolled from his palms as he whirled around, unsheathing his blade simultaneously and staining the hilt with slippery red juice. He half-expected to see a malicious figure in the distance advancing quickly towards them, but instead, he was greeted by the sight of Merlin standing stock-still as a thick stretch of green light spanned out from the trees and a field beyond, stopping suddenly before the warlock and forming a brilliant floating sphere like a miniature sun fallen from the sky. 

    Merlin reached a hand forward to the strand of light. “No!” Arthur cried, stepping forward. “Are you daft? We need to go- they must be near.” 

    But Merlin only shook his head, not even glancing at the King, enraptured by the new force within the forest. “I don’t think it’s dangerous,” he murmured in awe, and a befuddled grin spread out on his face. “I’ve seen something like this before. It must be from-” 

    “Pa! ”

    The green line fell soundlessly to the floor and dissipated at the desperate, piercing cry. A flurry of blue and black darted forward and wrapped its arms around Merlin, and perhaps for the first time since he was a lad, Arthur allowed his sword to fall to the ground from shock. If he had two more swords, he would have dropped them as well, one for the dark-haired girl and one for the red-haired boy that broke apart from the trees just seconds later. 

    As the two children joined Thean, the huddled family sank to the forest floor, one messy and beautiful heap of joyous sobs. Arthur had so many questions, but he knew it was not yet time to interrupt that unexpected, precious moment. 

    “I’ve got you, I’ve got you… gods, I’ve finally got you,” Merlin breathed shakily, scarcely blinking since the sudden arrival of his children. 

    Ava was the first of the children to speak. “We missed you, Pa,” she sighed. That was a massive understatement, but she couldn’t say anything more, her throat so tight from being overwhelmed by the shock of finding their father.

    Merlin cupped his daughter’s face warmly in his hands, using both thumbs to wipe away trails of tears. “I’ve missed you too.” He then clutched Thean’s and Clo’s arms, who flanked their sister, and shuffled backwards slightly on his knees to get a better look at them. “Look at you three- you’re all so grown!” They were each several inches taller from when he’d last seen them, and their cheeks were no longer hollowed out from hunger. Even their hair looked healthier as it shone in the rising moonlight. The clothes they’d been given in Camelot, despite the journey, still maintained more color than any of the garbs given in the mines, making the children look even more ordinary and healthy and alive. “I wish your mother could see you now,” he said solemnly, and watched as a tear traced its way down Clo’s cheek. 

    But as Merlin took in Ava’s brown eyes, Clo’s copper curled locks, and Thean’s timid yet determined stature, he believed with an aching conviction that Lea was as much above the ground as she was below. 

    Arthur took a few steps forward, soaking in the sight of Merlin’s children. If they were alive and unharmed, there was still hope for his own children as well. “I’m so glad to see you’re okay,” he said earnestly to them. “But- how did you find us?”

    Thean sniffled and gave the King a teary-eyed smile, glancing back at the trees from which he and his siblings had emerged. “Well, we weren’t alone.”

    It was then that he saw their faces and heard their cries of delight, and soon felt their arms wrap around his waist and their sobs reverberate through his chest. Their cheeks and clothes were stained with dirt, their hair littered with leaves and twigs- but they were his children, he knew that from the moment he saw their eyes alight in the spreading darkness. He wasn’t able to string together a full sentence for a long time, babbling their names over and over again until he stopped shaking enough to ask, “Your mother- where is she?” 

    “Back in the siege tunnels, last we saw her,” Anselm provided, and though Arthur didn’t want to stop looking at them, he had to close his eyes for a moment to let the revelation sink in. Beneath his eyelids he could almost see her smiling at him, and hear her chiding chuckles. I might yet see her again. When he brought his gaze back to the world, his son and daughter were still there, staring at him with the trust and admiration that only children could place in their parents. 

    “I don’t understand- how are you here? And…” The King paused, wrinkling his nose in disdain. “Why do you all smell like onions?” 

    At this, all five children burst into hoarse laughter. As his daughter grinned, he noticed something else was different about her, aside from the offensive odor. “Eloise- your hair,” he murmured, noticing how the focus of most of his daughter’s conversations at mealtime was now reduced to split ends and tangles. 

    Eloise shrugged self-consciously, one hand flitting to push back crooked strands from her forehead. She quickly stopped the movement though, letting her hand fall to her side and smiling at her father’s concern. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it, Dad?” Looking over to where Merlin and his children were getting to their feet, she said, “They matter.” 

    With an arm still around Ava and Thean, and one hand resting on the nape of Clo’s neck, Merlin turned his gaze to Arthur and his children. Slowly, Anselm approached this new dark-haired stranger. To him and Eloise, Merlin was more myth than man. Now that he stood before them, all the stories they’d heard from their parents and friends surfaced in the dimming light. 

    The prince did not have to think of what to do next; he’d always known that if he ever got the chance to meet his father’s servant, he’d bow to him more deeply than he ever had to kings and queens of any lands. He leaned forward far enough until he could see beads of dew glistening on the grass. Beside him, Eloise curtsied as best she could, her injured foot awkwardly tapping the ground. She glanced up at Merlin as she recovered her stance, and was met with a smile. 

    “It is good to meet you, Princess Eloise,” Merlin said. He had only learned of her existence mere hours before as he and Arthur wove their way through the forest, but even if he hadn’t been told, he’d be able to deduce from her brown curls and the dagger at her side that she was the sweet and resilient child of his two dearest friends.

    “And it is good to meet you again, Prince Anselm,” Merlin continued, nodding to the boy as he rose from bowing. “When last we met, you were just a babe- and now, you’re nearly a man.” 

    Anselm beamed at the comment and straightened his back, but Clo scrunched up his face doubtfully. “Nah, he’s still a big baby,” Clo said decidedly, crossing his arms with a huff. Anselm tried to splutter a comeback, but relaxed at the surrounding laughter. Slight embarrassment was a small price to pay for the others’ momentary happiness. 

    As her own laughter subsided, Ava became more aware of the strangeness of finding the King only in the company of her father. “Where are all the others?” she asked, eyes flitting between the two grown-ups. “Helena- and Percival and Leon?” 

    Those two questions jerked Arthur from the joy of reuniting with the children. He saw Merlin’s own expression become more drawn, arms tightening ever so slightly around the children as if that could protect them from the answers. Arthur gave him a small reassuring nod, coming to a decision to be the one to break the news. “We were attacked at the camp where Merlin was,” he began. “Percival wasn’t there; I have no idea where he is. I told Leon to help as many people as possible escape to Nemeth- that’s where we were heading before you found us.” 

    Amidst a stunned silence, Thean was the only one to speak up. “And what of Helena?” he asked with hesitant hope. 

    And Arthur, for all his prior determination, couldn’t find words to convey the worst news of all. Ava was the first to realize the meaning behind the King’s grave expression. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head repeatedly just as her hands began to shake too. 

    “No what?” Eloise asked, looking up at her father. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Where’s Helena?” Her voice cracked with mounting panic and confusion. Anselm, too, fixed his gaze on Arthur, who lowered himself to his knees so that he could be at eye-level with his children. 

    “I’m so sorry,” he said softly, forcing the words out before he could lose his courage again. “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save so many of them.” 

    Eloise let out a wail of disbelief, and Arthur shuddered at the sound from one so young. Helena had helped to raise his children as much as Gaius had helped to raise Arthur, stitching up their scraped knees and doting over their seasonal ailments with patience and good humor. This would be the first time his children would ever feel true grief, and he cursed those who had brought it into their lives.

    The princess sank into the arms of her father, seeking comfort away from the news. Anselm, meanwhile, held back for a moment before following his sister’s action- not to seek comfort, but to provide it instead, for from Arthur’s expression he could glean the time since his father had stepped from Camelot had been more arduous than he could have anticipated.

    When their sniffles and whimpers ebbed slightly, Arthur pulled back from his son and daughter so that he could see all the children at once. “You must be so tired. Did you travel all the way here on foot?” 

    “Mostly, but we, er, borrowed some horses a while back,” Anselm said, looking just past his father as he often did when he was feeling guilty for misbehaving. 

    “Borrowed?” Merlin prompted, seeing similarly uneasy looks on the faces of his own children. 

    “We’ll give them back!” Clo said defensively. “Eventually…”

    Arthur shook his head in resigned confusion. He felt a headache pounding forward, his mind going into overdrive as he pondered over how he’d be able to protect the children from all the ramifications of their leaving Camelot. “Let’s get back to your ‘borrowed’ horses, shall we?” he sighed. Anselm nodded eagerly, moving to wrap an arm around Eloise’s shoulders to support her. It was then Arthur noticed how she leaned heavily on one leg, allowing the other foot to just barely touch the ground. “What happened?” he asked. 

    “I hurt my foot.”

    Arthur studied Eloise for a moment; his shoulders and legs ached from just carrying the weight of his own body and armor, but he took pity on his daughter. He wrapped his own arms under hers, lifting her from the ground. She did not protest, instead wrapping her legs gratefully around her father’s waist and burrowing her face into his shoulders where his tunic peeked out from the chainmail, sighing with relief. 

    Clo turned to Merlin then with a beseeching look in his eyes. “Pa, I wanna be tall, too,” he said, holding his arms out. “Up?” 

    Merlin smiled down at his youngest son. “You’ll soon be too big to carry, Clo.”

    “But not yet?” Clo pressed hopefully. 

    “No, not yet.” Merlin bent down on one knee so that the boy could scramble up his back, wrapping his legs over his father’s shoulders. Clutching his boots to secure him, Merlin stood. 

    Clo giggled in delight, and called out, “Look Ava, I’m even taller than you!” It was a game he’d often play back in the mines, clinging to his father’s shoulders so that for once he wouldn’t feel like the smallest child there. 

    “Yeah, you are,” Ava mumbled, turning her face away so that her little brother could not see her wipe away the tears that still persisted from her eyes. She knew Clo was only trying to give her and the other children something to laugh about, but all she could think about was how she’d never see Helena again. The woman who had patiently mentored her throughout her time in Camelot had been a steady and calming presence in that unfamiliar castle. 

    As they walked through the open field, Merlin called out to Thean, who had bounded a few paces ahead to lead the way. “Your blade,” he said, gesturing to the sheathed weapon that hung from the boy’s belt loop. “You found it in the castle, didn’t you? And that was how you found us- how you found me?” Thean paused to allow the others to catch up, and Arthur noticed him glance nervously askance in his direction before continuing with a stoic silence. His only response to Merlin’s questions was a nod.

    “I hid that blade rather well,” Merlin continued thoughtfully. “How’d you find it?” 

    Thean paused in his tracks again, not looking back as he mumbled, “I dreamed of it.” 

    “You dreamed of the blade?” Merlin repeated in surprise, stopping himself as his eldest son quickened his pace. 

    “I dream of many things, all the time,” Thean said dully. “Some are useful. Others… not so much.”

    There was a hidden heaviness to his voice that stirred deep unease for Arthur. His mind flashed to a frantic and ever more innocent Morgana, pleading each morning that he listen to her warnings to not go out hunting that day. Thean himself had come to the royal chambers many nights in the first few months after Lea’s death- how many times had he been escaping from nightmares that were more than just horrid dreams? 

    “I don’t understand,” Arthur said, though he felt as though he were starting to understand in ways he did not wish to. “How could a blade have helped you find us?” 

    “It’s not just any blade,” Merlin offered at his son’s silence. “I hid it because it has magic woven into it. I wasn’t sure for a long time what its purpose was, but after leafing through several dusty books- really, Arthur, I hope you’ve had someone clean the library, it was truly awful last time I saw it- I realized King Osgath had a sorcerer enchant the blade for his daughter, Princess Riga, when she was married off to the prince of a distant land. So long as she thought of her family back in Camelot, she’d be able to find her way to them from wherever she was.” 

    King Osgath would have been Arthur’s ancestor by two centuries, and the name only dimly registered in his mind from the tedious history lessons he’d had as a child. While he absorbed this strange anecdote, Ava pondered, “So the blade thought Thean was… a princess?” 

    Merlin burst into a laugh, a loud and raucous sound that the children echoed more softly as Thean ducked his head and looked abashed. “Not exactly,” Merlin said, grinning at his daughter. “When I realized what the blade’s purpose was, I tested it out myself one morning while I was out picking herbs for Gaius. It pointed straight in the direction of Ealdor, to my mother, so the enchantment wasn’t specific to that King and princess.” He paused before adding as an afterthought, “Perhaps they didn’t have the best sorcerers at their heed back then, as a more specific enchantment shouldn’t have been too hard to conjure.” 

    They continued on in silence until they reached the small encampment previously set up by the children. Eloise shivered as her father set her down against a tree trunk, and he unpinned his cloak to drape over her and Anselm, who sat down promptly at his sister’s side.

    “We can afford to rest here for a few hours,” Thean said, then looked sheepishly towards Merlin and the King. “Right?” he asked quietly. 

    “Of course,” Arthur murmured, ducking his head in respect. “Whatever you say, Sir Thean.” He thought he saw Thean roll his eyes at that, turning away to hide a blooming smile. 

    As the children sat on the ground, allowing themselves to feel exhausted now that they weren’t all on their own again, Merlin trailed a little further away from the group and approached the horses. There, he ran his hands slowly down their snouts, marveling at the first horses he’d seen in over 10 years. He had never thought he’d miss the creatures after complaining of riding them for long hours in Camelot, but there was something comforting about their simplicity and surprising gentleness. 

    Having been informed by Anselm that there was food in one of the packs, Arthur strode over to where Merlin stood. As he stooped to examine the few onions and carrots, he pondered over one missing piece from Merlin’s earlier story.

    “Why was that blade- the one for Princess Riga- still hidden?” he asked. Merlin had admitted to storing away numerous magical items within his own room, but had never mentioned anything about a blade ordered to be made by one of Arthur’s own ancestors. 

    “Oh,” Merlin said softly, turning his eyes to the King in surprise at the question. “I suppose I just forgot about it.”

    His face faded quickly into a neutral expression, the kind of look he’d often feigned in the early days of being Arthur’s servant. Arthur knew there was more of a reason than Merlin was letting on, but this was neither the right time nor place to press the matter. In the year after Camlann and before Merlin’s capture, he’d brought numerous magical artifacts to the King’s attention that he thought may prove useful now that magic was no longer outlawed. However, even knowing Uther’s destruction of most of the remnants of sorcery within the Castle, Arthur had been surprised by how few enchanted items Merlin presented him with. The idea that his old friend may have been still hiding some more cherished magical objects remained at the back of the King’s mind, a pesky reminder that though Merlin trusted Arthur with his life, he still may not trust him with all his secrets. 

    “Yeah,” Arthur murmured noncommittally, tossing an onion to Merlin as he turned away from him. He looked back at the sound of its thud on the ground to see the man bending down to dust it off, raising his eyebrows at the King’s gaze. “Still as clumsy as ever,” Arthur sighed, trying to create some levity between them. Whether he saw through the forced attempt or not, Merlin smiled gratefully, following in the King’s footsteps. 

    They settled into two huddled masses, Arthur and his children leaning against one tree, Merlin and his own opposite them. No fire was lit for fear of the smoke alerting unkind eyes of their presence, and so for a time they sat with only the sound of munched carrots and onions to fill the night air. As their meal of vegetables came to an end, Thean stood up suddenly and jogged back to the horses, returning with one fist closed around something and holding it out to his father. 

    Merlin leaned forward, sucking in a breath in shock as he took the object. “Your mum- our grandma- gave it to me. I thought you might like to have it again,” Thean explained. Merlin held the wooden dragon like one would hold a scared child, something lost and found again. 

    “Thank you, Thean,” Merlin said hoarsely as his eldest son settled back down beside him. Seeing Clo and Ava observing the object, of which they had not seen since Camelot’s fall, Merlin passed it on to their curious hands. “We shall all look after it now, right?” he asked of them, and his three children nodded in turn. 

    Peaceful silence lapsed. After a time, Ava tilted her head up to her father from under the crook of his arm and said, “Tell us a story, Pa.” 

    “Yeah, tell us a story! All the books in Camelot are so dull,” Clo whined. He cast a guilty glance towards the royal members, sheepishly adding, “Well, at least, some of them are.” 

    “Hmm, alright, give me a moment. It has been a while since I’ve told any,” Merlin said, drumming his fingers along his knee- a new habit, one Arthur had never noticed before. He wondered if Merlin had picked it up from Lea. 

    After a long pause, Merlin began his tale slowly. He described how some of the first dragons to roam Albion established a city of stone at the peak of a mountain, where they could remain unhindered by mankind. The base of the mountain was nothing remarkable, only slopes of slick black stone, but at the top of the mountain lay arches carved by centuries of wind and claws. Human passerbys could see a kaleidoscope of colors glinting in the sunlight as small and colossal dragons alike swooped joyously in dizzying fashion. Though they admired their beauty, most men knew to stay away, for they feared that which they did not understand. 

    Until one day, a stubbornly curious boy came to the foot of the mountain. For months he sat listening to how the dragons spoke to one another. Seeing his patience, the dragons decided to grant him the gift of their language, and he, in return, taught them the language of mankind. That boy was the first dragonlord, and he continually visited the dragons throughout his life, pledging to protect them from the rest of mankind and passing on the lessons he learned to his kin. As both dragons and dragonlords grew in number, and tension between the kingdoms surrounding the mountain grew too, a decision was reached encouraging dragonlords to act as diplomats and travel to the mountain periodically to keep the peace. So long as the dragons didn’t infringe upon the declared boundaries, they would be left to fly on without intrusion. 

    “But that’s not what really happened, is it? All the dragons were hunted down and killed.”

    The interruption of Thean’s voice nearly made Eloise startle from where she nestled beside her father. Arthur’s children had sat enraptured by Merlin’s storytelling throughout his monologue, leaning forward to hear a story unlike any the King and Queen had ever told. 

    Merlin winced slightly at the statement as well, but Clo rolled his eyes in the direction of his older brother. “That’s why it’s called a story, Thean,” he sighed. “It’s supposed to be happier than the truth.”

    “There’s bits of truth in every story,” said Merlin, nodding at Clo before smiling at Thean. “The part about a boy coming to the foot of the mountain- that was something Gaius once told me, when I first asked him where dragonlords came from. It’s what fathers told their children for centuries, so there must be some truth to it.”

    Thean’s expression softened at this, and Arthur felt an ache in his heart as he processed Merlin’s explanation. It’s what fathers told their children. Gaius was like a father figure to Merlin, because his true father had never had the chance to have more than a day with him. 

    “I wish we could meet just one dragon,” Ava murmured, half to herself. “I would’ve liked to talk to Kilgharrah just once- to think that he lived so long… imagine what he must have seen.”

    Eloise glanced up at her father with brow furrowed before directing a question to the other family. “But wasn’t Kilgharrah really, really evil?”

    “He did many terrible things, that’s true,” Merlin admitted. “But he also helped me and Camelot in times of need. Dragons are like people, in that way- never entirely good or bad, but a mix of both.”

    He took a breath as though he wished to say more, but then he caught Arthur’s stony gaze across the fire. The King had been trying, but apparently failing, to hide his disapproval of Merlin’s stance on Kilgharrah. All Arthur had seen of the dragon was his wings soaring above a burning city.

    Almost as if he could see the memories reflected in Arthur’s eyes, Merlin shifted where he sat and cleared his throat. “But I believe that’s enough stories for tonight. Best you all be getting some sleep,” he said, addressing both his own children and Arthur’s. 

    “I’ll take first watch,” Arthur said, rising to approach a break in the trees where he’d have the best vantage point of the surrounding area.  

    As his children nestled under the red cloak he’d draped over them, Arthur settled amidst twigs and departed leaves to face the direction of the most menacing looking trees. Merlin’s three children crowded in close to their father; though Arthur thought he had spotted a blanket or two in the satchels, they seemed content to have only the warmth of each other’s bodies to stifle the chill. After years of nothing but that, they were most comfortable when doused in the familiar sensation of being slightly uncomfortable. 

    As for King Arthur, he longed not for the tidied sheets and feasts of his castle, but rather for that sense of safety he felt when he could lay at night with Gwen in his arms, armed with the knowledge that he’d only have to call down the hallway for all the knights to come running to his aid. Out here in the open darkness, he was all too aware of their vulnerability. In the span of just one night, he’d gone from having not just one other person to protect, but five children as well. He knew that though they slept peacefully behind him in this moment, any shifting shadow could change that. 

    Camelot no longer brimming with life, but in ashes; Percival no longer at his side, but lost somewhere out in the vast unknown; Helena no longer preventing others from slipping into nothingness, but succumbed to that fate herself. Each a pivotal fragment of his life, gone before he could process the loss. 

    But dwelling on that now could only increase the chances of further misfortune. Spurred by this realization, he craned his neck back in the direction of where he heard sleepy breaths from behind. All seemed to be asleep- all except one, who sat up with his back against a tree just to the side of the rest of his family. There, Thean clutched the dagger of King Osgath with both hands. He seemed unaware that he was being watched by the current King of Camelot, as his unfocused gaze was directed to the night sky. 

    Arthur was about to call out to him quietly to get some rest, when Thean did something so incredibly stupid that, even if they hadn’t shared similar looks, would have made Arthur know immediately that he was Merlin’s son. 

    The boy unsheathed the dagger, and a burst of green light escaped into the darkness. 

    Arthur was across the clearing in seconds, shouting, “Put that away!” He had to stop himself from reaching forward and shaking some sense into the boy. 

    Thean leapt to his feet in fright and scrambled to sheathe the blade, but not before his father and siblings lurched awake, watching as the thick green glow blinked into nothing. “What’s wrong?” Merlin asked, rising to his feet and whipping his head to take in their surroundings. Seeing nothing of immediate danger, he walked closer to where Thean stood in shocked silence. 

    “Ask Thean,” Arthur said with a bite to his tone. When the boy said nothing, he continued, “What were you thinking? If anyone within a day’s walk from here was looking for us, you might as well have given them a map on where to find us!” Arthur knew that was a vast exaggeration and that he likely sounded ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but voice the anger that thrummed through him. 

    Merlin placed a reassuring hand on Thean’s shoulder, but kept his gaze fixed on the King as he said drily, “We’ll certainly be found if you keep yelling.” 

    Arthur’s mouth opened and closed several times, making him appear like a fish out of water, before he finally settled on a grimace. He couldn’t argue with such logic, even though he wanted to. 

    “I-I’m sorry,” Thean stammered, looking down at his boots. “I didn’t think anything would come of it, since we already found Pa, but I just wanted to try…” He trailed off uncertainly, and Arthur felt a pang of regret at having yelled at him. He’d forgotten, though only for a moment, that the events of the past few days had been as trying for Thean and the other children as they had been for him and Merlin. 

    “The blade responds to whoever you’re thinking of that’s not near you,” Merlin said, tracing a circle into the shoulder of the shivering boy. “Who were you thinking of, Thean?” 

    “I wasn’t thinking of anyone,” Thean said numbly. 

    “Well, you must have been thinking of someone.” 

    “No,” Thean insisted. “No one.” 

    At this, Merlin stepped to face his son directly. They held each other’s gazes for a moment- some sparse emotion flickered behind Thean’s eyes, and Arthur thought he saw the smallest of smiles light upon Merlin’s face before he turned the King. “We should follow the blade,” his servant said. 

    From across the clearing, Eloise groaned, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Not again,” she said forlornly. 

    Arthur asked the most pressing and eloquent question that came to his mind. “Why?” 

    “Thean might not remember who exactly he was thinking of, but it can’t have been anyone intending us harm,” Merlin explained, in a voice carried by one who viewed their arguments as purely logical. “The blade’s never led you anywhere that wasn’t safe, right, Thean?” Thean nodded, staring at his father with eyes widened. Satisfied with the silent response, Merlin added, “It looked like it was going in a similar direction to Nemeth, anyway. And frankly, Arthur, we need all the help we can get, from the citadel or from elsewhere.” 

    Before he could think of a response, he spotted Anselm moving towards the direction of the stream. “Where are you going?” Arthur called out. 

    Anselm paused in obvious surprise. “To ready the horses,” he said. 

    “I never said we were going!” the King replied with petulant exasperation. 

    The prince’s gaze flitted back and forth between Merlin’s family and his own father. “Well… we are, aren’t we?” he murmured. 

    Arthur sighed, clenching and unclenching his fists in thought. On the one hand, the blade had helped his and Merlin’s children to be reunited with them- a feat that was miraculous and, of course, magical. But on the other hand, they were following a path that had unravelled when Thean thought of someone that, suspiciously, he could not or would not admit to now. 

    “You really trust this thing?” Arthur asked of Merlin, gesturing to the blade now sheathed and tightly clutched in Thean’s hands. 

    “Yes,” Merlin said earnestly. “It’s not an evil weapon- I would know. Besides, your own ancestor made it.” 

    “That doesn’t mean it’s wholly good either,” Arthur murmured, though half to himself. His predecessors, including his own father, had created plenty of evil regardless of their royal blood. But on this matter, Merlin seemed oddly sure of himself, showing a shard of the confidence he’d carried over a decade ago. “Very well then. We’ll follow the blade.” 

    When the horses were roused from their brief sleep, Arthur lifted Eloise up first, then offered a hand to Anselm that was waved away as the boy lurched up himself to sit behind his sister. Clo and Ava got onto another horse, and Merlin helped Thean onto the third, looking over hesitantly in Arthur’s direction. Though the three horses had been enough for the five children, there was no way Arthur and Merlin would both be able to ride as well. “Well, what are you waiting for? No time to dilly dally,” Arthur said, striding past before Merlin could make any complaint. He smiled slightly at the sound of a saddle shifting beneath a new weight. 

    While at first the King walked ahead of the horses, when the ethereal green light spun past him and into the forest beyond, he decided he’d be better suited for taking up guard at the rear. Truthfully, he simply found the blade unsettling; it was beautiful, but startled him with its strange powers. As he allowed himself to fall farther behind, he noted the light was thinner than when Thean had unsheathed it back at the campsite, flickering with a hesitancy that reflected the expression upon the boy’s face as he gripped the steel in one hand. 

    Eloise’s yawn interrupted Arthur’s observations. “Is it breakfast time yet?” she whined. 

    “No, of course not,” Clo said up ahead. “The sun won’t be out for ages.”

    Not one to have her hopes so easily dashed, Eloise let out a huff and challenged, “And how would you know?” 

    “The owls are still awake, but all the other birds and squirrels and rabbits are sleeping. And, a lot of the flowers haven’t opened yet.” All this Clo said as though he’d always spoken in such a manner before. 

    Arthur, thoroughly perplexed by Clo’s explanation, asked, “Are those horses magical? I’ve never been able to see that much from one before.”

    “I can’t see all that, I can smell it.” Though the red-headed boy had his back to Arthur from atop the horse, he could see that his posture was one of absolute candor. Unlike most of the time, in this instance, Clo wasn’t joking. 

    Surprisingly, that wasn’t the strangest thing Arthur had ever heard, so he shook his head and muttered, “Well, of course. How foolish of me to assume otherwise.”

    Anselm and Eloise snickered at their father’s sarcasm, while Ava looked ahead to the horse that carried Thean and her father. “You’re not surprised?” she asked Merlin, who had been staring back at his youngest son with a pleased smile. 

    “Not very,” Merlin said, to which Clo beamed with pleasure. “Your mother and I always suspected Clo had some heightened smell, since he could often tell what meals were being made in the mines before the rest of us could.”

    “I thought that was just ‘cause you were hungry,” Ava admitted, talking to her brother’s back. He hadn’t been able to guess their meals correctly every time, so she had chalked up the moments when he did to plain luck. 

    “That’s what I thought too,” Clo said, eyes settling on the figure of his father up ahead. “Why didn’t you or Ma ever mention anything?” 

    Even from the back of the line of horses, Arthur could recognize that way in which Merlin shrugged. He knew his friend was about to tell only a partial truth. “We couldn’t have been sure because of your runes,” Merlin murmured.

    Clo’s curiosity didn’t seem satisfied by this answer, but he remained silent anyway. Perhaps he did not wish to hear what Arthur suspected- that Merlin had not told Clo because the boy may have never gotten the chance to explore his magical talents had he lived all his days in the mines. To tell a child of all they might do when there was no clear path to possibility would have been cruel. 

    They carried on in tired silence for a while, the green light steady before them. The trees grew closer, instilling a heavier sense of darkness. Though that may have added to the unease of the children, the coverage lessened Arthur’s reluctance to follow the blade. He remembered the trees having been thickest in the woodlands near the citadel of Nemeth. Perhaps the blade was leading them straight to the citadel; Thean had spent some time there, after all, and it wasn’t unlikely that he hadn’t been thinking of those he’d met in Nemeth.

    “I smell something,” Clo said, voice soft enough that Arthur struggled to make out the sentence.

    “Well, that’s a given,” Thean scoffed. Those were the first words he’d spoken since the group had left their campsite.

    “What do you smell, Clo?” Ava asked, in a voice more pointedly gentle than that of her twin brother. If Thean had turned around then, he would have seen Ava glaring in his direction.

    “I’m not sure,” Clo murmured. “It’s confusing. I can’t tell if it’s something normal, or… entirely strange.”

    “That’s not very helpful,” Anselm called. 

    Clo seemed to hardly notice the prince’s comment, his brows furrowed in concentration as his nose twitched constantly. “No, I guess it’s not,” was all he said after a long pause. 

    As the green line continued and the hoofbeats became melodic, Arthur’s eyes were dragged downward, his footsteps starting to stumble slightly. He was thinking of calling out to Anselm to take on a walking role when the green light suddenly ended; this time, not with a person, but with a rock twice the height and width of a person. It was strikingly large in comparison to the pebbles dotting the forest floor, and covered with- 

    “Runes,” Thean gasped. 

    Arthur felt the hair on his arms rise at the sight. They were indeed of the same magical origin as those that had marked countess slaves, including Merlin and his family. However, these runes were far grander in size and complexity, twisting at some intervals to widths and heights greater than that of a person.

    The sound of footsteps startled Arthur further; Merlin had leapt down from the horse he and Thean had occupied, and was fast approaching the ominous slab of stone. “What are you-!” Arthur began to protest as Merlin’s hand reached for the stone. Each winding line etched there was suddenly illuminated with golden light, and just as quickly as they had brightened, so too did they fade into nothing. Not only did the runes blink out, but shortly thereafter the stone faded like distant air on a blistering day, as though it had never truly been there to begin with. Blackness stretched beyond indefinitely. 

    “Oh, cool!” Clo yelped excitedly, his voice echoing forward into the cave. “How’d you do that, Pa?”

    Merlin looked past his son to where Arthur stood as he said, “I put those runes there a long time ago- before you were born, Clo.”

    Arthur relaxed slightly at this. After seeing those runes littered around slave encampments and down the arms of skinny children, he was uneasy at the sight of them. But if they truly had been placed by Merlin, they couldn’t be harmful. This must be like all those fireside stories Merlin would jovially tell Arthur and the knights on all their expeditions after Camlann. “When?” Arthur asked, more interested in the ‘why’ of it all but figuring that was a good place to start. 

    Merlin fiddled with one hand slightly, as though weighing his possible answers against one another. The one he settled on, however, was not an answer. “Do you remember when I went to see my mother? Just after the Battle of Camlann?”

    Arthur had to pause to think back to those distant days, all hazy from the torrent of despair, joy, and change that they had been wrought with. Merlin had been quiet and skittish then, skirting around Arthur for fear of dismissal and only speaking when spoken to. His timidity had driven Arthur mad enough that, while he had mainly promoted him to Court Sorcerer due to his more than capable abilities to fill the role, he had also done so with the hope of returning some confidence to his friend so that he stopped acting like a scared mouse. Arthur had begun to miss the jabs and snide remarks that used to greet him at every mealtime and expedition outside the castle walls. 

    And so when the manservant turned Court Sorcerer had asked that he visit Ealdor, the King immediately said yes, for it was the first time since before Camlann that Merlin had asked for anything at all. Upon hearing that Merlin planned to be gone for two weeks, Arthur had felt a shred of unease, but had dismissed his suspicions quickly. The whole of Camelot, as well as the surrounding kingdoms, had gone through an ordeal that some had not survived. If Merlin wished to check up on his mother and Ealdor in person, who was he to stop him? 

    Arthur was beginning to suspect from the guilty look upon Merlin’s face that he should have stopped him, or at least questioned him more. “What does that have to do with anything?” the King asked then in a low voice. 

    “Well… I did see my mother,” Merlin said slowly. “But only for a day. All the other days, I was here.” Merlin paused then to wait for more questions; when met with only the still air and still faces of his befuddled audience, he took a deep breath and continued, “I went to a meadow, one not far from here. And I called for Aithusa.” 

    Arthur knew he should feel something, that he should say something. What he sensed was not emotions, but the sickening lurch in his chest as his heart started hammering, and the crackling of his ears as Merlin’s words buried deeper into his mind. He saw the children’s eyes alight on him; Merlin’s kids seemed to thrum with bridled excitement, only dimmed by the knowledge of Arthur’s incoming reaction, while Anselm and Eloise shifted imperceptibly closer to their father. All five had heard stories of the white dragon that had prevented the death of a species, but in turn killed so many of the human species. 

    “Is there anything else?” Arthur asked, turning his gaze to Merlin, who seemed to have shrunk back slightly into the cave’s opening. Only half of his gaunt face was illuminated by the moonlight, and he looked a little pitiful, but Arthur found he did not care right then. “Anything else?” Arthur insisted. “Any other weapons, or- or fire-breathing secrets you’d like to share now?” 

    “Um, no,” Merlin murmured, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Well, none that I can think of anyway.” 

    “Unbelievable,” Arthur muttered, and he turned away from the group to have a momentary respite from their troubled expressions. The sight of the dark forest was like a gasp of cold air, refreshing but lacking comfort. Nearly 12 years, Arthur thought dismally. I spent 12 years looking for him, and now that he’s back, everything is chaos. 

    “And then what- you left her here, all alone?” Ava asked, and her voice was full of enough sadness to make Arthur turn back to the group.

    “I didn’t want to,” Merlin sighed. “But I thought it was far too soon for her to be forgiven. Albion was still grieving after Camlann. So I put her into a deep sleep, like how a bear hibernates, but for much longer so that I would have enough time to figure out what to do with her.” To Ava, he said sincerely, “I never intended to leave her alone for this long.” 

    “Well, what are we waiting for? She's waited long enough!” Clo exclaimed. He took a few bounds forward only to be brought to a halt by his father’s hand. 

    “Not so fast, Clo,” Merlin said, though he smiled at his son’s eagerness. “I don’t know what I’ll find in there, so I’m going to check things out first- alone.” That last word, he spoke pointedly in Arthur’s direction. 

    “I’m going with you,” Arthur said in his kingly voice, one hand tightening at the hilt of his sword. 

    “Then who will look after them?” Merlin said, gesturing with arms widened to their assembled children. Anselm and Eloise were doing their best to not appear frightened at the talk of a dragon, whilst Merlin’s children were failing to not look offended to have their father claim they needed ‘looking after.’ 

    “I’m not their nanny, Merlin.” 

    “You have been for the past year,” Merlin pointed out. 

    “Why do we need looking after, anyway?” Thean called, breaking the standoff between the King and servant with his words. “You put the runes there to keep anyone from entering the cave, so what could possibly be dangerous?” 

    “It’s not what might be dangerous, it’s what you might see in there,” Merlin explained with placating gestures. 

    But now that he had spoken, Thean was unwilling to be silenced. “We’ve all seen a lot lately. I think we can handle whatever is in there.”

    “No,” Arthur and Merlin intoned simultaneously.

    A brief flash of hurt crossed Thean’s features, and Arthur felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. He still remembered the constant wish he’d had in his own youth to be viewed as up to the same standing as adults. But as he’d grown older, he’d realized that his father and all the knights hadn’t kept him reined in because he wasn’t capable, but because they simply didn’t want him to have to be capable just yet. Arthur and Merlin’s children had all shown their ability to endure, but frankly, Arthur didn’t want to see any of them endure more than they had to past this point. 

    “I’ll stay here,” Arthur said shortly, forcing the words out. “But just…”

    He let the words trail off, not knowing where he even wanted them to go. That moment was starting to feel all too familiar- Merlin going into the unknown dark, out of Arthur’s sight. But this was a darkness Merlin had created, and so Arthur would try to trust it. 

    “Will do,” Merlin murmured earnestly, flashing him the smallest of smiles. He turned to give Clo, who was nearest to him, a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. And then he was gone, echoing footsteps lingering longer in the air than his shadow on the ground. 

    But soon those too were gone, and Arthur was left to face five children on his own. 

    Their faces were somber, excepting Clo; the red-headed boy was bouncing on his toes in excitement. “I wonder what she’ll look like? Do you think she’ll be bigger than a horse, or a tree, or a castle ?” 

    The boy’s eyes scoured those of his siblings and friends, only to be met with drawn brows and worried frowns. “I wonder why he never told us,” Ava said, staring dismally at the ground. 

    “But I think he did, in a way,” Thean said slowly, as he came to the realization himself. “Do you remember the story of the Sleeping Dragon?” 

    “I wouldn’t call that a story,” Clo muttered, his excitement dimming at the mention. “Pa would just tell us to be like the sleepy dragon and close our eyes.” 

    “When we had nightmares, he’d draw shapes in the dirt and say that they’d protect us,” Ava said, eyes widening. With the toe of her boot, she drew a waving shape into the dirt resembling the crest of a wing. It had been one of the repeating figures that had flashed on the slab of stone hiding the cave. 

    “Why be so roundabout with it?” Anselm asked. “Why not just tell you?” Arthur had always been concise when telling tales to his children; he’d skip the symbolism to give them the ending faster. 

    “Maybe he was afraid,” Thean said quietly. 

    Clo shook his head in confusion. “Of us?” 

    “Of everything.” Thean’s gaze flashed briefly in the King’s direction before returning to stare into the dark cave. 

    “I don’t want to go into the cave. I don’t want to meet Aithusa,” Eloise whispered, and Arthur moved closer to her, startled by her distress. 

    “It’ll be alright, Elly,” he murmured, pulling her in for a hug. Though he wanted to comfort her more, he worried about the truth of words; a part of him thought that perhaps he should take a lesson from Merlin and not make promises to his children that he could not keep. Eloise sniffled into his shoulder, only relinquishing her shaking grip on him after several moments. 

    “Don’t worry, Elly!” Clo exclaimed. “My Pa’s the best dragonlord around, he’ll protect you.” 

    “Your Pa’s the only dragonlord around,” Anselm said blandly. 

    “Yeah, and that makes him the best,” Clo returned. 

    A deep and throaty yell jolted Arthur’s feet from the ground. Instinctively, he reached for the hilt of his sword, ready to charge into the cave just as a small hand wrapped around his own. Ava gazed up at him sympathetically, a small smile on her face that juxtaposed the startled look on his own. “It’s alright,” Ava told the King. “That must’ve been Pa’s dragon shout, not a battle cry.” 

    Arthur stood still for a moment as he processed her words, breaking his frozen stance to allow tension to become frustration. “Must it be a dragon shout? Why can’t it just be a dragon whisper?”

    “‘Cause then there’d be no dramatic effect,” Clo giggled, amused by the King’s annoyance. 

    As though summoned by the King’s complaints, two bright eyes appeared in the distant reaches of the cave. “Safe!” Merlin called, before evaporating from sight again. Whether that meant the dragon was safe, or it was safe for them to follow him, Arthur did not know, and Clo did not wait to find out. He bolted to where his father disappeared before anyone could reach out a hand to stop him.

    “Wait-! Ugh,” Arthur sighed in defeat as Thean and Ava ran after their little brother, taking no heed of his hesitancy. Only Anselm and Eloise remained rooted to where they stood; at least he could be comforted that his own children were occasionally obedient. “Stay behind me,” Arthur told them, and they nodded earnestly, having no intention to start disobeying then. When they were ten steps inside the cave, Arthur reached to hold their hands, scared that they may trip if he didn’t. He wanted to offer them guidance with his voice as well, but the silence was such in the cave that he didn’t wish to break it.

    A floating golden light was soon seen, small as a speck and growing larger until four crouched figures could be seen beneath it. Merlin and his children had formed a close semicircle, obscuring the royal family’s view from the fixture of their wonder until they approached close enough to stand beneath the orb of light. 

    There, lying curled up on its side and blinking like a child waking to sunlight, was the source of Merlin’s joy and Arthur’s fear. The creature was far smaller than when Arthur had seen it laying devastation down on Camlann from the sky. White scales hung like shriveled feathers from its skin, pulled tightly against the bones of its face so that two dark blue eyes bulged unnaturally as it scanned the cave it had not opened its eyes to in over a decade. Contrary to Clo’s predictions, the creature could scarcely be considered larger than the average hound. 

    Merlin reached a hand forward hesitantly, and the dragon nudged its snout into his palm. Merlin let out a noise akin to a sob. “Sorry, girl,” he sighed, rubbing cupped fingers around one side of its head. “Sorry I took so long.” 

    While Merlin’s children looked on with captivated awe, Eloise turned to her father with a puzzled frown. “That’s the dragon? It doesn’t look like much.” 

    “She was much bigger when I left her here,” Merlin explained, addressing the princess’ confusion without taking his eyes off the dragon. “The hibernation spells I put on her were strong, but I guess they couldn’t keep her as strong as she was.” 

    “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” Arthur snapped, causing Merlin to raise his head slightly from where he was bent. However, he did not take the bait, and kept stroking the dragon’s head instead.

    Clo scooched forward from where he sat, and slowly reached a hand forward just as his father had done. Its nose twitched for a moment before leaning into Clo’s hand, eliciting a squeal of delight from the boy. Just then, the dragon yawned, revealing a multitude of sharp teeth mere inches away from Clo’s hand. Neither the dragonlord nor his son seemed to pay any heed to this, but Arthur shuddered involuntarily. 

    “Gee, Pa, you sure weren’t lying- she is a sleepy dragon!” Clo laughed. Merlin looked faintly surprised that his children had picked up on the connection, but his face split into an even wider grin at that revelation. 

    As Thean and Ava approached, following the same method of holding out their hands to be sniffed, the dragon continued to greet them with yawns. “She’ll have to rest soon,” Merlin said. “Hibernation isn’t quite the same as sleep. She’ll need food too, but we can wait till first light.” 

    Anselm squeezed Arthur’s hand, which he had not released despite the darkness of the cave being only at the edge of the group. “Dad- can I… can we, um…” The prince squirmed with the struggle to ask the question, nodding his head in the dragon’s direction to convey his wish. 

    “Yeah, can we, Dad?” Eloise asked. After seeing her friends approach the small dragon, she was more curious than afraid. 

    “Yes,” Arthur relented through gritted teeth. “Just be careful.” 

    And so the prince and princess of Camelot approached the white dragon, and upon a weary blink from it of acceptance, they stroked its head as one would pet a dog. In a curious movement, the dragon slowly raised one limb up to the prince, who looked to Merlin for guidance. “I think she wants to shake your hand,” he laughed. Anselm awkwardly laid his palm beneath the dragon’s, gently moving up and down. The dragon seemed pleased by this gesture, almost seeming to sigh with contentment as its limb lowered back to the ground. Anselm turned to look at his father, that hungry look only a child could have when seeking approval from their parents. 

    All Arthur could manage was a tight-lipped smile as he stifled down the urge to drag his son and daughter away by their arms. He wondered how Uther would feel if he knew his grandchildren were now conducting themselves comfortably in the presence of an animal he had tried to wipe clean from the world. Most likely, Uther was turning in his grave for the thousandth time since Arthur’s reign had begun. 

   The dragon’s eyes drifted from the children to the King, whose heart began to beat slowly and heavily in his head. Despite the bulging eyes, the stare was so nearly human that Arthur was fully convinced in that moment that the dragon remembered him, remembered him as one of the small flames of red on the field it wished to snuff out with its own fire. But then the dragon returned its gaze to Merlin’s, giving his hand one last nudge before settling down on its- paws? Claws? Arthur did not know which. 

    Whispering, Clo turned to his father and asked, “Should we be like the sleepy dragon, too?”

    “Yes,” Merlin whispered in return. “Tomorrow, we’ll get her some food-” 

    “And leave for Nemeth,” Arthur interrupted. No matter what this new change would bring, the fact that they needed help and needed it soon had remained the same. 

    “But what about Aithusa?” Ava whispered, turning worried eyes to where the dragon had curled in on itself. 

    “We’ll make sure she’s safe, and well fed- but Arthur’s right, we’ll need to go Nemeth right after.” 

    Arthur was pleasantly surprised by how quickly Merlin had decided leaving the dragon alone was best. From the way he had looked at the creature, Arthur had assumed that just like reuniting with his children, Merlin never wanted to let it out of his sight again. For one who had experienced a turbulent stream of emotions in the past year, his friend was showing significant foresight. Perhaps he’s thought all of this out, for once, Arthur pondered. 

    “I’ll keep watch. Get some sleep,” Merlin said, ruffling Ava’s hair in farewell. As he moved to a midpoint between the dragon and the cave’s entrance, the orb of golden light followed him, casting the group in soft shadows. The warlock nodded to the prince and princess with a tired smile that faltered as he passed by Arthur. 

    Merlin’s children made the silent decision to settle down only a few paces from the dragon. They tucked their heads into their elbows so naturally, curling in on one another like pups in a litter. To Arthur, it was a strange sight; he had forgotten again that these children had always slept with one another for warmth, not having the luxury of blankets, pillows and sheets until recently. In the dim light, they almost looked like animals huddled in the winter- or maybe even dragons. 

    Arthur brushed the thought aside, helping his own children settle in on the stone floor. They did not do so with ease, and quickly the King unclasped his cape once again to use as a makeshift blanket; he was starting to think that may become its permanent use. He spread it over the both of them, even tucking in the corners to trick their tired minds into thinking they were back in Camelot. 

    “Dad? What about you?” Anselm asked, puzzled that his father had saved no part of the cape for himself. 

    “Not tired yet,” Arthur said, forcing a smile. “So don’t worry about me.”

    Anselm nodded, yawning as he did so and reaching out one arm to cover Eloise, who had already closed her eyes. Arthur felt a fierce rush of fondness, taking a moment to let the reality of their presence think in. He was glad his children had each other- and now, had Merlin’s children as well. 

    Merlin, Arthur thought wearily. Since reuniting with the children, he’d had to watch his words, not wanting to upset them more than they had been. Now that the deadest hour of night had come, and each child seemed to be falling fast asleep, he felt it was safe enough to talk to his old friend with unbridled frankness. 

    He was hesitant to leave his children with that- albeit small- thing so nearby. But then he saw that Merlin, too, had seemed to have a much kinder version of the same hesitancy. The orb of light illuminating his figure was just at the right spot along the cave so that he was equidistant between the entrance and where the dragon and children slept. 

    As Arthur approached, Merlin’s head snapped back quickly from where he had been looking towards the cave entrance, only relaxing slightly at the sight of the King. For a moment, Arthur could almost see his servant as he was in his earliest days in Camelot- skittish and tense, at times annoyingly talkative, and others intensely quiet. The latter seemed to be the state of being Merlin currently displayed, saying nothing even when Arthur sat down in the pebbly ground across from him. 

    “So, the dragon,” Arthur began eloquently. He still felt strange calling the creature by a name- that would make it seem like a pet rather than a weapon of mass destruction. “Should come quite in handy.”

    At this, Merlin finally met the King’s eyes. “Handy for what, exactly?”

    “For battle, of course,” Arthur said, startled when Merlin only gave him a look of horror in response. “Well, that’s why we came here, right? You said that we’d need all the help we can get.”

    In the short time he’d had to think since his children had fallen asleep, it was the only logical conclusion that explained why Merlin had so eagerly led them here. His mistake, he realized then, had been in assuming Merlin was acting out of any logical motivation. 

    “That’s not what I meant!” Merlin whispered harshly, struggling to keep his voice low.  “Didn’t you see her? She’s weak and small.” 

    “But it can recover?” Arthur pressed. 

    Merlin’s mouth worked for a moment, until he closed his eyes and sighed in frustration, “Yes…”

    “So what’s the problem, then?” the King asked impatiently. 

    “All of Nemeth might want to kill her for what she did.”

    “That’s… understandable of them,” Arthur admitted. He wasn’t too keen on using the dragon, but when he thought of Camelot’s current state, of Gwen and the knights and all those people trying to remain as quiet as possible under the besieged castle, he felt that perhaps their only chance at saving as many people as possible would be through something that put them at a stark advantage- something like a dragon. 

    Merlin, however, was still not convinced. He stared at Arthur as though he’d just killed a puppy, making a sharp stab of frustration pierce through the King’s mind.

    “Oh come on, Merlin,” Arthur said bitterly. “You can’t pretend it’s innocent. It killed-”

    “She didn’t have a choice,” Merlin said, cutting him off suddenly. “She was hurt by so many people. And it was my fault, too, I should have checked up on her more, but I thought Kilgarrah would take better care of her, not just leave her to her own devices.” Merlin’s face scrunched in anger, lost in memories distant but deeply colored with pain. “He gave this whole speech on how he’d treasure her, but he gave her freedom before she was really ready. And then she found Morgana, or Morgana found her- it doesn’t really matter, the end result is the same. She was manipulated.”

    Arthur swallowed; he too felt the sting of betrayal reflected in Merlin’s eyes, remembered struggling to breathe in that moment he’d seen Agravaine walking right alongside Morgana. There had been shock, and then anger- anger at Agravaine, but even moreso at Morgana, for no traitor works alone. Maybe, just maybe, the dragon wasn’t completely corrupted; maybe the dragon didn’t act totally of her own accord.

    “But does that justify what she did?” Arthur asked. 

    Merlin lowered his eyes, staring down at his palms. “No,” he murmured. “It just means she’s not a monster.”

    Arthur let silence absorb Merlin’s words. He wondered if they were speaking solely of the dragon.

    There were still as many holes in Merlin’s explanation as there were in the roof of the cavern where they had reunited, however. Sleep would not yet come to Arthur until he addressed at least some of them. “Aithusa…” Arthur began, testing the word on his tongue. It was quite a nice name, now that he considered it. “Did she tell you all this?”

    “Not exactly,” Merlin said, shifting in the pebbles and nudging a few aside with his foot. He seemed a bit more comfortable with the turn in conversation. “I never got the chance to teach her human language; she understands dragontongue, but can’t speak it either, and I suppose Morgana wasn’t able to teach her without being able to translate between the two. So no, she can’t talk to me- but… it’s hard to explain, but when I’m around Aithusa, I can sort of sense what she’s feeling, and all that she’s felt before. It was never like that with Kilgharrah; even when I became a dragonlord, there was a veil between him and I. I’d have to guess what he was truly thinking, and I don’t believe I was right even half the time. But I think since I named Aithusa, we share a stronger bond. There is only air between us.” Merlin paused to meet Arthur’s eyes, continuing in a desperate tone, “So I don’t want her to die, Arthur. But Nemeth will want her to.”

    “We have some say over that,” Arthur consoled. 

    “Some,” was the pointed response. “Even if they’re open to the idea of not killing her, they might reach the same conclusion you just did- that it’d be justifiable to throw her into Camelot to wreak havoc in our favor. But Aithusa’s the last of her kind, Arthur. I won’t let her go into battle against her will.”

    “But, she’s already been in battle, in Camlann,” Arthur reasoned. He was trying, truly trying, to understand Merlin’s fears, but was striving to make sure the man understood the gravity of their predicament and how Aithusa could aid them. 

    “She went in unwillingly,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “She lived mostly in fear for her life, Arthur. All creatures do strange things when they’re afraid.”

    “Yes, you’ve certainly proven that.” He was met with an incredulous look from Merlin at first, but then a surprised laugh that was quickly hushed with a shared glance toward the children. When their gazes returned to one another, Merlin was still grinning, and Arthur made the decision to address a different but more pressing matter. “You don’t have to be afraid, Merlin- not of me, at least.”

    Merlin snorted derisively, rolling his eyes as he said, “I know that.”

    “No, I don’t think you do,” Arthur said, desperate to not let this slip into another series of conversations that had left so much unspoken. “You still hide things. You never told me about Aithusa-” as Merlin started to protest, Arthur raised a hand placating for silence- “and I understand why, at least why you didn’t tell me at first. But it doesn’t have to be like that anymore, before I knew of your magic and of all the times you used it. You don’t have to be alone with your secrets.” 

    Some weight seemed to leave Merlin then, one which had been there since the day Arthur had met him, unseen then but impossible to miss now. “I guess I just forget that sometimes,” Merlin said. Though Arthur had meant his words to provide relief, his friend only looked lost in that moment- lost, perhaps, in the memory of all the years living and laughing among people, and yet being so totally alone and apart from them. 

    So when words no longer rose to the surface of Arthur’s mind, he rose and settled down again at Merlin’s side, turning so that his back was to Merlin and his eyes in a line of sight to where his children lay. No protest came from his friend, reassuring Arthur that he had made the right decision. Perhaps just by being there, he could help Merlin remember that if he kept those he cherished closer than his secrets, he would never have to feel alone again. 

Chapter Text

Thean 

    Thean sat beside his father at the bridge between sunlight and shadow. 

    He had been the first of the children to fully wake up, one palm stretched towards Aithusa. Several times that night his eyes had flickered open- first to check on the dragon, then to ensure himself his father was truly with them. Each time Thean had fallen quickly back to sleep, lulled by a sense of safety akin to what he had felt as a much smaller child. 

    When the gray light of dawn came, he padded his way over to where his father had sat the entire night. Merlin glanced away from the cave entrance, smiling at the approach of his son. There beside him was the King of Camelot sprawled out on his side, mouth open and a spindle of drool dripping down his chin. Thean had to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh, and Merlin’s smile brightened into a grin. 

    He wanted to take second watch, but I didn’t think anything would wake him. 

    The thought was not Thean’s, nor was it a thought at all. The way his father spoke to him then was the same as he had the night prior, when he had noticed Thean’s hesitancy to divulge the details of his thoughts before unsheathing the blade. Thean hadn’t been outright lying when he claimed to not be thinking of someone- he had been thinking of something, namely of the tale his father had told of dragons and dragonlords. Then, as though he were shouting from a league away instead of standing right in front of him, Thean had heard his father’s voice echo through him:Thean, were you thinking of dragons? 

    And it had taken a force of will to concentrate his mind enough to speak one word silently in the same manner:Yes. 

    He hadn’t liked the way his father had led them into the dark, had not told Arthur and the rest of the children of their destination until they were already there. But he had loved Aithusa from the moment he saw her fragile wings and gaping wide eyes. She was a shell of what she must have once been, but already Thean could see what she might become again- and the thought of him and his siblings being able to witness that metamorphosis sent a thrill of joy rippling through him. 

    In the morning, that joy was still there, but muffled under a pile of questions he couldn’t yet put words to. As he settled down in the dirt on the side of his father not occupied by the snoring King, he spoke his first question in that strange tongue of the mind: Can all sorcerers talk like this? 

    The druids are best at it, Merlin said, sounding foggy to Thean but less so than the previous night. But with practice, yes, most sorcerers are able to. 

    I think I like talking aloud better, Thean admitted frankly. He mostly wanted his father’s voice to not sound so distant when, after all this time, he was finally close again. 

    “That’s alright, then,” Merlin whispered. “If we wake Arthur, he can sod off.” 

    Thean chuckled quietly, sighing at the pleasure of sitting next to his father. It had been rare in the mines for Thean to wake before the rest of his family- before being separated from them, he had usually slept deeply. Even rarer were the times when he and his father would wake before all other slaves in the mine, and on those strange dawns, they would sit whispering nothing important to one another until reluctant stirrings spread through the cave and their thoughts were forced to turn to the day ahead. 

    Now, too, there were important matters stirring in the dark. It was for this reason that, whilst his eyes were turned towards Arthur’s dozing figure, Thean murmured half to himself, “I’m surprised he can sleep so deeply.” 

    “This isn’t the first time Camelot has been lost,” Merlin said wearily. 

    Thean nodded; he’d heard enough of his father’s stories to know that much was true. “But what if it’s the last time?” he asked hesitantly. “What if we can’t get it back?”

    “We will,” was the frustratingly simple answer given.  

    “How can you be so sure?” Thean challenged.

    “I’m not,” Merlin admitted, giving his son a sad smile. “But we have to believe that, or else there really will be no chance of saving Camelot.”

    Thean shuddered at the thought; his father was one to be hopeful, but if even he admitted that restoring Camelot might prove improbable, then Thean felt as though he had to come to terms with that, too. “I was there a year, Pa- a whole year,” he sighed. It had been the longest, strangest, and at times worst year of his life, but so many good and precious moments had also been forged in that city. “And I was starting to think of Camelot as… as a home. I didn’t realize I’d ever have to miss it.” He was surprised by all the minute details he missed- the creaking of the floorboards in their bedroom, sitting on the courtyard steps with Anselm and watching the people go by, even having Guinevere encourage him to drink that disgusting prune juice. He missed stepping out of the chilly hallways and into a room warmed by a fireplace, and hearing the gentle swell of voices as he passed by the kitchen or the throne room, everywhere teeming with vibrant life he had never known possible till he had first arrived at the castle. 

    When Thean had last seen it, the city had been burning and strewn with bodies. If Camelot were to be lost permanently, that would be his last memory of that once beautiful place. 

    “I know,” Merlin murmured. “Sometimes we say good-bye without knowing.” Here, the world-weary sorcerer paused, trying to find a glimmer of wisdom in the stony cave floor.  “There is still hope, Thean. We still have a chance. All enemies have a weak spot- we just have to find theirs.”

    “Our enemies are from the Departed Lands. That’s what everyone keeps saying. If Ma had told us anything…”

    Merlin shook his head promptly, cutting off Thean’s trailing words. “She never wanted to.”

    “But why ?” It was a question he had asked of Merlin so many times as a child when his mother had not been around. When he was younger and had heard all of his father’s stories, his motivations to know more of Lea had been from pure curiosity. Now, more urgent matters pushed the perpetual mystery of his mother’s background to the surface. 

   “I don’t know,” Merlin said earnestly. His lips open and closed repeatedly, until he finally managed, “I always thought perhaps she was ashamed, or that it was… too horrible to tell.”

    Thean swallowed thickly, repeating hoarsely, “Too horrible.” That possibility was one he had suspected for some time in the recesses of his mind, too fearful to confront it on his own. “But what could be more horrible than the mines?” he asked, not expecting an answer. His father only shrugged helplessly; for questions like that, words were inadequate. “I miss her.” He missed the way she could comfort him just with her mere presence, and how he’d catch her in the corner of his eye with a smile on her face when he and his siblings chatted amongst themselves or used little rocks to draw on the cave walls. 

    “Me too,” Merlin said. After a hesitant pause, he wrapped one arm around his son’s shoulders. 

    Thean had to stop himself from glancing up in surprise. His father had never been unaffectionate, but as he and Ava had gotten older, Merlin had reached more for words when he thought they needed comfort rather than physical touch. Lea, though, expressed all the love she could not verbalize for her children through hugs, a hand patting their heads, and even sometimes a kiss good night. It was for that reason that Thean forced himself to not act surprised, for he knew his father was trying to not make him long for his mother more than he already was. 

    They sat as such in silence until the great King of Camelot grunted awake. With pebbles speckling his hair, he squinted his eyes in the gray light, flashing a dazed smile when he recognized Merlin and Thean. Then, quick as a flash, he whipped his head in the opposite direction to where the other children and the dragon dozed. Seeing them all in one piece, Arthur let out a relieved sigh and shuffled into a sitting position across from the father and son duo. 

    Gritting his teeth slightly, Arthur asked of them, “What do we need to do with the, er, dragon before we leave?”

    Thean felt an ache of sympathy for how uncomfortable the King looked while asking that question. To talk so casually of a creature he feared, with a friend he had not seen in over a decade, had to be quite strange. 

    “We need to get her food- enough to last at least a few days until she gets her strength back,” Merlin said. 

    Hoping for a better explanation but finding none, Arthur asked, “So… what does a dragon eat?”

    Merlin smiled slightly, cheerful at the King’s curiosity. “Oh, they’re not too picky. They’ll eat anything with meat, really.”

    For a second, Arthur only nodded, but then his face melted into a look of abject horror. Catching on to the King’s line of thought, Merlin stammered, “W-well, not anything. Birds! They like birds especially, since they’re easiest to hunt for dragons.”

    “Birds,” Arthur sighed, as though the word were a prayer. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

    Like a soldier preparing for battle, Arthur stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword and moved to march towards the cave entrance. Merlin rose to his own feet, however, grabbing the other man by the elbow and chuckling as he said, “Um, Arthur, you’re not going to be able to kill any bird with a sword.”

    “Do you have a better idea?” the King asked doubtfully. 

    Merlin raised his chin at the challenge. “As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” Turning to Thean with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he said, “I could use a few extra hands, though- and a few more sorcerers.” 

    Thean grinned, nodding eagerly. He and his siblings hadn’t really gotten a chance to show their father the extent of all the sorcery they’d learned. This- using magic and working together with their father- was what they had always dreamed of growing up. 

    Thean tapped Ava awake and shook Clo’s shoulders, unable to contain his excitement as he explained the mission their father had given them. Clo leapt to his feet and pulled on his boots immediately, but Ava only wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Aithusa’s still asleep- I’ll stay here with her,” she said. 

    With Merlin close behind, Arthur had followed to wake his own children too, who were excited to watch the hunt. Arthur turned from their animated chatter to frown at Ava’s words. “I’ll stay here with you,” he said decidedly. 

    Ava’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she nodded at his words. Thean could tell that Merlin was nervous, though- his fingers fidgeted down at his side, eyes darting between his daughter, Aithusa, and Arthur’s sheathed sword. In the end, though, all he said to the King and Ava was, “We won’t go far.” 

    When they reached the entrance, Merlin held up a hand to signal them to a halt. “Clo, do you smell any birds?” he whispered, to which the redheaded boy nodded, pointing a finger in the direction of a tall oak fifty paces from the entrance. 

    Grabbing a fistful of smooth pebbles, Merlin divided them up between his three children. Holding one up for example, he murmured, “Acuite,” prompting the smooth stone to sharpen into a shape akin to the head of an arrow. With gasps of delight at the new spell, Thean and Clo began to repeat the word as the prince and princess looked on. Noticing their curious gazes, Merlin smiled at them. “Anselm, could you go to the tree and scare the birds out when I raise my hand? And Eloise, why don’t you collect more stones? But make sure to stay quiet- don’t make noise until we’re ready.”

    Eloise nodded and set about to scouring the ground near the cave entrance, while Anselm hesitated, asking, “How do I scare the birds out?”

    “Give them your biggest battlecry,” Merlin said, eyes flashing gold as he managed to wordlessly sharpen another stone. Anselm grinned, slinking off as stealthily as possible across the dirt and stone. 

    When they had enough sharpened stones to slew several generations of birds, Merlin nodded to his sons. “Follow my lead,” he said, though neither of them had any intention of doing otherwise. Once Merlin raised one arm for the prince to see, Anselm let out a screech more akin to a cat’s yowl than a battlecry, sparking snickers from Clo and Thean. As their father rushed forward, they snapped out of their glee and into action as well. 

    “Inveniet! ” Merlin cried, releasing the stone in an arc only approximately in the direction of the oak tree. Thean was starting to feel disappointed at the poor aim, when the flying stone suddenly changed direction, heading straight for where several birds flitted in fright above the oak tree. 

    Glancing in Clo’s direction and giving a nod of encouragement, the two boys took several quick steps forward, launching their stones and crying in unison, “Inveniet! ”

    Three of the five birds disappeared into the shadows of the trees. A few moments later, Anselm emerged, grinning as he carried three stilled bodies by their feet. Eloise and Clo let out cries of victory, and Thean couldn’t help but punch the air. Merlin looked on, laughing himself at the exuberant reactions of the children. 

    Just as Thean was stepping forward to retrieve the catch from Anselm so that their search for birds could start anew, a great resounding cry echoed from the cave. 

    “LOOK OUT! ” came the King’s strangled voice. Thean whipped his head around, puzzled when he saw nothing of concern accompanying the warning. 

    But then, there was Aithusa, galloping in a flash of gangly limbs and wings parchment thin and beginning to spread. Her eyes squinted against the sunlight that she had not greeted since a lonely day many years ago. A thrill of fear rocked Thean on his heels as her direction continued straight for the prince, who stood gawping with the three birds still dangling from his hands. Thean was about to call out desperately for his father to do something, when Aithusa dismissed all his fears with a wave of her wings as she launched into the air. She caved in slightly on herself in a manner similar to a human tripping on the ground, but recovered quickly. Within mere seconds, she swooped towards one of the terrified birds, catching it in her jaw only to drop its stilled body at Anselm’s feet. Joyous in her flight, she continued on to hunt the last escapee. 

    “That was awesome!” Eloise screeched, eyes rapt on the dragon’s skyward path. 

    Arthur, however, was not of the same opinion. He skidded to a reluctant halt at the cave’s entrance, sword drawn and Ava fast at his heels. Only when his eyes glanced over the intact bodies of everyone there did he lower his sword to the ground. 

    Merlin swallowed nervously, but forced a smile as he said to the King, “I guess she wanted to join the hunt.”

    “Yeah, I guess so,” Arthur said with a glower. 

    One of the King’s eyes twitched- from fear or fury, Thean knew not which. But whichever emotion it was, he wanted to dash it out of this conversation. “This is a good thing,” Thean insisted, gesturing to where Aithusa soared above them. “We don’t have to worry about her going hungry when we leave.”

    Arthur nodded in consideration, and Thean was thinking his message had been received positively until the King said in a dismissive tone, “Which means we can leave for Nemeth all the more sooner.” He turned to head in the direction of the horses, thereby walking in the opposite direction of the dragon’s joyful hunt above. Without pausing, he called over his shoulder, “Eloise, Anselm! Come help me gather the horses.”

    “But-!” Anselm protested. 

    “Now!” was Arthur’s only response. 

    Once Anselm handed Thean the catches of hunt, the prince and princess followed their father’s tracks morosely, glancing back at Merlin and his children with each step. Aithusa still darted about the sky, unable to find the last bird, but seeming to enjoy herself all the same. 

    “Do we really have to leave her alone, Pa?” Ava pleaded. “What if she thinks we’re abandoning her?”

    “I’ll try to explain it to her as best I can.” Raising one hand, Merlin called out Aithusa’s name. The dragon flashed to an fro for a few more seconds before adhering to the sorcerer’s call. Her landing was a tad rough- she tripped over her own legs as if she’d forgotten she ever had them. Once on the ground, she headed straight for Thean, who placed the birds down on the dirt immediately and took a few paces back. He hadn’t truly felt any fear for Aithusa until then, and even now he felt little trepidation at her presence- but the sight of her running so quickly before launching into the air was still fresh in his mind, spurring caution. 

    Aithusa tore into the birds frantically, finishing them off in mere minutes as Clo and Thean looked on with a grim curiosity and Ava turned away with a shudder. When her feast slowed, Merlin crouched down on his knees to get closer to eye-level with her, murmuring words of comfort in dragontongue. At one comment, Aithusa glanced up sharply. Seeming to come to a mute acquiescence, she nudged the sorcerer’s palms, to which he sighed in relief. 

    “I told her to stay near the cave, and that we’ll be back when we can,” Merlin explained, approaching his children after he had allowed himself a few more moments with the dragon. “Let’s go see what the Pendragons are up to.” 

    The Pendragons were eating carrots and onions, to which Merlin and his children joined as the horses were allowed to drink from a nearby stream. Eloise no longer seemed to have any qualms about eating the onions in surplus, but Clo kept glancing up at the birds that flew above. “We’ll get some real food soon,” Thean said, catching his gaze. His little brother only looked up in surprise, eyes still dazed from concentration. Thean felt for him; though his super nose came in handy, it must be aggravating in times like these when he could not explore the world freely, as had been the case as well for much of their lives before Camelot. 

    Leading the three horses by the reins, Arthur approached the rest of the group as they finished up their vegetable breakfasts. “Alright, Anselm,” he said, giving one horse a friendly rub on the snout. “Which one do you want?”

    “None of them,” Anselm said with a blank face. 

    “What?” Arthur laughed slightly in confusion. “There aren’t any others- can’t afford to be picky.”

    “I’m not being picky- I don’t want one,” the prince insisted. “You should ride today. We’ll be in Nemeth soon, and a King shouldn’t be seen walking.”

    “A King shouldn’t be seen to make others walk,” Arthur replied quietly. At this, Anselm’s confidence ebbed, afraid he had inadvertently said something wrong. Perhaps worrying he had been too stern, Arthur relented, “But alright- my joints have been hurting a bit.”

    “Old man,” Merlin scoffed, grabbing one horse by the reins. 

    “Hypocrite,” Arthur replied succinctly. 

    Ava wished to ride with Merlin, as she hadn’t gotten the chance to the prior night. That left Arthur and Eloise on the other horse, and Clo on the last. Thean was standing by, about to mount after helping to push his brother up, when he glanced to where Anselm stood kicking at the dirt in boredom. The prince looked smaller from that distance; Thean had been much shorter when they had initially met, but now their heights were beginning to rival one another. And with only a chipped wooden sword at his side, Anselm looked all the more like a displaced child in a foreign land. Thean still had the blade of Osgath, but as they were now following Arthur’s knowledge of the way to Nemeth, and given the suspicions around even the slightest magic in this land, the blade would remain tucked safely away in a satchel for the time being. 

    “I’ll walk too,” Thean said suddenly, projecting his voice just loud enough to be heard by the others. 

    “Why?” Clo asked, pouting in disappointment. 

    “Just don’t want to be saddle-sore,” Thean lied, feeling a twinge of guilt. His brother would be fine. As for the prince, Thean would have to be more careful with that matter. 

    Anselm tried and failed to suppress a grin as Thean jogged over. He even drew his wooden sword. “Ready your weapon!” he said, as he had often done back in the chapel within Camelot’s castle. 

    “Not fair,” Thean retorted, amused. “I don’t have a sword.” 

    Squinting his eyes and prodding Thean in the chest with the sword’s tip, Anselm murmured, “Then try to take mine.” 

    Challenge accepted. Thean lurched forward, fingers brushing on the back of the prince’s tunic as he twisted away and darted towards the horse carrying his father and sister. “Oi! Stay close!” Arthur called as they rushed past; his voice was good-natured, however, his foul mood having partially dissipated now that they were putting distance between themselves and Aithusa. 

    Thean and Anselm continued their chase of one another, each obtaining and scrambling for the sword at intervals until their breathlessness forced them to slow down. They carried on at a brisk pace thereafter, footsteps and hoofbeats in tandem with one another as the sun rose higher and the trees thinned out. 

    Judging by the growling of Thean’s stomach, it was likely noontime when Anselm thrust a finger excitedly at a nearby tree. “Spirals!” he cried in excitement. “There are spirals in the bark- we must be near the citadel, right, Dad?” 

    Arthur nodded in approval; perhaps his son was finally starting to remember his geography lessons. “That we are,” he said, raising up a hand to stop the horses as they neared the crest of a hill. “It’s just around the bend, now.” The group collectively disembarked from their horses for one last stretch. Eloise bounced up and down in front of Arthur with her arms raised, insisting that she try to get a glimpse of the citadel, having been the only one of the children to have not yet been there. 

    Once on his shoulders, the princess hummed in confusion. “Dad, I thought you said that Nemeth’s banners were blue?” 

    “They are.” 

    “Then why are there red tents everywhere?” 

    Thean’s pulse quickened in excitement as he exchanged knowing glances with his family and the prince. They all hoped to find sanctuary in Nemeth, unsure of whether any other refugees from the slave camp attacks or Camelot itself would be lucky enough to have already taken shelter there. Clo wordlessly scrambled up a tree with low-hanging branches to get a better glimpse, Merlin nervously standing beneath and watching closely in case he slipped. 

    “She’s right!” he exclaimed, fingers cupped around his eyes to block out the sun. “There’s red everywhere outside the gates, just like in Camelot!” 

    They hurriedly mounted their horses again, no longer aware of their tired limbs and aching stomachs, thoughts thrown across the distance separating them from those who had also managed to escape death and destruction. When they did reach the bottom of the wide hill, the encampment Eloise and Clo had spotted from above grew more detailed in sight and sound. The color red was truly everywhere, as were the myriad of people- some with the bone-thin look of liberated slaves, more with the humble hardened features of common villagers, and several still with the garments of Camelot’s knights. All bustled about, clanging pots, bathing little children, and sharpening swords, each a blessed reminder that despite all the loss, the tragedies Arthur’s and Merlin’s families had seen in the past few days had not been without survivors. 

    Thean wanted to run forward across the thinning field of grass separating them from the start of the tents, to look for faces familiar or at the very least friendly in their strangeness. But alas, speckles of blue approached them; Camelot’s remaining people were not without protection by Nemeth, though Thean noted grimly that there certainly wasn’t a surplus of knights. A group of only three approached their group of seven, and on foot, no less. 

    Easing at the sight of the children, the most senior looking Nemethian knight asked, “What village do you come from?” 

    “Camelot,” Arthur replied shortly. 

    “Er, that’s a kingdom last time I checked, not a village.” 

    Arthur bit his lip impatiently, fumbling for something at his belt before he pulled forth an amulet bearing the sigil of the Pendragons. A great gasp came from the three knights, and the one who had originally spoken began bowing profusely. “Deepest apologies, my lord! I did not know, because, well-” 

    “You all look like a right mess,” one of the other knights interjected, to which he received a sharp elbow in the ribs. 

    “-like you’ve had a long journey, was what he meant,” the first knight said, casting a glare behind him that demanded silence. “We can escort you to Queen Mithian right away, my lord.” 

    “That would be ideal. I would like to see my people first, though- those who made it here,” Arthur commanded. His tone had changed significantly, Thean remarked; around the children and Merlin he seemed much more at ease, propriety forgotten throughout their suspended peril. Here, however, there were impressions to maintain, demands to be given. 

    The knights led them with no further delay, the oldest one still stammering out apologies all the while despite Arthur’s stoic silence in response. The other two knights, curiously enough, kept glancing back at Merlin. Thean pointedly met the eyes of one of them the third time this occurred, trying to summon the best glare an eleven-year old boy could manage. Though his father had not performed magic yet in their presence, they seemed to already suspect his identity, and perhaps even Thean’s own as well. He was relieved to see the citadel had not yet been plagued by the same enemies as Camelot, but he was not looking forward to facing the disdain towards sorcery that pervaded its population. 

    When they reached the first of the tents, they were met not with glares, but indifference. Some of the children spared inquisitive glances at their horses, but paid no further heed. With how many people milled about, Thean assumed there must have been a near constant influx of new refugees within the past few days; and with Arthur’s cloak streaked in dirt and his crown tucked away to prevent anyone unsavory from taking advantage of his lack of protection, there was nothing to single him out from being just another straggler. 

    That is, until a young man in chainmail approached, promptly dropping his firewood in shock at the King’s presence. “Sire!” he called, hastily bowing from where he stood. 

    “Sir Rothus,” Arthur murmured, ducking his head. “Glad to see you in one piece. Are you here with Sir Leon?” 

    “Yes, my Lord! Our group brought the liberated straight here, like you said. I can take you to him, if you wish.” Glancing past Merlin and the children in confusion, Sir Rothus asked, “But Sire, where are the others who were with you?” 

    “They didn’t make it,” Arthur admitted, clearing his throat. 

    “O-oh...” 

    “Please, Sir Rothus, take us to Sir Leon. We may grieve in due time,” Arthur urged. The young knight nodded with a lost look on his face, but he began to weave deftly through the crowd despite the weight of the news he had just received. 

    The thickness of the crowd spurred Arthur, Merlin, and the children to dismount from their horses and lead them by the reins. With Sir Rothus ahead and the Nemethian knights keeping a deceptively casual guard behind, Thean stuck close to his father and siblings. Despite the familiar red banners that adorned the place, he was surprised by how unrecognizable the majority of faces were before him. Most of those who had escaped must have been from the outer farming villages, judging by their ragged clothes and skillful ways of constructing many things from nothing. Even with their unknown faces, there was a faint nostalgia to the bustling of that makeshift city of tents; in fact, the place reminded Thean of- 

    A sudden gasp at his side, a horse sputtering in surprise at the halt to its reins. Thean’s senses shifted into a panicked alert, eyes quickly taking in the detail of his father’s own stunned expression, the confused looks of Arthur and the other children equally startled at the sound- and aside from that, nothing noteworthy except for the old lady at a tent ahead standing still in all the motion. 

    She did not run forward like she had the first time Thean had met her. No; instead, she waited for her son to return to her, as she had over and over again since the day he’d first left with a grin on his face and moved out of their village and into the world. This wait had been the longest, the one that felt like a hundred lifetimes squeezed into twelve suffocating years. 

    Hunith did not reach even a hand forward until Merlin was standing right before her. Carefully then, she laid one palm against his cheek. “Is it really you?” she asked. 

    Merlin’s face twisted- from joy or pain, Thean did not know. Perhaps it was both. “Yes, mother. It’s me.”

    At the sound of his voice, all her doubt at this moment being true fell away, and she collapsed towards him. Their arms wrapped around one another, and she ran her fingers through his hair, just as she’d done so often when he’d been but a babe. Through her tears, she choked out, “I thought I’d have to live out the rest of my days before I’d see you again.” 

    “Sorry I took so long,” Merlin sighed, pulling away slightly to try and muster a smile for her. “Got a little lost along the way.” 

    Hunith laughed and pulled him back towards her. “You always did wander.” 

    Thean felt his eyes grow teary as he watched the scene unravel. Glancing to his right, he could see the King’s jaw set stubbornly against showing much emotion; but Merlin’s son knew beneath that exterior was a man sighing in relief at just an ounce of his guilt having been alleviated right then. 

    Hunith released her grip on her son to approach Thean, the dark-haired girl, and redheaded boy beside him. Thean couldn’t help but rush into her arms as well, sobbing a little despite himself into the ragged fabric of her dress. She was the same as he remembered her- gray hair, scarf around her head, and with a warmth seeming to ensconce her that was heedless of the chilly air. He could almost fool himself into believing the world hadn’t changed much since when they’d met in the summer. 

    But the world had changed, and so had the people in it. Thean was no longer alone, so he stepped away to let her towards his siblings. “You must be Clo,” she said, to which the little boy nodded with pride. “And you must be Ava, right?” 

    His twin sister only stared in awe. She had often been told by Merlin that she looked like Hunith, perhaps even more than she had ever resembled Lea. And more than that, being able to finally meet her grandmother made the girl grasp a greater sense of her own existence. The tight-knit group she had had with her parents and brothers let no one else through the cracks; they had been an island, and at times it had felt to Ava as though they’d just sprung into life without origin. But this woman- her grandmother- represented a whole lineage of family that had walked on this earth as well. Entire scores of people stretching into the past, struggling to survive, all culminating in her father and mother and her and her brothers. Perhaps there is a reason for us, Ava thought to herself as she took in Hunith’s welcoming presence. 

    While Ava and the others sorted through their emotions, the halt their group had taken when Merlin had spotted Hunith drew enough attention to stop others within the camp. Women stared openly at what had clearly been a mother and son reunion, possibly hoping to see those of their own children who had not made it this far. And as for the children and men, their eyes lay trained on Arthur and the ragtag looks of Thean and his siblings and friends. Whispers circulated among them, sowing the seeds of growing unease in the chest of the largely unrecognized King and his children. 

    “Leon!” Anselm cried, departing from Thean’s side. The knight stood twenty paces away, looking more surprised at the prince’s presence than the King’s. 

    Despite Anselm’s excited rush forward, Leon held up an authoritative hand that stopped the prince in his tracks. “Not here,” Leon murmured, scarcely loud enough for Thean to hear. The knight walked forward in feigned ease, taking in the crowd that had slowly collected around them. “Follow me. We’ll talk where it’s quietest,” he said curtly to Arthur, glancing only briefly at the children, struggling to not betray any signs of recognition in their direction. 

    Merlin, having sensed the need to make haste, appeared torn. “Mother,” he sighed, shaking his head. 

    “It’s alright,” Hunith said, nodding to him though she wished only to shake her head. “Go.” 

    “I’ll be back,” Merlin promised. 

    “You better,” Hunith affirmed, and with a smile at her grandchildren, she added, “And make sure you bring those three!”

    Thean waved a hand in farewell, letting it fall to pull his sister forward from where she lingered. He knew not why they had to make haste, but trusted that Leon had good reason. As they delved further into the camp at a quickened pace, Camelot’s head knight said in aside to one of the three Nemethian knights, “The least crowded route to the castle- take us that way.” 

    “If that is what the King wishes,” the knight responded. Arthur gave a curt nod, brows unfurrowing to fake some semblance of confidence. 

    “Stay off the horses, hoods up, and heads down,” Leon said to Arthur, Merlin, and the children. They nodded mutely and hurried on, weaving into emptier breaks amid the tents and ever closer to the citadel walls. Thean saw only the shoes or feet of the surrounding strangers, but he felt their curious gazes heavy on his shoulders. If they were enough to make Leon anxious, then Thean should feel that anxiety doubly. 

    “What is frightening you, Leon?” 

    Arthur’s words were a mere whisper, clearly not wanting anyone else to hear. Thean had led his horse to walk alongside Arthur’s, however, and was able to pick up on the lack of response from Leon. It wasn’t until they were walking along a quiet and gray region of the citadel, long after the question had been asked, that Leon chose to answer. 

    “We don’t know who we’re dealing with,” he began. “Those refugees- some of them are from Camelot, of course, and others are from the slave encampments. But even more are from the outer lands of Nemeth and other reaches of Albion; since there’s no way to verify where they’re from, they just keep trickling in. And when we arrived here-” a heavy pause and a shaky breath, “we received word from Queen Mithian that the other two camps we intended to liberate had been disbanded.” 

    “Disbanded?” Arthur repeated grimly. 

    “Slaughtered, more accurately, Sire.” 

    Beside Thean, his sister let out a gasp and one hand rose instinctively to cover her mouth in horror. Quickly, Thean grasped her other hand with his own to find fingers that were cold and shaky. Their father glanced back towards them, looking apologetic upon seeing their horrified faces. He couldn’t protect them from reality- not back in the mines, and not now. 

    “I told my knights to not speak much to the refugees except when necessary. I don’t know how we were found back in the cavern, or how Camelot itself was overcome- but I think they must have had informants somewhere, or everywhere.” Here, Leon let out a steady sigh to ground himself again. With a slightly lightened tone, he added earnestly, “I’m glad you’re here, Sire- though I’m surprised you’re all here.” As Leon glanced back at the children, both those of royalty and those of magic, Thean flashed a sheepish smile at the older knight, who returned it in favor. Leon had never encouraged the mischief of the children as Gwaine often did, but nor did he try to stifle it. 

    “That’s quite a long story on its own,” Arthur said, shaking his head in faint amusement. “We’ll have much to discuss when we reach the cas- er, reach our destination.” 

    Their destination, thankfully, was not much farther after that. The sound of water lapping against softened stone signaled to Thean that they had neared the canals he had found his siblings by that winter. Subdued voices around a street corner took him back to that day, when for a long moment he had felt so alone, and then not at all. 

    Into an alleyway, knocking at a door; Thean kept his head down through it all, one clammy hand still grasping Ava’s and Clo’s puffing breath at his side. He heard one of the Nemethian guards exchange words with a new voice in a language as yet unknown to Thean; he vaguely remembered Anselm having told him months ago that a small segment of the citadel’s population still used an ancient tongue. He filed that information away, to be investigated in a library (hopefully Camelot’s) when there was time for tedium again. 

    A door opening; his father’s hand on his shoulder to lead him forward into what he assumed to be the outermost segment of the castle’s fortifications; several corners clumsily rounded in the lack of light- Thean had to fight down the urge to flicker up a flame in his palm, remembering with an ache that they weren’t in a city that welcomed his family’s talents anymore. Light of a presumably non-magic origin did appear after they ascended a steep flight of stairs and emerged into a hallway far more furnished than the cave-like ones they had come from. The rustling of fabric told Thean that it was finally okay to look up and take in the sight of blue carpet and intermittent small wooden tables with decorated pottery. 

    A few more hallways, and though Thean’s feet were tired, he basked in the manmade beauty now surrounding him. He’d spent his life with only scarce glimpses of nature, and though there was much wonder to be found in those too, he had missed the comforts of polished floors, shining gold and silver- and the smell of food. The clanging of silverware from a room they passed confirmed it was a place of dining, and Thean slowed his pace slightly to savor the stirrings of happiness in his chest as his thoughts turned back to the cooks he’d gotten to know in Camelot’s kitchen. He wondered how many of them were still alive. 

    “The Queen just received word of your arrival- she wishes to see you in the throne room.” A new Nemethian knight uttered these words- under a thick suit of armor, they were starting to all look the same to Thean, only distinguishable by the level of gruffness in their voices. This knight sounded like a young man trying to sound like an old man. 

    “Excellent. Lead the way,” Arthur said impatiently. 

    “Er- she wishes to see just you, Sire,” the knight said in a mixture of apology and faux confidence. “And your knight, too, if it pleases you.” 

    Arthur did not look pleased, turning away from the knight so that only Merlin and the children could see his annoyance. “It’s alright. I’ll look after them,” Merlin said solemnly. 

    “You sure?” Arthur asked dubiously. 

    “Yeah! I’ve got this,” Merlin said easily, though Thean could tell he wasn’t entirely sure of himself. He’d spent a year without any of his children, and now he had to look after five, albeit only temporarily. 

    Arthur looked almost ready to accept the circumstances when he startled. “Where’s Eloise?” 

    While the heads of everyone else swiveled, Clo ran back towards the dining room like a dog who’d picked up a trail on a hunt. When Thean caught up with the King at his side, there was the princess of Camelot- drumstick in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other, scouring the table for more goods as if she had a third hand. Anselm collapsed in on himself in a fit of giggles at his sister’s unabashed feast while Ava and Clo went to join her with only slightly less haste. Thean stepped forward as well, but turned around before doing so, hoping to catch a glimpse of the King smiling, only to find him not there. Merlin caught Thean’s gaze and offered a sympathetic smile, coming to stand beside him. 

    “He’ll be back,” his father said, for himself as much as for Thean. 

    He knew he should be comforted by the truth of that statement. They were safe here- or at least, they should feel safe here. There was food to eat, and later there would be pillows to rest their heads against. But Thean knew those comforts he cherished weren’t enough; he had learned that castles were made of feathers as much as they were of stone. If they didn’t get help here, he wasn’t quite sure anywhere would be safe. 

****

    “It’s just so unfair!” 

    Thean smirked at his brother’s indignant words. If not for the blue banners and frightened castle attendants passing by, he could fool himself into believing they were back in Camelot and Clo was only complaining about being scolded for running through the halls or conjuring up a spell he’d found scribbled in an old tome. 

    “Why can’t I go to the meeting, too?” Clo whined, annoyed even further by Thean’s smug silence. 

    The meeting, in question, was to construct a plan for coordination between the forces of Nemeth and Camelot. After Merlin and the children had whiled away the afternoon gorging on bread, stews, and sweets in Arthur’s absence, a messenger told the sorcerer-turned-guest of honor about the council session scheduled for that early evening. The messenger supplied such information with a side of profuse courtesies tinged with fear, evidently having been informed of Merlin’s true identity. 

    Merlin, however, looked unimpressed by the invitation. “I understand my input is wanted, but… I’m supposed to look after the children,” he said, gesturing to Thean and his siblings. They, along with the two royal children, had piled into one of the guest chambers; there were plenty of free rooms other than the one they occupied then, but Anselm and Eloise did not seem eager to be away from the only familiar faces they knew. 

    “It is the Queen’s wish to have you there,” the messenger said, his anxious expression fading momentarily with an aghast gape at the idea of Merlin considering turning down the offer. 

    “Then she won’t mind if I bring them with me?” Merlin asked, half-joking. 

    The messenger was not joking, nodding slowly in deep thought. “Perhaps not- maybe not the little ones, though,” the man murmured, nodding to where Clo and Eloise were jumping recklessly on one of the beds.

    Thinking back on that messenger’s words, Thean said to his little brother then, “You’re too young, Clo.”

    “And being eleven years old isn’t ‘too young’?”

    “Still older than eight,” Thean countered. 

    “Hey, I’m almost nine, which is almost double digits, which means I’m almost an adult!” 

    “I think that’s a few too many almost’s, Clo,” Thean said, unable to hold back a laugh. Clo pouted, looking quite despondent for an eight-year-old boy. Swallowing his chuckles, Thean wracked his mind for comforting words. His father had gone ahead to ask for a guard for the princess, taking Anselm and Ava with him. Once the guard had arrived, Thean had made to leave for the meeting, entirely intending on finding his way there on his own- but Clo had insisted on walking with him there, wishing to be out from under the watchful eyes of the guard. Settling on an idea, Thean said to his little brother, “Besides, it won’t be much fun anyway- I’m jealous that you get to sit it out.” 

    Clo eyed Thean dubiously. “Really?”

    Nope. “Yeah, of course! You get to explore the castle.”

    “I already did that the last time we were here.”

    “But Eloise hasn’t,” Thean said, smiling to himself at his quick thinking. “If the guard is okay with it, why don’t you show her around? She’ll be grateful for the distraction.”

    Clo nodded, a thoughtful look on his face replacing the previously sorrowful one. He began to turn back in the direction of their chambers, but stopped in his tracks to call over his shoulder to Thean, “Make sure you tell me everything that’s said in there, alright? I mean it- don’t space out like you always do!”

    Thean tried to think of a retort about how he absolutely never spaced out, but his brother’s feet disappeared behind a corner long before he could. With his brother gone, he was left only with the option of facing the great double doors at the end of the hallway. Two guards stood there so still he almost mistook them for statues, for they looked just as friendly. By himself, he felt hesitant to approach them, feeling starkly out of place. Who was he to sit in on a meeting where the fate of two kingdoms would be at works?

    Then Thean thought of his mother, and of Helena, and of Clo’s friend Buckley lying in an ashen street. Even if he couldn't do much good, he owed it to them to at least bear witness to the decisions being made that night. He moved forward, slipping into the room behind a shuffling group of white-haired men. His nervousness sharpened when at first he didn’t recognize anyone and was met with equally puzzled gazes from the closest occupants of the long table. It was Anselm’s eager wave in his direction that let him realize Camelot’s people- albeit very few of them- were seated at the far end. 

    Queen Mithian sat in a high-backed chair, crown atop carefully curled brown locks. King Arthur sat crowned as well at her right side, appearing weary but cleaner than he had been when they’d first entered the castle. Anselm sat at his father’s other side, followed by Sir Leon, Merlin, and Ava. A few other of Camelot’s knights lined that side of the table, but the rest was occupied by Nemethians. Thean ducked his head as he passed them by, relieved to see Ava had saved him a seat beside her.

    Merlin looked up from where he had been talking with the others to smile at his son’s approach. “There you are! Mithian was just telling me about your escapades in her city this winter.” 

    Thean winced as he took his seat quickly, caught off guard both by the comment and his father’s failure to address Mithian with a royal title. Even further, his father leaned slightly in Thean’s direction to say in a not very quiet voice, “Remind me later what spell you used to make the water of that canal solid- sounded like a good one!” 

    Thean felt his ears burn as he nodded and looked down at his lap, unsure what exactly was embarrassing him. He hadn’t thought much of his race into the citadel at the time, for the outcome had been more than worth the trouble, but sitting in that council meeting with a multitude of frowning advisors in earshot made him feel claustrophobic around the memory. 

    Queen Mithian, however, chuckled at Merlin’s comments. The gravity of their current situation made that past winter day seem insignificant in comparison. To the sorcerer, she said teasingly, “I should have known the moment I learned he was your son that he’d find his way into trouble.” 

    Merlin evidently took that as a compliment, glancing over fondly towards Ava and Thean. “We always tried to teach them how to get out of trouble, too.” 

    At this, Mithian’s playful demeanor dissipated. She looked as though she wanted to ask Merlin something, but then thought better of it, instead only saying curtly, “A much needed skill, these days.” With that, she turned the advisors closest to her left side, starting a hushed conversation full of nodding and shaking heads. 

    Taking that last opportunity before the meeting began, Merlin turned to Thean and Ava with a more somber expression than before. “If either of you want to leave at any point- it’s okay. I didn’t think that messenger would actually…” Their father paused to drum fingertips on a kneecap jutting beneath worn linen. Mustering a smile, he continued, “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these meetings, but I remember some of these scholars tend to drone on.” 

    Thean considered the offer, though only for a moment. He was tired, and suspected his present nervousness might soon be buried in boredom- it was quite astounding how battle plans could be reduced to dull and lengthy words. But his father and sister were here, and so were Anselm and Arthur and Sir Leon. This castle had given his little brother and Eloise a safe place to sleep after nights of growing acquainted with the forest floor. The least Thean could do in return was try to listen, and if needed, offer what little knowledge he had on the plight of Camelot. 

    “We’ll be okay, Pa,” Ava murmured, voicing an agreement to Thean’s unspoken thoughts. Merlin nodded, though with a conflicted expression. He was torn by the desire to have his children close to him at all times, but also to not let them hear sufferings any more than necessary. 

    It wasn’t much longer thereafter that Queen Mithian stood and the room went silent immediately. Adorned in elaborate shades of light blue and silver, she looked just as elegant as Thean remembered her to be, but smaller somehow- or perhaps he himself had gotten bigger. “I expect by this time you are all well aware of why we are here,” Mithian began solemnly. “Camelot has been attacked, and there are many rumors as to by whom, and why. Those who escaped the attacks claim they resembled the peoples of the Departed Lands, and that many used sorcery to breach the citadel. There is much, still, that we don’t know- the extent of their numbers, their supply lines, or if they have intentions to invade lands beyond Camelot such as our own. What we must decide tonight is if and when Nemeth and Camelot’s survivors shall strike back.” 

    If?  Thean caught Anselm’s gaze, and the prince looked equally saddened by the uncertainty the Queen’s words perpetuated throughout the room. 

    “I say we strike where the barbarians came from,” a bearded man among Nemeth’s councilors piped up. “Give them a taste of their own medicine and show them what happens when they take what’s not theirs, before they have the chance to do it again.” 

    “We don’t know if all factions of the Departed Lands were involved,” King Arthur said. “We’d risk losing innocent lives on both sides, and for what gain?” 

    “The King speaks the truth,” a young Camelot knight by the name of Sir Fren murmured, nervously glancing about the room. “Any attack should be concentrated where we know the perpetrators to be- back in the citadel at Camelot.”

    “But there are sorcerers there,” the original Nemethian counselor argued. “How do you expect us to fight against that?"

    “Simple,” Sir Fren said, seeming to gain confidence. “We fight sorcery with sorcery.” 

    “Not a chance,” a Nemethian knight snorted. “Camelot may be comfortable with fraternizing with magic, but not in our kingdom. I, for one, won’t side with the unnatural, and I know many of my comrades won’t either.” 

    “Besides,” a Nemethian counselor said, “Where would we even find sorcerers, if it was a feasible option? I thought most of Camelot’s were wiped out in the initial attacks on your citadel and the slave camps.” 

    “They were,” Sir Fren conceded. “But we have one powerful sorcerer here with us right now.” 

    All eyes shifted to Merlin, who looked surprised to have been noticed. Thean’s fingers curled around the curve of the wooden chair he sat in, apprehension making his heart beat faster. His father was still frail- could they really expect him to rush into battle at a moment’s notice? 

    “Powerful, perhaps,” Queen Mithian interjected, “Though power is next to nothing if we do not have more knowledge on who we’re dealing with.” 

    Arthur’s eyes were trained on Merlin, and Thean desperately wished for the King to speak up, to say that this was ridiculous- but he remained silent. Merlin, meanwhile, cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, sweeping his gaze across the suspicious stares. “I will do what I must,” he declared. 

    Beside Thean, Ava let out a stifled noise as her shoulders slumped. 

    “That’s all very well,” a new Nemethian counselor muttered. “But regardless of one sorcerer, how are we supposed to attack if we don’t truly know who we’re fighting? I mean, has anyone even spoken with those who attacked Camelot?” 

    “I have.” 

    Thean scarcely processed that the words had left his mouth until all faces turned in his direction. Ava, forgetting her decorum momentarily, murmured in surprise, “What?” Thean flashed a guilty look in her direction; he had never told any of the other children about the strange girl he’d met before escaping from the citadel. He hadn’t even had the chance to think about the occurrence much until now. 

    “You talked to one of them while the citadel was attacked?” Mithian asked warily. 

    “Yes,” Thean said, more quietly now. 

    Murmurs of unease circulated the room, making him acutely aware of all the attention suddenly centered on him. His father was frowning immensely, perturbed by this turn in conversation; the King, meanwhile, seemed to eye Thean with a slight distrust. Or was he only imagining that?

    “Go on, Thean,” Mithian prodded gently, nodding to the boy. 

    There was no going back now; he would have to finish the hole he had dug for himself. After drawing in a shaky breath, Thean began. “Before I left the citadel, after the castle was invaded, I- I snuck back to my chambers to collect my things. It was a stupid idea, I realize that now, but…” He scrambled for an explanation as his thoughts turned to the blade, a magical weapon that had ensured his safe passage from the citadel. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to divulge that key bit of information to a room packed with those who held ill will towards sorcery.  Awkwardly shifting in his seat, Thean continued lamely, “I just wanted to grab a few things. And while I was doing that, a girl walked into the room.”

    “A girl?” Sir Leon repeated, leaning forward in interest. “Like, a servant?”

    “No. She was a child- couldn’t have been more than 13 or so.” 

    More gasps, more confusion. “What kind of monsters bring a child to an invasion?” A Nemethian counselor asked rhetorically in disgust. 

    “Thean,” Mithian called, and he turned his eyes to her, grateful to have someone to focus on amidst the growing unrest of the room. “Are you sure she wasn’t from Camelot- that she wasn’t being held captive in the castle?”

    “No. She didn’t seem scared at all- she didn’t even mention anything about an invasion.” His eyes squinted in concentration as he reached back for the memory of that strange encounter- for her laugh, and for her name. Robin - that was it. “She seemed… happy,” he admitted, recalling how her glee had seemed otherworldly when he himself had been so distraught. 

    “She looked happy? After witnessing bloodshed?” Sir Fren asked. 

    “No,” Thean insisted, unsure of why he cared so much to make them understand. “I mean, she didn’t mention anything of that sort. She told me about a dance that was going to be held in the castle, and… she had diamonds on her dress.” He blushed slightly at his mention of the last part; they were here to discuss war, not such inane details as the dress of an enemy girl. 

    Strangely enough, quite a few of the room’s occupants seemed even more intrigued in Thean’s story than before. “Diamonds?” A Nemethian knight called from across the table. “Real diamonds? Are you sure?”

    Befuddled as to why this mattered, Thean stammered, “I-I think so.”

    “Must be the daughter of someone important among the invaders,” Sir Fren said, almost giddy with hope. “We could use her as a captive, or- or get information from her!”

    “And how would we even get to her?” scoffed one Nemethian counselor. “Who could possibly infiltrate the castle?”

    “Someone who would be trusted,” a senior Nemethian knight said, speaking for the first time. His voice was quiet, but the way in which all conversation ceased at his words showed he held the respect of those around him. Thean faintly recognized the gray-bearded man from when he had last been in Nemeth; the name Sir Enthus came to mind. Pausing to assess the situation, the knight concluded solemnly, “Someone already known by an invader.” At this, he raised his eyes to Thean. The eyes of his comrades followed. 

    As Thean felt his breath catch in his chest, Merlin’s head swiveled in confusion between Sir Enthus and Thean. “Sorry, what? You can’t seriously be suggesting having him get involved in this. He’s a child.” Though this was true, the child spoken of grimaced at being referred to as such. Sir Enthus looked unbothered, perhaps even bored, but the counselors surrounding him shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding the gaze of the long displaced Court Sorcerer of Camelot. In a horrified tone, Merlin murmured, “Have you all gone mad?”

    “The world has gone mad,” Sir Enthus countered. “We’ll have to be a bit rash if we don’t wish to get crushed in the fray.” 

    “There are other options,” Arthur said, finally speaking up; Thean wasn’t sure if he was grateful or aggravated that it took this long for that to happen. 

    “Of which, you have failed to mention,” Queen Mithian said, turning cool eyes on the King. 

    Arthur’s composed features fell into disdain at that comment, but he forged on. “We amass forces; we seek out the slave camps that have not yet been liberated or- or destroyed, and interrogate the handlers there for information to see if they are indeed connected to who attacked Camelot.”

    “That could take weeks, months even,” a Nemethian counselor said. “Who’s to say our enemies don’t make a move before then?”

    “And you’ve interrogated handlers all these years, haven’t you?” Queen Mithian asked of Arthur. “Did they ever divulge information on an invasion like this coming to pass?”

    Arthur murmured “No,” quickly, as though it wouldn’t be heard that way. 

    Perhaps worried for the King’s vulnerability then, Sir Fren spoke. “Even if we do send the boy into the citadel, how would he contact us, should he find something?”

    “It doesn’t matter, because he’s not going.” Merlin’s hands, just before splayed casually on the table, had curled into fists. A few Nemethians sank back into their chairs slightly, as if they expected the man to start glowing golden and pelting them with fire. Thean, too, felt a sense of foreboding at his father’s demeanor. His father had only ever gotten angry with him and his siblings when he feared for their safety, but Thean didn’t think he’d ever seen him quite this angry before. Then again, back in the mines, showing anger towards the handlers had been likely to put one in further danger than whatever instance had caused the emotion. 

    “Merlin,” Mithian called softly, and for a moment, her voice carried the tone of one speaking to an old friend. But she continued on in a stern manner once more, “We need information. I will not send my knights into a battle blind without it.”

    That was that, then; Thean didn’t want to lose Gwen, and Gwaine, and Gaius and all the other kind souls who had welcomed him into the first place he could almost call home. And if he was truly the best hope to save them, then the situation must be even more hopeless than he’d presumed. “I’ll do it,” Thean said, wishing to sound determined but finding his words shaky instead.

    “No,” Merlin said, not sounding shaky in the slightest. After one shake of his head towards Thean, he cast his gaze to Queen Mithian and asked intently, “Would you send your own daughter there?” Thean startled at his father’s words; he’d only just told Merlin about Princess Nietta’s existence a few hours ago, when they’d been lounging about after gorging on the castle’s food. “You wouldn’t,” Merlin said, answering for the Queen. “Because she’s a princess, and you know that this could kill her.”

    “Enough! ” Mithian cried, and even Merlin clamped his mouth shut at her outburst. He had struck a nerve he’d not known was there. Drawing in a deep breath, the Queen continued, “We have other matters to discuss- this one shall be tabled for now.” 

    Looking concerned at the Queen’s sudden change in composure, a gruff Nemethian counselor said whilst glancing in Ava and Thean’s direction, “Perhaps the children should leave for the time being.”

    Usually Thean might argue against the injustice of that, but he found himself wishing desperately to be rid of that suffocating room where judgment abounded from all parties present. Without looking anyone in the eye, Thean rose hastily to his feet, grateful to hear Ava’s wooden chair scraping against the stone as well. Anselm, however, remained where he was, for he was a prince first and a child second. 

    Ears burning and pace quick, the twins vacated the room, wooden double doors being closed by knights at their backs with a sound of finality. Ava soon outpaced Thean; he expected her to lead them back to their chambers, until she turned a corner illuminated by a starlit window and stopped to face her brother. 

    She pushed him. 

    Thean stumbled more from surprise then the force of it. “What-” She pushed him again, face contorting with anger and hurt as though she were the one being pushed. “Ava !” Thean cried, holding up his hands like they were white flags. 

    Dropping clenched fists to her side, Ava said in a thick voice, “Why did you do that, Thean? Why did you say those things?” 

    Thean’s shoulders sank; he’d hoped that of all people, at least Ava might understand why he had spoken. He rarely had to explain himself to her, and was frustrated that he had to now, when he needed to lean on her most. “What was I supposed to do, lie? I thought you were tired of me hiding things.”

    “Yes, but from us!” Ava seethed, stomping one foot in exasperation. “You didn’t have to tell all those strangers- the moment you opened your mouth, you just became a means to an end for them. Can’t you see that?” 

    That, he could agree with; the fresh memory of how Sir Enthus had almost seemed to look through him made his arms prickle. “But I can help, Ava,” Thean insisted, pushing aside his own doubts to banish hers. “If I can get information on who invaded Camelot, then this can all be fixed.”

    “Fixed ?” Ava repeated, then stepped back slightly to consider her brother. “This is about your dreams. Gods, I should have known- you still think it’s your fault.”

    Thean kneaded the ends of his shirt in agitation. I don’t want to go there, he thought desperately. His dreams had been remarkably unremarkable since leaving Camelot, with none feeling any more vivid than a standard nightmare. Though that should be comforting, instead, Thean felt a deep sense of failure; perhaps this was his punishment, to be stripped of one of his gifts since he hadn’t used it for good. But speaking such thoughts aloud would only prove Ava’s point, so Thean shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is I can do something about what’s been done to us, to Camelot.” 

    “This is war,” Ava said. “We are children, Thean. Children aren’t supposed to fight wars!”

    “What’s going on?”

    Eloise’s puzzled voice made the twins jump in fright. She stood at the other end of the hall, with Clo at her side and a gargantuan knight behind them. The two children had fading smiles on their faces, and the sight of them made Thean’s heart ache. He wanted to join them in their play and make believe, in pretending that a single room was an entire world, wanted to reach out for his brother and ruffle his hair as he had whenever Clo struggled to cry quietly at night in the mines so as to not wake their parents. 

    He never wanted any of them to cry again. 

    Turning his attention back to Ava, Thean said, “Children aren’t supposed to be slaves, either. But we were. Everything that’s happened to us- to Ma and Pa, to all those like us- we could never do anything about it. But now I think, just maybe, I can do something, and I can’t walk away from that.” 

    Ava drew in a breath to speak once more, but only sighed and hung her head in defeat. Thean felt no sense of victory. 

    “So…” Clo’s voice carried to them from across the hall. “You’re walking away from us again, aren’t you?” Though he hadn’t heard the first half of their conversation, Merlin’s youngest son saw enough across Ava’s features to know that the scene he had just witnessed was the prelude to a good-bye. 

    “No! No, I’m doing this for us,” Thean said desperately. Unable to conjure more reassuring words, he moved to cross the distance between him and Clo, only to spur his little brother to run the other way. Thean stopped in his tracks; a punch, he had been expecting, but he didn’t think his brother had ever run from him unless in play. As he stood there blinking in shock, Eloise cast an apologetic look in the twins’ directions before hurrying off to comfort her friend. 

    Ava took a few slow steps to follow Clo and Eloise, turning when Thean remained still. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked dully. 

    “I think I’ll wait here for Pa,” Thean mumbled, nudging one boot against the floor. He wanted his sister to protest, to insist that he shouldn’t be alone right now.

    She walked away wordlessly. 

    Exhaling a shaky breath, Thean wandered over to the window. The sky was bedecked in gray clouds interspersed with patches where the stars shone stubbornly. At the very edge of the horizon, he thought he spotted dying embers of sunlight too, reminding him of that blissful moment the evening before when they’d found Arthur and his father. They’d all been so happy then, and Thean had still had faith that staying safe and saving Camelot would be easy since they’d finally reunited. 

    And then he’d seen how small his father looked among those who hadn’t been starved for years on end, and had heard the vague and futile plans of the Nemethian counselors and the King of Camelot himself. Thean had known for a long time that adults could be cruel, but he hadn’t realized until that counsel meeting that they could be just as scared and unsure of themselves as children. They were all in the dark on the who and why of the attack on Camelot, left to assert baseless facts at one another to fake some semblance of order. Thean had only meant to speak up so as to give them a small shred of hope that not all those who had invaded Camelot were bloodthirsty. He hadn’t meant to become their main source of hope and wound his family in the process. 

    He leaned his cheek against the cool pane of glass, closing his eyes and seeing the glimmer of starlight beneath his lids. Thean pretended that the glass was really stone and that the stars were the same ones he used to see outside the cave’s opening in the mines. He thought of his mother, and wondered what she’d think of him now. 

    Thean remained there for much longer, letting time sink into memory and his breath fog up the paned window until he heard the council chambers open behind him. His father was the first to emerge, eyes alighting on Thean and making a beeline for him. A few other counselors streamed out, but many remained in the room. Thean was okay with that- he didn’t particularly wish to speak with anyone except his father just then. 

    “Thean,” Merlin sighed, looking haggard from the evening. He should rest, Thean thought, but knew right then wasn’t the time to suggest that. 

    “Are you angry at me?” he asked, avoiding his father’s gaze. 

    Merlin blinked in surprise, considering his response before turning to gesture vaguely in the direction of the council chambers. “I’m much angrier at- well, just about everyone else,” he said, eyes narrowing at those who passed them by, as if daring them to say anything more than they already had.

    “Did they come to any decision?” 

    Thean’s heartbeat picked up in anticipation at the answer- of which, none definitive was given. “Nothing final, though I could tell many are still in favor of sending you,” Merlin said. “But I won’t allow it.” 

    Thean shook his head- he wasn’t sure what was worse, Ava’s anger or his father’s worry. “You heard what they said- if we don’t learn more about the invaders, Nemeth won’t send knights, and then who’s going to help Gwen, and Gaius, and everyone?” Merlin’s eyes saddened at the mention of his old friends, but Thean pushed on. “You would help them like this if you could.” 

    “Yes, Thean, and that’s precisely why you shouldn’t.” 

    “That… doesn’t make any sense!” 

    Merlin gave a small, exasperated laugh. “You shouldn’t try to only do what I might do. I’ve done many stupid things!” 

    “And?” 

    “And I could have died many times,” Thean’s father continued. “It’s a miracle- or destiny, whatever you want to call it- that I’ve survived at all. And honestly, it’s a miracle that you’re safe too, Thean.” Merlin frowned at his son. “I want to keep you that way.” 

    Thean wanted to be safe as well. He had no desire to go anywhere except back to his chambers- the ones in Camelot, though, not the ones in Nemeth. He had thought he was safe in those chambers, in that castle. He had thought he’d be safe once he was with his siblings, or once he was at his father’s side again. 

    “Pa…” Thean said. “I’m not sure anywhere is safe now.” 

    Merlin’s face sank, and his son was at last able to see through the facade of coping to the cracks underneath. Perhaps that expression of grief and raw confusion was how his father had looked upon learning their mother was dead. 

    “C’mon, you should get some sleep,” Merlin murmured, giving his son a hollow pat on his shoulder as he turned in the direction of their guest chambers. 

    Thean followed, though he did not wish to sleep, nor to see his family again that night. If he had his way, he would have stayed by that cold window, staring at the stars and preparing himself to do the same alone in Camelot.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    He could feel the disapproval coming off of Sir Leon in waves as they wove their way through the narrow halls of Nemeth’s dungeon. Across the knight’s features was the same repressed frown that had been perpetually plastered on Merlin’s face throughout the two days following the council meeting. 

    Arthur had only seen the barest hint of a smile just moments before, when he’d ran into his former manservant as he’d chased after Clo and Eloise in jest. Both the King and Merlin had come to a sudden halt to gape at each other’s appearances. Thean must have given his father back one of his many old shirts, of which the children had often worn as nightgowns and blankets back in Camelot. Around Merlin’s neck, too, was one of the red neckerchiefs for which Arthur had used to tease him for. 

    “You look…” Arthur had stumbled. The blue shirt hung lower than usual, baggy from the hollowness of Merlin’s chest- and the neckerchief, too, was tied a little clumsily. “Like yourself,” he concluded, for though the clothes were worn and the man wearing them appeared even more worn, the outfit still carried echoes of a happier past. 

    “Yeah,” Merlin said, glancing down at his shirt with a small smile. “Can’t believe Gaius kept them all these years. I’ll have to thank him for that.” Then, narrowing his eyes at Arthur, he added, “You don’t look like yourself.” 

    This was true; instead of the chainmail and crown he’d been bedecked in since arriving in Nemeth’s castle, Arthur’s outfit was akin to a subdued version of Merlin’s- simple brown pants, a white cotton shirt, and no crest of Camelot to be seen anywhere. “I figured the man may be more forthcoming with a guard than a king,” Arthur said with a grimace. He could tell from the way Merlin’s features fell that he knew immediately of the man spoken of. 

    “Pa, c’mon!” Clo’s voice yelled from around a bend in the hall. “I smell almond cakes!” 

    “Coming!” Merlin called back, forcing cheer into this voice. He let the facade fade when he turned back to the King. “I hope you hear what you’re looking for,” he murmured, though not entirely earnestly. And with that, Merlin turned away as words died on Arthur’s lips. 

    Arthur wished to speak more with him, for they had rarely had the chance to since arriving in Nemeth. Amidst fruitless debates with councilors of both Nemeth and Camelot, Merlin would remain quiet until someone inevitably brought up the proposition of sending in a child spy. Many did not care to recall Thean’s name, instead simply referring to him as the child, or the ‘sorcerer’s boy.’ Only then would Merlin speak up, listing a multitude of reasons to assert the absurdity of the plan. At first he’d claimed there was no proper way to safely communicate between Camelot and Nemeth, though this was refuted by Rinette, one of the few sorcerers of Nemeth, claiming that communication had always been possible via magic-users. When Merlin had then countered that Thean himself was not adept at such a skill yet, the Nemethian sorcerer had said she could show him runes to aid in the process. 

    After that, Merlin had begun to attend fewer meetings, realizing that his efforts had become futile. Those that he did attend, he rarely stayed the entire time, usually leaving midway in favor of looking after his and Arthur’s children instead. “They listen to me more than anyone in there,” Merlin had grumbled to Arthur in the dining hall after one particularly dismal meeting. Thean and Ava had forgone most meetings since the first as well, with the former asking to be filled in on details from Arthur or Merlin afterwards. Anselm had remained at most, though at times Arthur wished he didn’t; his heart ached each time his son looked towards him desperately whenever the idea of Thean being sent to Camelot was brought up. 

    During the only meeting Thean had attended, Anselm had looked even more troubled than usual. When the proposal of sending Thean to Camelot was inevitably reintroduced to strategizing, Thean had mentioned that he’d learned much of the castle’s layout during his time in Camelot, including the servant chambers that had largely fallen out of use. “If the invaders haven’t explored them, that’d be somewhere I could use the communication runes without being found,” he’d said, glancing around to observe the reactions of those in the meeting. 

    Whilst the Nemethian counselors nodded and ‘hmmed’ in consideration of Thean’s words, Arthur had suppressed a grimace. He’d been unaware of Thean’s explorations into the servant chambers, and from the nervous expression on Anselm’s face, the boy likely hadn’t been alone. There was nothing inherently dangerous about the hallways, but the thought of his and Merlin’s children wandering the uncharted and darkened paths without his knowledge made him uneasy. Merlin, too, had apparently trekked the same halls a decade ago in order to hide magical artifacts. Like father, like son, Arthur had thought wearily then. 

    The revelation of Thean’s- and perhaps even his own children’s- secret escapes into the servant hallways only heightened his sense of losing what little control he had left. Perhaps he’d never controlled much of anything to begin with, a truth ever present in his mind now that he was stripped of his kingdom. He was a King, but for all the power he had in Nemeth’s court, he might as well be a squire or farmer. He could offer few knights and even fewer plans to defend Camelot, nor could he concoct a more favorable alternative other than spying to gain information.

    All they knew of their enemy was that they were brutal and seemed to have intensely powerful magic at their disposal. Such knowledge and lack thereof made it so that no man or child in their rightful mind would volunteer to race back into the invaded land on their own- except, of course, for Merlin’s son. 

    And so when he’d overheard a Nemethian knight at lunch describing a man taken prisoner from the refugee camp due to suspicions of originating from the Departed Lands, he’d paused, asking further on the matter. “There isn’t much further to report,” the bemused knight had said. “He admitted he’d once been a slave handler, but we couldn’t force- er, get him to tell us anything about Camelot. Seems like he didn’t know much useful.” 

    Arthur knew well of the frustrating lack of information gained from slave handlers. They would say they were at their stations to make gold, nothing more, nothing less. Arthur himself had once interrogated handlers during the earliest liberation missions, but stopped doing so when his disgust at their blatant lack of remorse turned his open hands into fists. He’d been too angry then to think clearly, and did not wish to give his youngest comrades the impression that information could only be gained under force. 

    So he’d delegated the task of questioning handlers to his knights, expecting to hear little information relayed to him aside from the occasional tip as to another camp that the handlers had interacted with for supplies or trade. He’d let himself be lulled into the idea that the men who had captured Merlin and others like him were each uniquely and irrevocably corrupted by greed. It was only now after the invasion of Camelot that the existence of a larger, more motivating force seemed all the more likely- one which united the handlers for reasons beyond the promise of gold. 

    “I’ll be right out here,” Sir Leon reported grimly, one hand already on the hilt of Excalibur as if he expected the prisoner to burst out of the door of his cell at any moment. After much whispered debate in the dining hall, Leon had agreed to switch swords with Arthur to not tip off his true identity as anyone ranked higher than a mere guard. “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Leon added, years of frown lines etched into his expression.

    Arthur knew he must truly be perturbed by the situation to admit his dissent so frankly. “You may be right,” he sighed. “But what do I have to lose?”

    “Your life,” Sir Leon said, then cleared his throat. “Sire.” 

    “I’m not that out of practice,” Arthur snorted, resting a hand on the sword he’d gotten from Leon. “He’s in chains. I am not.” 

    “Let’s hope he doesn’t slip out of them,” Leon said dismally, then hesitated. “Why didn’t you ask Merlin to come with you? He could watch out for sorcery.” 

    “I didn’t want to put him up to it.” Arthur had expected Merlin to seek him out after every council meeting and berate him for not completely dissuading Queen Mithian and her counselors from sending Thean to Camelot. Instead, it was Arthur who would seek out Merlin in the rare moments he was not occupied with endless discussions. Merlin would be oddly silent in those conversations, a fact which only exacerbated Arthur’s unease. In truth, the prospect of questioning a prisoner made him less nervous than fully confronting his friend on the events of the past few days. 

   No longer wishing to continue the conversation, Arthur crossed the short distance to the cell door, leaving Leon at the junction between the wide halls of the dungeons. Unlike those in Camelot, where only closely laid bars separated the captors from the prisoners, Nemeth had stone doors with small barred windows. It was an innovation Arthur considered bringing back to Camelot, should he be able to reclaim the citadel as he so hoped. 

    He took a moment to peer into the cell before entering. Just at the corner of what was visible through the slit was the man of interest, chained by hands and feet and sitting against the wall that bound him to this place. Arthur had been expecting a muscled and bearded figure, well-nourished by the prosperity that the toil and death of slaves brought to handlers. This man was bearded, but the similarities between him and his presumed comrades stopped there. His face was long and sallow, and what little muscle he had was covered in tired skin pulled clinging desperately to bone. In short, he looked only slightly healthier than the slaves he must have overseen. 

    Knowing silence could not answer his questions, Arthur entered the cell, careful to close the door behind him completely should the man truly have sorcery and attempt to escape as Leon feared. The prisoner, however, showed little care for Arthur’s presence. 

    Without looking up, the man called out, “I already told the other guards everything I know and don’t know.” He gave the quickest glance up, catching a glimpse of the sword Arthur had borrowed from Leon. “So unless you’re here to kill me, you’re wasting your time.” 

    Arthur nudged the bottom of his simple tunic over the hilt of his sword as a gesture of peace. “I’m not here to kill you,” he murmured, doing his best to sound unauthoritative. “The other guards asked if you know the movements of the Departed Lands troops. I am not here to ask you that of you, either.”

    The man frowned and squinted in confusion. “So, what?” he challenged. “Are you lot so boring that a prisoner is the best conversation you can find?”

    Arthur almost chuckled at the flippancy from the imperiled man, but caught himself in surprise. “Perhaps,” he said vaguely, clearing his throat to collect his thoughts. He was startled by how human this man seemed. His interaction with most of the other handlers would usually start with being spat at, so enraged by their recent capture that they hardly formed entire sentences. He had to remind himself that this man could have harmed Merlin and his family, and countless others who Arthur would now never have the chance to welcome into Camelot. 

    “What’s your name?” Arthur asked, figuring that was an easy place to start. 

    But, apparently not. “Why’s it matter?” the man asked, though with indifference instead of the bitterness Arthur expected. 

    The incognito king shrugged his shoulders. “It probably doesn’t, so you might as well tell me.” 

    Eyes shifted side to side, as though he could search his way out of this unorthodox questioning. “Farlan,” he grunted at last. 

    “Farlan,” Arthur repeated softly. “Why are you here, in Nemeth?”

    Farlan shrugged his shoulders. “Just like I told ‘em before, I was hungry. And just like before, you’ll probably think I was spying.”

    “If you were hungry, why not go work? Go… handle slaves, as ‘you lot’ do.” 

    Farlan fidgeted where he sat, as though made uncomfortable by Arthur’s words. “We sent most of our slaves to other camps and then got rid of the rest.” Arthur forced his face to remain neutral, though he felt his jaw clenching and unclenching against his will. An image of a younger version of himself flashed through his mind- the blood dripping onto dirt, the feel of his knuckles burying into the faces of men whom he knew only by their crimes. But those men had never spoken to Arthur much after such incidents. He’d have to bury his rage for the present moment if he were to get any useful information.

    While Arthur had been actively suppressing his emotions, Farlan had started to talk again. “After all the transfers were taken care of, I was given leave for a few weeks to go back to my village before I’d be reassigned.” 

    “Did you ever ask why?”

    “Why what?”

    “Why those people were being transferred, why you had to kill those that remained?” Arthur refused to refer to them as slaves again. At least in death, they could be spoken of with the dignity they hadn’t received in life. 

     Farlan met Arthur’s eyes fully for the first time then. “Where I come from, you learn not to question the hand that feeds you.” 

    You don’t look like you’ve been fed much, Arthur thought, but kept his tongue still. He remembered what Merlin had said just before their arrival in Nemeth, about fear making men do strange things. Enslaving the innocent was more cruel than strange, however, and this man seemed to be afraid of very little at the moment. “Why didn’t you stay home, then?” he asked. “Why come to Nemeth?”

    “I did go home,” Farlan said, his voice suddenly heavy. “But there was nothing there for me anymore.”

    “No family?” Arthur assumed that even some of the most cold-hearted of men, even slave handlers, must have someone they care about. 

    “Not anymore. My boy… died in the winter of sickness.” There was that hollowness Arthur had missed when he’d first walked in- not in the sunken cheeks, but in Farlan’s eyes. The emptiness of being devoid of hope sat heavily there. “The same took my love,” Farlan continued with a shaky sigh. “But I didn’t know until I reached the village a month ago; messages cost wheat, and she was too frail to even get out of bed after he passed away. And we were a lonesome sort- lived on the outskirts and kept to ourselves. No one else in the village wanted to sacrifice enough to send me word.” The man blinked twice as though waking from a nightmare, and turned his gaze to Arthur. “I’m not sure why you’re still here. I know what you think of me.” To punctuate his point, Farlan raised his arms to display fresh lacerations bestowed upon him by the previous Nemethian guards. “You probably think I deserved these, and deserved to lose them.” 

    “No,” Arthur said, unhesitating. “No father, no matter their crimes, deserves to lose a child.”

    “Crimes,” Farlan repeated, lowering his arms onto his knees and hanging his head. “I have done my fair share of those. But everything I did, I did for them- for her, and Rainier.”

    “Your son’s name was Rainier?” Arthur was faintly surprised; he’d met a few men by the name of Rainier in Camelot and other kingdoms. Though most from the Departed Lands were born into poverty, some fled there to escape crimes committed in more lawful lands. Perhaps this man, Farlan, was one such person- or descended from such a person. 

    “Yeah,” Farlan said, smiling faintly in memory. “My love called him Raven, though. He had the blackest, wildest hair- used to drive his mother mad.” The smile faded, washed away by the present. “But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I should’ve sent him to the caravan.” 

    “The caravan?”

    Farlan’s mouth clamped shut, eyes widening in surprise at his own words. For the first time since Arthur had entered the cell, the prisoner looked truly afraid.

    Puzzled by the sudden lack of openness, Arthur prodded gently, “What do you have to lose?”

    “My life,” Farlan said dryly, and then barked out a sharp laugh. “So I suppose, I don’t have much to lose at all.” He drew in a deep breath as if preparing for a monstrous task. “The caravan is where all children in the Departed Lands wish to go once they’re old enough. It’s where the bulk of what we produce in the camps goes, as many handlers like myself send their children to live there.”

    Arthur took a step forward in intrigue, feeling as though he had stumbled upon a cave filled with golden ore. “Where is it?”

    Farlan shook his head. “It’s not really a where, not permanently at least. They go where life is best, for the time being- but they never tell us, the handlers, where they’ve gone. We lose almost all contact with them for years at a time.”

    Arthur’s interest turned to confusion. He couldn’t fathom sending his children to such an uncertain fate. “Then… how do you know they’re safe?”

    “Well, there’s all sorts of stories of the food and dances and knowledge. Rainier would ask the older children who came back to our villages from the caravan what it was like, and they’d tell him how amazing it was, but…” Farlan paused, fidgeting with his fingers nervously. “There was always something different about those who came back. They weren’t usually much older than sixteen, and well-fed too, but you could see it in their eyes- they looked like they’d lived a thousand years. Not good years, either.”

    “That’s why you never sent your son,” Arthur murmured, nodding. In this, he could understand Farlan. The wish to protect your child from pain was nearly universal to all parents. 

    “I was going to. As I said, winters are harsh, and he was approaching 10- that’s when most boys are sent. But I just wanted him to stay a child for another year, to keep that light in his eyes just for a little longer- blue, like his mother's.” A sob, and Farlan glanced away from Arthur, staring at the cold stone walls. “He will always be a child now.”

    Arthur watched with mixed feelings as the man tried and failed to stifle his weeping. He knew he shouldn’t care, that he should despise this man wholeheartedly for the multitude of crimes likely caused by those two gaunt hands. And yet, he couldn’t find himself to conjure that hatred he had felt so often when he had first begun his liberation campaigns. “I am sorry about your family,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. 

    Farlan paused in his sniffing to look Arthur up and down. “You are, aren’t you?” he said thickly, swiping at his tears with a fumbling palm. “I guess not all you Nemethians are bastards, then.” 

    Arthur chuckled softly, relieved to see his disguise had held up. Having gained more information than he had hoped for, he began to think of how best to close that strange conversation when he noticed an object beside Farlan resting just at the edge of his chains. “What’s that?” he asked, tensing slightly. 

    Farlan, too, tensed in turn, laying one hand protectively over the object to hide it from Arthur’s view. “Nothing,” he said quickly. Realizing he was not in a position to lie, however, he continued reluctantly, “Just my family’s sigil, nothing more.” 

    “May I see it, then?” Arthur would be remiss to not verify the absence of any object that could help the man escape. 

    “It’s all I have of them now,” Farlan insisted, shaking his head and not moving the shielding hand. 

    “I won’t keep it,” Arthur said in a placating tone. “I just want to see it, that’s all.” 

    After studying Arthur for a moment longer, Farlan sighed and raised one hand, chains jangling with the motion. Arthur approached slowly, one hand hovering over his side where Leon’s sword lay. He took the object quickly and stepped back a few paces, turning it over in his hand. What he observed could hardly be a sigil; made from a stone that was likely picked up from the average riverbank and etched in jagged lines was a bird. “A starling?” Arthur asked in surprise. His mother’s own sigil displayed such a creature. 

    “A dove,” Farlan said, not taking his eyes off of where Arthur stood. 

    After studying the plain stone and carving a moment longer, Arthur handed it back to the man. Farlan sighed in relief once the sigil was back in his palms. It’s such a simple thing, yet so treasured, Arthur marveled. 

    “I may return,” he said succinctly, donning a knightly attitude once more and approaching the cell door. 

    He expected no response, but Farlan called out, “You'll have to come back soon if that's the case. Your friends might not keep me in this world much longer.” Despite the grim premonition, Arthur caught the faint flash of a smile on Farlan’s face as he closed the door behind him. 

    Sir Leon relaxed visibly upon Arthur’s exit, quickly exchanging Excalibur for the sword Arthur had borrowed. “Well, what happened?” Leon asked after glancing the King up and down to make sure no glittering, magical things lingered on him. “What did he say?” 

    “A decent amount,” Arthur said, still lost in thought as he pondered over the conversation. “Do you know where Queen Mithian is?” 

    “Yes, sire. She just finished up with her council meeting and is walking the ramparts now, last I heard.” 

    “Good, good.” He had scarcely gotten the chance to talk to Queen Mithian without receiving biting glares from the advisors that perpetually surrounded her. This might be his only opportunity for a while. “Take me to her, and I’ll explain on the way.”

    As they wove through the halls and ascended the stairs to the ramparts, Leon listened earnestly to Arthur’s tale. “Do you think that information will be enough, sire? Enough to convince her we don’t need a spy- much less Thean?” Leon pondered. 

    “No, I don’t think it will be. But I have to try, don’t I?”

    They found Queen Mithian on the western ramparts, four guards split into two groups covering the path on either side. One guard raised an eyebrow at Arthur’s plain clothing, but let him through with a nod. The queen was leaning against the edge of the walls, unbothered by the day’s strong wind that tousled carefully laid locks of her brown hair. She looked wistful, as though she longed to be anywhere but those ramparts, and Arthur felt an ounce of regret for knowing he would have to interrupt this rare moment of solitude for her. From the way she held herself, he often forgot that she had been ruling for only half as long as himself. 

    As Camelot’s King approached where she stood, he studied the view that so captivated her. It was truly striking; from there, one could see the wide, sprawling expanse of the citadel and outward into the land beyond. Just at the edge of the horizon, Arthur could even spot the scarlet banners of the refugee camp waving in the breeze, standing out as a stark backdrop against the muted blue and gray colors of Nemeth. A small smile tugged at his mouth, knowing some of his people were within sight. 

    Mithian sensed rather than saw Arthur’s presence, keeping her eyes trained on the citadel and distant scarlet banners as she began to speak. “When they first arrived, we strongly encouraged the refugees to take those banners down, but they wouldn’t listen; said they wanted their King to know they were there.” Arthur chuckled, eliciting a knowing glance from Mithian as she continued in jest, “My father used to say that Camelot’s people are as resilient as they are foolish- much like their King.” 

    “Glad to see you’re ever the conversationalist, Mithian.” She hadn’t been this playful in tone since they’d first met when he’d courted her back in the early days of his reign. It reminded him of why he had considered her as a potential queen, long before he had reunited with Gwen and the years had hardened Mithian and him. Clearing his throat and frowning, Arthur murmured, “Although, you haven’t been one for much conversation lately.” 

    Brows furrowing, Mithian’s troubled expression echoed his own. “I seem to remember talking to quite a few people recently, so you’ll have to be more specific.”

    “You’ve never spoken against the proposal of Thean being sent to spy in Camelot.” 

    “Ah.” And just like that, Queen Mithian became closed off to Arthur again, curtains covering her thoughts from view as she turned back to survey the citadel again, appearing to look through the buildings rather than at them. “No, I haven’t.”

    “Why not?”

    “Why didn’t you?” Mithian shot back; there was a bite to her voice, but also a hint of genuine curiosity. 

    Arthur gave a dry laugh, though he found the subject matter of their conversation far from funny. “Thean is… much like his father. I doubt he would have listened.”

    “So you expected him to listen to me?”

    “Your advisors brought up the idea,” Arthur said, struggling to keep frustration from entering his voice.

    “And you and your advisors offered no ideas, other than to attack blindly without any idea of when and how.” Seeing that Arthur was not relenting, she pushed herself off from where she had been leaning on the balustrades to face him, pausing as she studied the King. “How did your little chat with the prisoner go?” 

    “I- er…” Arthur fumbled for a response, feeling like a child caught in the act of pilfering sweets. He had hoped to have the chance to explain himself before the Queen found out about his speaking with the prisoner. 

    Mithian did not appear angered, though, shaking her head and chuckling as she took in Arthur’s gawping. “Don’t look so surprised, Arthur. All the eyes and ears in this castle are my own. And besides, I’m not sure why else you’d be dressed as a commoner.” 

    Arthur glanced down at his garb, ever surprised by his own forgetfulness. Of course the Queen would have noticed something was off about him. Sighing, he steeled himself to begin. “Farlan-”

    “Farlan?” Mithian repeated, puzzled. 

    “The prisoner,” Arthur clarified. “He was quite informative, actually, once he realized I wouldn’t hurt him.” Queen Mithian raised an eyebrow at that, aware of the differences between Nemeth’s interrogations and Camelot’s gentler methods. She did not comment, however, allowing Arthur to continue on. And so Arthur recounted his encounter with Farlan, describing what was said between them in depth so as to not miss any details, and lend greater credibility to what was spoken. 

    When all was said, Mithian turned back to gaze across the citadel, her expression unreadable. “Hm. Interesting.”

    “I would say it’s a bit more than just interesting,” Arthur said defensively. 

    “Is it, though? All it’s left us with is more questions,” Mithian murmured, tracing a circle with her fingertip on the rampart’s walls.  

    “Then I can ask the man more questions!” The conversation with Farlan had been strange, but not altogether unpleasant. Arthur could stand to wear commoner’s clothes a little more often if it would do some good. 

    “And why would we trust any of his answers?” The disinterest in Mithian’s voice turned to exasperation. “He has nothing to gain from us. He could just be wasting our time with falsities for the sake of it. Although…” She paused to narrow her eyes with a question in them. “How old did you say his son was?”

    “About ten, but I don’t see why-”

    “And he had dark hair, and blue eyes?”

    He realized he must have looked like a fish out of water as he processed her words- and once he had, more akin to a dead fish. “Mithian… no.”

    “No, the prisoner didn’t say all those things?”

    “I mean, yes, he did- but surely you see that this is wrong, sending a child into a dangerous land? I don’t think you understand-”

    “Oh, I understand,” Mithian sighed, beginning to walk slowly to where her guards were. “I understand completely how awful this is, Arthur. It is perhaps the worst risk I will have ever allowed, if our fears for his safety are proven justifiable.”

    Arthur took a pace or two so that he stood in front of her, feeling a hint of unease at the sound of disgruntled shuffling from the Nemethian guards behind. But when he thought of Thean, and Merlin, and how disappointed Anselm had looked with each council meeting that passed, he couldn’t let her walk away from their discussion so easily. “Queen Mithian, this isn’t your sacrifice to make."

    “Nor is it yours.” 

    Arthur sighed, running a hand down his face. Between splayed fingers, he could see Mithian’s eyes crinkling in sympathy. “I will not send my people into a battle blind- that is a sacrifice I will never make,” she said. “But if this is your point of no return- if you refuse to negotiate with us further, because of what has been proposed concerning Thean- then I cannot help you, or your people. And I’m sorry; I know how difficult this decision is. I don’t make it lightly.” 

    Though there was ample space for Mithian to maneuver to walk past Arthur, she remained where she stood for a time. With the final nature of her last statement, she turned and searched the horizon once more for answers. “My daughter is dying, Arthur.” 

    Camelot’s king realized only then that he hadn’t seen Princess Nietta since their arrival in Nemeth, but had hardly given that fact any mind until now. She was shy, that he knew, so much so that she had hardly acquainted herself with Anselm despite their likely betrothal in the future- a betrothal that now may never happen. “I’m… so sorry,” he murmured, hearing the futility of his own words. He wondered how many more times in this day he was going to have to provide condolences for dead and dying children, and if the hollow feeling in his chest while doing so would ever ebb. 

    “As am I,” Mithian said dully. “She has always been a sickly child. She caught some illness in the winter, and has never fully recovered. All the physicians I’ve spoken to- and I’ve spoken to so many- suspect she never will.” Nemeth’s Queen straightened her shoulders, bracing herself to put on a mask once again in preparation for returning to the inner works of the castle. “So as I said, I don’t make this decision lightly. I know what it is to fear losing a child. In some ways, when I look at her lying in that damned bed… I feel as though I already have.” She looked at Arthur with the weary expectation of having to argue again, but finding Camelot’s King silent, she said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go see my daughter. See if I can give her some small bit of comfort.” She turned with a whish of her dark blue gown, accompanied by guards that cast dour glares back in Arthur’s direction. 

    As Arthur watched her go, he was beset by the grim realization that it may not be long until the queen- and perhaps the rest of her kingdom- began to wear black. 

*****

    Tiring of the strange looks he had been receiving from the servants and guards, Arthur took the time to change back into a more kingly outfit before seeking out Merlin and the children in their chambers. Though Camelot’s royal family had been given their own room, they had spent the vast majority of their time in that of the other children. Thus, it came as no surprise to Arthur when he spotted both Anselm and Thean through the half-open door of Merlin’s room. 

    Thean was sitting on the floor, back leaning against one of the bedposts and an open book in his lap with one hand following the written text as he read aloud. Anselm was sprawled out on the same bed, propped up by his elbows to peer at the book and legs kicking back and forth periodically. 

    Unaware of Arthur’s presence at the doorway, Thean continued to read aloud slowly, “The torches burned throughout the halls, brilliant and lu- lu…” 

    “Luciferous!” Anselm supplied. 

    “What does that mean?” 

    “Bringing light, I think.” 

    Thean sighed in frustration. “Well of course they bring light, they’re torches! Why must there be such big words to explain that?” 

    “Can’t answer that- I didn’t make the language!” Anselm laughed, throwing his head back slightly. In doing so, he caught the figure of his father at the corner of his eye, sitting up suddenly in expectation of grave news. “Hey Dad- what is it?” 

    Arthur gave his son a smile, saddened by the way in which Anselm’s laughter had ended as soon as his presence had been noticed. Bad news and bad luck had seemed to follow Camelot’s King like a cloud that past week, so he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the prince predicted stormy weather whenever he was around. And of course, he did have bad news to report then- of Queen Mithian’s ceaseless adherence to the plan of Thean spying in Camelot. But he wanted the two boys to remain like this for a little while longer, simply reading and talking nonsense just as Merlin and he had often done in his own days as a prince. 

    “Nothing,” Arthur said, turning his attention to Thean. “Where’s your father?”

    Thean frowned at Arthur, clearly seeing through the lie. The boy flipped a page in feigned disinterest as he reported, “At the gate’s canal with the others.”

    Arthur nodded curtly and left, leaving the boys to escape reality while they still could. He knew the place Thean spoke of, as he had taken Anselm and Eloise there himself the other day during one of his rare free moments. Unable to enter the citadel in case more infiltrators from the Departed Lands were lurking about, the royal children weren’t allowed to go further than the castle courtyard itself- so naturally, they liked to walk along the farthest edges of the courtyard where the canals entered for water supply. 

    When he reached this new favorite spot of the children, he found Merlin first, who was productively throwing pebbles dislodged from the courtyard floor into the waters of the canal. Further along, Arthur spotted three smaller, darting figures. The one with roughly clipped brown hair paused to wave eagerly in the King’s direction. 

    “Hi, Dad!” Eloise shouted. As she did so, Ava tapped her shoulder and quickly ducked away. “Oi, no fair! That’s cheating!” Eloise cried, lurching for Clo, who was closer in reach. 

    Merlin glanced over at the spectacle, exchanging an amused look with Arthur thereafter before returning to his self-assigned task of throwing pebbles into the canals. Arthur sighed in mock disapproval of his servant, striding forward till he was at the edge of the water as well. “You know, Merlin, you’re supposed to skip them, not sink them.” 

    Merlin shrugged, suppressing a smile. “What difference does it make? They’ll reach the bottom either way.”

    Arthur nodded in reluctant acquiescence. “True, but might as well let them have fun on the way down.” 

    After considering the suggestion for one second, Merlin showed what he thought of the King’s advice by promptly dropping the rest of his handful of stones into the canal with a plonk . “How did your talk with the prisoner go?” he asked, smirking as he dusted his hands off. “Did he fall for your brilliant disguise?”

    “He did, actually- and told me a great deal.” Arthur launched into the recount of his encounter with Farlan, sparing few details. Merlin listened with a focused silence until Arthur slowed his tale whilst telling the part involving the death of Farlan’s son, Rainier. 

    “Do you expect me to feel sorry for him?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the King. 

    Arthur was caught off guard by the question, and thus didn’t respond immediately. Of the two of them, he had always assumed Merlin to be the more empathetic one; due to the nature of his royal status, it was Arthur who had to be cold and calculating when needed. Perhaps the last decade had changed that as well. “No…” he said slowly. “I just thought it worth mentioning. Queen Mithian thought so as well.”

    Merlin’s posture straightened suddenly, interest piqued. “You spoke with her? What did she say?” 

    “In terms of Thean?” His friend nodded vigorously. “The same as she’s said before,” Arthur admitted reluctantly, wincing inwardly as he watched the hope in Merlin’s eyes flicker out again. The thin man turned away, pacing unevenly along the canal’s edge, shoulders tense and shaking slightly with unreadable emotion beneath his old tunic, his breaths coming out short and fast. Scooping up a large rock, he pelted it swiftly across the canal. The two men watched as it shattered into several more pieces before breaking the water’s surface.

    As though that single motion had seeped away the last of his energy, Merlin sat down at the edge of the stone wall, swinging his legs to hover over the water. After teetering on indecision between staying and leaving Merlin to cool off on his own, Arthur approached to join him.

    When’s this going to end?  he wondered as he settled down beside the heavy silence of his friend. When will I stop letting them down? 

    Drawing in a long breath, Merlin finally spoke. “I just got them back, Arthur. And Thean’s so young- he’s only eleven.” He turned his gaze to where his children and Camelot’s princess sprinted to and fro, chasing one another joyfully. “When I was eleven, I would spend my days running in the forest playing make believe with Will. That’s what children should be doing- they should be playing make believe. Not playing at war.”

    “I know.”

    Merlin turned to him with a furrowed brow. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked in a low voice- a little angry and a little sad.

    Arthur blinked in confusion. “I just told you, I spoke with Mithian.”

    “No, I mean why didn’t you say anything sooner, back when the idea was first brought up?”

    Arthur looked away from him then, finding the gray walls easier to gaze at. “I tried, Merlin."

    “No you didn’t,” was the dismissive response to the King’s words. “Not really, anyway; I’ve seen you argue with knights for longer about where to go hunting.” Arthur stayed silent; he knew that this was true. His words had been as infrequent and ineffective in that first council meeting as they were now, and the same shame that had engulfed him then crept back into his chest. When the Nemethian knights and counselors had turned down what few alternative plans he had to strike back at Camelot’s invaders, he had known the situation had spiraled well past his control. He had no bargaining chips, no land he could promise with certainty to grant Nemeth because he was currently a King without any land to speak of. 

    “You think this is okay?” Merlin insisted, not letting Arthur sink back into silence for long. “You want Thean to go?”

    “No, of course not! I-”

    “But you want Nemeth’s knights.” 

    “I want to save my people, our people; what’s left of them, at least. And I can’t do that without help.” He felt hollow. This must be what despair is. Arthur thought he’d felt it before, but never like this. “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

    A stifled noise of anguish sounded from Merlin, who turned his head so that he would not have to look Arthur in the eye for a moment. The King supposed he deserved that; he’d been avoiding mirrors himself lately. Each glimpse of a reflection reminded him of who he was supposed to be, and who he was failing to be. 

    “When I was first brought to the mines…” Merlin began in a low voice, face still turned to the distant figures of the children. “I tried to think of a reason for why I was there. All the talk of destiny that Kilgarrah squeezed into my head didn’t make sense if I was going to become a slave just when magic was finally being accepted. So I thought that maybe I was in Medora as a punishment.”

    “That’s nonsense,” Arthur scoffed, despair replaced by perplexion. “What could you possibly deserve punishment for?”

    Merlin laughed bitterly, turning back to the King with a joyless smile. “I suppose it’s been a while since I refreshed your memory on all that I did before you knew of my magic. Maybe you tried to forget- I’ve tried too. I made so many mistakes, Arthur. I hurt people… I even killed people, and I failed to save so many who deserved better than what they got.”

    Arthur hadn't forgotten. He remembered all too well the tales Merlin had never told to the Knights of the Round Table, the ones he had only ever confided to the King late at night in the castle when the world was still and no one else’s ears were around to listen and judge. Those stories involving the slow descent of Morgana and Mordred past the point of salvation had been the last Merlin had ever told Arthur before his capture by handlers. The guilt and regret that had lain heavy in Merlin’s eyes then were still there now, nearly 12 years later. And yet-

    “You did what you thought was right,” Arthur said. “And so what if you made mistakes? By that logic, I should have been ‘punished’ twice as much as you.”

    “Being the King is punishment enough,” Merlin murmured, giving Arthur a sad smile and shaking his head. “All those choices I made, and often out of selfish fear... I can’t take them back. So in the mines, I thought, very well, perhaps it was only fair that I suffered. But then I met Lea, and our kids, and nothing made sense anymore, because I knew they didn’t deserve to suffer with me. And yet… they have suffered, and they still are.” He paused, and gazed earnestly at the King. For a moment, Merlin looked much younger, reminding Arthur of the time when he’d thought of the man as little more than a kind but bumbling servant. 

    “What do we do, Arthur?” 

    It had been many years since Arthur could fool himself into thinking he had all the answers, but he knew he had to at least pretend for Merlin’s sake in that moment. “I think… Queen Mithian wants to send Thean because she’s worried we might not be strong enough as we are. But she doesn’t know what we discovered on the way here.” Quickly glancing around to ensure no one else was within earshot, he leaned in closer to Merlin and whispered, “If she knew about the dragon-”

    “Then Aithusa would be slaughtered on the spot,” Merlin whispered back harshly. 

    “Oh, come on, Mithian wouldn’t be that callous.” 

    “Maybe she wouldn’t, but someone else in her court will find out, word will spread, and some paranoid villagers will seek out the cave with pitchforks and torches so they can hurt what they do not understand.”

    That was not an altogether unlikely scenario; such events had transpired on numerous occasions in Camelot prior to the acceptance of magic, except the victims had been human beings instead of dragons. With Nemeth more akin to Camelot’s situation fifteen years prior, Arthur had to admit that Merlin was justified in his fears for Aithusa’s wellbeing. 

    Before Arthur could piece together another half-baked plan, his daughter came running up with Ava close behind, evidently seeking out Arthur to escape the likelihood of losing their game of chase. As soon as the King stood up, Eloise darted to hide behind him, laughing breathlessly and sticking her tongue out at Merlin’s daughter. 

    “Now that’s cheating,” Ava gasped, shaking her head in disapproval. “The game is called tag, not hide and seek.” 

    “Fine.” Eloise took a few cautious steps back from her father, then shouted loud enough for Clo to hear, “First to the dining hall wins!” With that, she pelted away. 

    Ava groaned, casting an irritated look towards her father, who patted her shoulder in sympathy. “I think I’ll just walk,” she said decisively, squinting at Eloise’s quickly disappearing figure in the dying sunlight. “Losers can still eat cake.” 

    “That they can,” Merlin said, chuckling and joining his daughter to walk across the courtyard. Arthur could have easily matched their pace, but instead, he waited for the small redheaded boy to make his way over. Though he had seemed animated whilst playing with Ava and Eloise, Clo now appeared less energetic than his usual self. In fact, as he neared Arthur, the somber look in the boy’s eyes made him seem more alike in demeanor to Thean than ever before. 

    Figuring that Clo was merely subdued from tiredness or hunger, Arthur walked alongside him in what he felt was a companionable silence until the boy began to speak. 

    “Arthur?”

    “Yes, Sir Clover?” he said, trying to tease a smile out of Merlin’s younger son. 

    Clo, however, stared solemnly ahead without even a quirk of his mouth in acknowledgement. 

    “If Thean dies, I will never forgive you.”

    The words landed like a punch to gut, and Arthur found himself only able to stare at the boy in stunned silence. He’d had many difficult conversations that day, but that one sentence made him feel as though he’d fallen into an icy river. 

    The man and the boy walked on together, neither caring much for the journey or the destination. 

Chapter Text

Thean

    Can you hear me?

    Thean was in Nemeth’s courtyard, surrounded by a host of counselors, knights, and even the King of Camelot himself. All of them leaned forward where they stood, gazing intensely at the young boy sitting on the steps. None of them dared speak lest they break his concentration. 

    Yeah, Pa. I can hear you. 

    He was surprised by how easy this mind-speak conversation was compared to the last they’d had days before while en route to Nemeth. Rinette, one of the very few sorcerers in Nemeth, had shown him how to draw several communication runes down one of his arms prior to attempting to contact Merlin. At first, when Rinette had pressed the rectangular, clay-like blue and black tool to his skin, he’d flinched away instinctively, spurring the healer to pause and abandon her task momentarily. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she had said. “These aren’t like the runes given to slaves; they come off with a little water and a little magic. They will do you no harm.” 

    Still uneasy, and perhaps subconsciously stalling for time, Thean asked, “How come I couldn’t find these runes in any of the books at Camelot? I thought only blood spells could be used for long-distance speaking.” 

    “Until recently, yes, that was the general school of thought- that is, until I developed these in the winter,” Rinette said, a self-satisfied smile spreading across her face. 

    “You can make your own runes?” Thean had never heard of anything of the sort. 

    “It’s not easy, but if you weave together various aspects of similar runes, you can create one that’s even more powerful than its separate components.” It was then she leaned in to continue the process of applying runes to Thean’s arms, talking all the while. “There’s very few books on magic here in Nemeth, and even fewer teachers, so I’ve had to make do with building my own knowledge. I think in some ways it has helped, though, not having every spell or rune handed to me; the Old Religion is full of wisdom, but I believe there is much more to learn than what it has to give.” She looked up from her handiwork to meet the boy’s eyes. “If you’re ever back in Nemeth, I could teach you what I’ve learned, if you’d like.” 

    Thean had neither accepted nor declined the offer then, only nodding and remaining silent. He’d never been good at thinking of the future, conditioned by life in the mines to not assume there would be any tomorrow to consider. His looming sense of unknown fate once he reached the invaded Camelot dominated any foresight he might have otherwise had. 

    Good, good. The tone of his father’s voice inside his head could be easily discerned thanks to the runes speckling Thean’s arms. Merlin sounded like he wasn’t altogether pleased, but attempting to hide that. 

    Should I tell them it’s worked now? They’re all staring at me. Many were so close that Thean could hear their breathing, eyes pinned to him the boy as though they expected sparks to fly out of his ears in confirmation of the mind-speak having worked. 

    Yes, do that, and I’ll tell Mithian as well- but first, tell me, who looks the most cabbage-headed among them? 

    Thean bit his lip to stifle a laugh, and several of those gathered around him leaned forward in even further at the boy’s change in expression. 

    Arthur. Definitely Arthur. The preoccupied King’s crown had dipped to nearly cover his eyes, and his tunic was askew across his shoulders. Arthur often looked more haphazard than usual lately, making Thean wonder if his father was purposefully avoiding regaining the task of helping Arthur get dressed in order to make the King look a tad more foolish than usual. 

    Good answer. Thean thought he could even hear the laughter in Merlin’s voice, and smiled to himself. 

    “Well?” Sir Enthus, the Nemethian knight who’d first proposed Thean go to Camelot, asked impatiently. “Did it work?” 

    “Yes,” Thean said, and a collective sigh of relief passed through the crowd, though some eyed Thean with renewed suspicion. To a non-magic user, the idea of mind-speak must come across as the apex of the unnatural nature of sorcery. 

    With the silent show over, knights and counselors broke apart from one another; Thean assumed the majority would make their way back to Queen Mithian, who with her guards had stayed by Merlin at the farthest reaches of the castle to ensure the communication runes worked on both ends of the conversation. Arthur, however, paused in whatever matters he had to attend to in order to speak with Thean for a moment. “What did you speak with your father about?” he asked. 

    “Nothing important,” Thean said, shrugging his shoulders. Catching sight once more of Arthur's poorly thought out attire, he added, “A little bit about fashion, that’s all.” He picked up his pace then, leaving a befuddled king to ponder his answer. 

    Merlin’s son made his way to their chambers, disappointed but unsurprised to find them empty. He’d found the other children more difficult to track down ever since he’d started preparations for his journey back to Camelot. Eloise and Clo spent most of their time together wandering the castle, with Ava joining them as well when she wasn’t working alongside Rinette to resume her lessons in healing and relevant magic. Anselm, meanwhile, was often at his father’s side in various council meetings. His siblings had even visited Halberg and his adopted daughters the day prior to see how they fared; he had only learned such from Arthur’s children after searching for Ava and Clo throughout the castle. That left Thean to either watch the Nemethian cooks at work- though he never summoned up the courage to ask to participate- or remain in his chambers until Merlin or the children returned. The latter was what he settled on then, leaning back on one of the beds with a huff once he’d cleaned the runes from his arms with a bowl of water and muttered incantations. 

    He nearly fell asleep after a few minutes, surprised by how relaxed he felt. Succeeding at the communication spell had been the last barrier to ascertaining his ability to travel to Camelot. There could be no more excuses, no more half-hearted explanations from Merlin as to why his son couldn’t embark on the dangerous but potentially battle-altering journey. 

    It wasn’t long before Thean's solitude within the chambers came to an end; he sat up at the sound of the door’s hinges, pleasantly bemused by the sight of Camelot’s prince carrying a stack of books nearly tall enough to hide his face from view. “More bedtime stories?” Thean asked with faint amusement. When Anselm had free time, he usually spent it listening as Thean read aloud one of the storybooks taken from Nemeth’s library. 

    “Not just any stories,” Anselm said, setting the books down on the edge of the bed Thean occupied. “ Real stories- about the Departed Lands.” 

    Merlin's son arched one eyebrow. “Yeah, sure. There’s next to nothing written about them.” 

    “You’re right- next to nothing, but not absolutely nothing.” Still standing, Anselm picked up one of the larger books, deftly flipping the pages. “Some of these only have a few paragraphs on them, but it’s still something. Like here, it’s describing what sort of crops they like to grow the most. Did you know that pumpkins come from there?” 

    “Anselm-” 

    “Seriously, I thought pumpkins came from Nemeth! And in this other book, it lists some of the villages that were there about 150 years ago- I figure some of them must still exist, right?”

    “Anselm!” Thean said sharply, stopping the other boy in the act of picking up yet a third book. “Just… stop.” 

    “Stop why?” Anselm asked, pouting. “Don’t you want to learn about who you’re going to be spying on?” 

    “These books, they won’t really help me all that much with how outdated they are,” Thean explained gently, regretting his previous outburst. “Besides, I’ll be learning about the Departed Lands firsthand soon enough. I just got the communication spell down- I should be leaving by tomorrow.” 

    The prince’s enthusiasm died down suddenly like a blown out candle. Dropping the book in hand carelessly on the pile of others, he sat down heavily beside Thean. “I just want to help,” he said in a small voice. 

    “I know.” Anselm always wanted to help, and that was precisely the problem- this was one task Thean had to tackle alone. 

    “When you first came to Camelot, I thought that was my job- to look after you,” the blonde boy murmured. 

    “Is that why you decided to whack me with your wooden sword my first morning there?” Thean asked, smiling at the memory. He had been so horrified at his own instinctive use of magic then against the prince- little did he know that Anselm would encourage him to use magic against his swordwork nearly every night after that in the castle’s hidden chapel of the Old Religion. 

    Anselm, laughing at Thean’s comment, said, “I wanted to make sure the other kids in the castle knew you were one of us, even if you were a bit weird.”

    “Thanks?” There had been few other children of nobility that lived in or around Camelot’s castle, and they had rarely taken initiative to introduce themselves. He’d assumed they naturally tended to keep to themselves, but now realized he may have been granted some immunity from taunting due to Anselm’s insistence on being with him at nearly every corner of the castle. 

    “Don’t mention it,” Anselm said with a fading smile. “You never really did need me to look after you, though, did you?”

    Thean hardly had to consider his answer. “I did, in a way.” Glancing over to where Anselm’s weapon of choice lay on the dresser, he added with a smirk, “Just not with your wooden sword.”

    Anselm chuckled, rising from the bed to grab his sword and practice a few jabs. He and Thean hadn’t had the time or place to practice at all since arriving in Nemeth. “I’ll have a real sword of steel by the end of the week,” the prince remarked. “Dad always promised I’d get one when I turned thirteen, ‘cause that’s when he got his own.”

    Thean realized with a twinge of guilt that he’d almost forgotten the prince’s birthday was approaching. He’d first arrived in Camelot a week after the prince had turned twelve; now their roles would be reversed- Thean would be in Camelot on the prince’s birthday, but Anselm wouldn’t be. 

    Anselm rested his wooden sword back on the dresser a little woefully, running his fingers over its blunt edge as he said, “I always figured my first real sword would come from the forge in Camelot.”

    “I’ll make sure your second one does.” Thean’s voice was full of a conviction he didn’t really have. 

    Anselm, though, seemed to believe in his words, throwing him a sad smile. “Yeah. I know you will.” Turning back to the dresser, he grabbed a smoothed-down and etched stone, walking with it in hand back to Thean. The prince had observed the stone before, when Thean had first shown it to him after receiving it from Arthur. 

    “Eloise did a good job on it, huh?” Thean asked, trying to diffuse the fear he felt crackling in the air. The princess had been the one to draw in the dove, as Arthur had informed Merlin’s son whilst telling him of Farlan and the son he had once had- Rainier, Raven. That family sigil was the key to Thean’s deception in Camelot not being seen through. 

    Anselm did not answer Thean’s question, instead asking his own. “You’re really going to impersonate a dead boy?” 

    Thean did not feel too fond of the idea either. If the sigil was not believed, or if the death of Rainier was already known by any of the Departed Lands people in Camelot, the plot would fail. Arthur had seemed confident enough that Farlan and his family were not well-known enough for either result to occur, though Thean realized the King could have just been hiding his uncertainty for his sake. 

    Anselm seemed to read Thean’s thoughts in the absence of a response. “What if it doesn’t work? What if they figure out you’re not who you say you are?” 

    Then I’ll be a dead boy, too. 

    Aware of the fact that expressing such a thought aloud would not bring comfort to the prince, Thean instead said, “Then I’ll figure something else out.” 

    Neither of the boys believed that statement, but nor did they contradict it, knowing there were no better answers. 

*****

     Dusk had settled by the time Thean found Ava. She was sitting with her back to him, long black hair rising and falling gently with the wind. Where once Lea had used to hack off any strands growing past her shoulders to prevent tangles, now the girl allowed them to grow. Thean noticed with a warm feeling that the ends of her hair had begun to curl slightly, just as their mother’s had done. 

    As he moved to sit down beside her on the stone bench, he took in the surrounding area. They were in a largely undeveloped part of the castle’s garden; churned dirt and weeds were dispersed carelessly about, but amidst the drab scenery lay one small thing of beauty: a sapling no taller than Thean’s waist had been planted and surrounded with smooth stones. In the spring air, it had begun to sprout dark green leaves and purple flowers. 

    “Anselm said I’d find you here.” 

    Ava continued to stare at the young tree with a faint smile on her face. “Rinette told us about this place,” she said. Thean recalled Rinette mentioning that his sister had visited her daily to discuss runes, magic, and healing- only for short spans of time, however, as Ava felt mounting guilt at the prospect of so soon finding another mentor to replace Helena. “This is an Athrangi tree,” the girl continued, gesturing to the sapling. “It was planted when Queen Mithian first declared magic to no longer be punishable by death.” 

    “Why this tree?” Thean asked, frowning. It was pretty, but to him it seemed an insignificant tribute for such a monumental event. 

    “Look closely,” Ava said, smile growing as she watched her brother lean forward. As he squinted in the moonlight, he caught the sight of familiar curls and swirls on the bark. 

    “Runes?” 

    Ava nodded. “All Athrangi trees need to grow is a few incantations spoken to them once a week. As long as they have that, they can go their entire lives without seeing any sunlight or catching a drop of water.” Thean observed the tree then with greater interest, but Ava herself turned sorrowful at a new thought. “No one else except Rinette ever visits here. I think they’re scared of how something can live off of magic alone. Maybe by the time the tree’s fully grown, the people here will no longer fear it.” Merlin’s daughter sighed wistfully and leaned back on her palms. “But for now, I like how quiet it is here. It’s a good place to think.” 

    “What were you thinking of?” He was surprised by how talkative she was this night; the twins often sat in a comfortable silence instead of conversing, but now that they were on the brink of separation, Thean wanted to hear her voice as much as possible. 

    “Our Ma,” Ava said, casting brown eyes in his direction. “Wondering what she’d think of us now, if she’d be proud. And… asking her to send a sign, to let us know that she’s still watching over us.”  

    Thean nodded; he’d used to silently wish for the same in the months immediately following his discovery of Lea’s death. After hearing of their father’s stories of encounters with spirits- both those that were malicious, as in the case of Uther’s ghost, as well as the gentle ones like that of Balinor- Merlin’s children did not doubt that there was some form of life beyond death. The extent to which the dead walked among the living, however, was still a mystery to them, one that would likely prove unsolvable until they themselves met their own ends. 

    “And have you seen anything?” Thean asked gently. “Any signs?” 

    Ava sniffled, shaking her head shortly. Of the three of Merlin’s children, she had always been the closest to their mother. Whereas Clo’s rambunctious nature had more often than not provoked disapproval and fretting from Lea, and Thean had felt periodic resentment for her hesitancy to stand up to the handlers, Ava’s peaceful nature had complemented Lea’s. Even at a young age, the girl had seemed to sense when their mother needed her to step up in taking care of her brothers, giving Lea the space to sort through her unspoken yet palpable pain. 

    “I think I might have,” Thean said, sparking his sister to glance at him with wide-eyed curiosity. “Back in Camelot, when I met that girl and she asked me what my name was- I saw a raven fly past the window, so I said my name was Raven. And that prisoner from the Departed Lands, he often called his son Raven as a nickname. Sounds like more than a coincidence, doesn’t it?” 

    Ava squinted her eyes in consideration. “Perhaps it was destiny, then?” 

    Thean scoffed in disagreement. “Since when has destiny ever favored our family?” If destiny had truly wished to work in their favor, then he and his siblings would never have grown up in the mines, and their mother wouldn’t have died in them.

    “I don’t know, Thean. It’s hard to think Ma would have wanted you to do this. Honestly, if she were alive, I would have thought she’d be horrified by this whole spying in Camelot plan. All she ever wanted us to do was survive.” 

    “And I want to live. Living and surviving aren’t the same thing.” He had survived for eleven years, but hadn’t truly lived until the last. 

    “No, but you can’t have the first without the second,” she countered easily enough. 

    His sister had valid points, both in logic and in her recollection of the past; their mother used to even be irked by his and Ava’s habit of sitting near the edge of their cave, fearful that they may make a wrong move and fall off the fatal precipice. Espionage wouldn’t have been something Thean could have imagined the mother he knew supporting while she was alive. “Maybe that part of her changed, when she died,” he pondered, trying to convince himself as well as his sister while he spoke. “Maybe she wants us to get revenge for her and for everyone like her.” 

    “No,” Ava said quickly. “You’re doing this to get Camelot back, not to get back at them for what happened to our mother.” When her brother was silent, she continued, “Right, Thean?” 

    “Yeah,” Thean murmured noncommittally. “Right.” He of course didn’t mean that though; getting Camelot back was the primary goal of his mission, but if he could help mete out some justice for Lea and all the other slaves dead at the hands of the handlers, he didn’t think he could pass by any such opportunity. 

    “In all of Pa’s stories, those who sought revenge met with bad ends- including Pa himself. So don’t get any ideas,” she said, bumping shoulders with her brother to emphasize her point. 

    “Whatever you say, Ava,” Thean acquiesced, flashing a grin at her. They held each other’s amused gazes for another moment, until Ava turned away with an unwelcome thought in her eyes. 

    “I’m really going to miss you,” she whispered, almost as though she didn’t quite want him to hear. 

    Thean did not give her a response; there was none adequate to quell the sorrow set in her shoulders. So, instead he sent up a silent prayer to his mother, the one who aside from Thean himself had best understood his twin sister. 

    Look after her for me, Ma, he thought up to the stars. And if she needs a sign, give her them all. 

    A rustling from behind broke his thoughts, causing him and Ava to turn to the source of noise. Clo stood uncertainly several paces away, fidgeting with his hands- a habit he had picked up from their father. Thean stared for another moment to ascertain that Eloise or Anselm weren’t behind the boy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his little brother wandering anywhere alone; he looked much smaller this way. 

    “Clo? What’s wrong?” Ava asked, concern stemming from the same line of thought. 

    “Nothing,” Clo said quickly, remaining where he stood. “I just… wanted to look at the stars, that’s all.” 

    Thean could tell there was more to his brother’s sudden appearance than just that, but to humor him, he glanced up at the stars himself. They had just started to emerge. Seeing that there wasn’t enough room on the bench for the three of them, Merlin's eldest son stood, only to lay down on his back in the dirt and sparse patches of grass. A shifting of weight told him without having to turn his head that Clo had settled down beside him. 

    “I think I’ve seen enough of the sky for one night,” Ava said, getting up to stretch before lightly stepping over the feet of the boys. “I’m going to the dining hall, see what Pa and the others are up to.”

    “Make sure there’s some almond cakes left for me!” Clo called after her, craning his neck up as she passed by. A chuckle of acknowledgement let him know she’d heard him.

    Once their sister was out of sight, they lapsed into silence, eyes turned skyward. Not knowing what else to say, Thean relied on one of their oldest games to fill the void. “Show me the archer,” he said, and without question, Clo traced the shape with one outstretched finger. “Good,” Thean murmured. “Now, the shield.” A few seconds was all it took for his brother to find the constellation. “Good,” Thean said once more, smiling though he knew his brother couldn’t see him doing such. The last one, he had taught Clo himself after he’d read about it in a book from Camelot. “You’ll know almost all of them soon.” 

    “Almost,” Clo repeated quietly. “Tell me a story, Thean.” 

    “I thought you said my stories were boring,” the older boy responded, though without spite. 

    “They are, but they have their moments.” 

    Letting out a laugh, Thean pondered what type of tale he could make to fill his brother’s ears. He was tempted by habit to conjure up a grandiose story of a battle in which good prevailed over evil, and magic above all else saved the day. But he didn’t have the heart for it that night; talks of battle had been rife throughout Nemeth’s citadel, to the extent that Thean hardly wished to mention anything to do with fighting or conflict of any sort. 

    So instead, he settled on a much simpler story, not even sure if it could be called such for how little troubles were in it. The story was of a family who were close friends with the rulers of a kingdom accepting of the practice of magic. The family was much like any other living within the citadel, with two boys and a girl. While the father spent his days providing counsel for the king, the mother doted on the children and made dresses with the daughter in her spare time. The prince and princess of the royal family often came over for dinner, bringing down an array of pastries from the castle kitchen each time. In the summer, the three children would visit their grandma and help manage her tiny farm. The youngest boy would always chase the chickens around, flapping his arms as though they, too, were wings. His brother and sister scolded him for doing so at first, but would soon succumb to laughter at the ridiculous sight. 

    Thean let the tale wind on until it seemed to tell itself, realizing only when the moon hung high in the sky that they had likely missed dinner. Surprised that his ever peckish brother had not once interrupted him, he twisted his head towards Clo. “So?” he asked. “Was that too boring?” 

    The moonlight illuminated two silvery tracks along the young boy’s cheeks. “No,” Clo whispered. “It was perfect.” 

    After almost nine years of trying, Merlin’s youngest son had finally mastered the art of crying silently. 

*****

    Green, Thean decided the next day, was his favorite color. 

    Green was what greeted him beneath a sparse covering of clouds and atop a horse, stretching behind him and back towards Nemeth, and before him and on into Camelot. He was alone, his only company stemming from the soft breaths of the horse he’d soon have to dismount and send back to its native land of Nemeth. Determined to not succumb to an overwhelming sense of smallness then, Thean wrapped himself up in memories more pleasant than the present. 

    Eloise had once posed the question of what his favorite color was not too long after he’d first arrived in Camelot. Sitting at the breakfast table then, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the royal family, Thean had been lost in thoughts of the mines and the family he had been torn away from. “I hate gray,” he’d answered. Gray was the drab color of the cave ceiling that had greeted him on mornings far too early and on nights when he was too tired to sleep. 

    “I asked what color you liked the most, not the one you disliked,” the Princess of Camelot had retorted, unbothered by the boy’s dismal admission. 

    “Why does it matter?” Thean had snapped, immediately regretting so afterwards. 

    Eloise’s frown, however, showed genuine confusion rather than offense. “Why wouldn’t it matter?” 

    Baffled and relieved by her response, Thean hadn’t answered her then, and though she would ask him the same question a few more times throughout the seasons, he’d never supply a definitive answer. “It’s not that hard, Thean!” Anselm had laughed once when he’d overheard the repeated conversation for the third time. “Just choose a color!”

    But if it had mattered to Eloise, then it mattered to Thean, and he didn’t wish to provide any answer he wasn’t certain to be true. He only regretted the place at which he realized his answer: the border of Nemeth and Camelot. If only he’d noticed before the sense of peace that the sight of emerald grass waving in the wind instilled in him, he could have told his father to relay the message to the princess so she’d at long last have an answer to a question that mattered. 

    His farewell to Nemeth and those taking refuge there had occurred in two parts: first, in the muted dawn light of the courtyard, and then again halfway through Nemeth’s forests. Thean could hardly recall the good-byes of the morning, having been half-asleep and fully in denial about the gravity of the event. Arthur’s and Merlin’s families had both been gathered, Eloise still in her nightclothes and crying softly. “You tell my mum I love her, okay?” Camelot’s princess had demanded. “Give her the biggest hug from me.” Thean could only nod as she clung to him, his throat tight from emotion. 

    Thean had slowly made his way down the short line of well-wishers, the entire affair very different from all the farewells he had seen in Camelot. No fanfare lay there, no trumpets or maidens waving handkerchiefs and grinning all the while. Thean had noticed, however, a few curious knights and counselors peeking subtly from behind the curtains of their windows. The silence of his departure was meant to protect the covert goal of his mission- if he was to spy on those occupying Camelot, he could not attract the attention of any potential spies in Nemeth. As such, not even the Queen of Nemeth herself came out to wish him well that morning. 

    The good-bye that stood out most clearly in Thean’s mind upon reflection was what he’d said to Clo, who’d been at the very end of the line. “I should be going with you,” Clo murmured, sniffling and kicking at a scattering of pebbles. “You get stupid when you’re on your own.” 

    Thean chuckled softly. “You have to stay here and look after Ava and Pa.” 

    Such a comment only heightened the furrow in the younger boy’s brows. “They don’t really need me to.” 

    “No, you’re probably right,” Thean had admitted. “So let them look after you, okay?” With his departure, their family would be smaller once again. As had been the case in Camelot, Clo was apt to explore every corner of his world, with or without his family. But with Thean gone, Merlin and Ava might need to rely on the boy’s resilient nature more than ever before. 

    Sensing this, Clo’s eyes had widened slightly, and he accepted his brother’s request without further complaint. 

    Due to their need for secrecy, only Merlin and two knights- one from Nemeth, and one from Camelot- had been allowed to accompany Thean. Even then, their shared journey was not to extend completely to the border, lest they be spotted by enemy patrols. One boy was far less suspicious than three grown men. They traveled on horseback silently, with Merlin constantly scanning their surroundings using both his magical and mundane vision. Every twig snap and rustling of birds in the branches above caused Thean to jump slightly. There was nothing innately disturbing within the forest, other than the potential of those who might lurk nearby. 

    The sun was nearing its noontime height when the Nemethian knight raised his hand, signaling for their group to halt and for Thean to make his way alone thenceforth. He and Merlin disembarked their horses to say good-bye. Unable initially to summon words to do their farewell justice, Merlin scooped the boy up in his arms, lifting him partially off the ground as he used to do when Thean was much smaller. “Pa,” he’d sighed, voice muffled by the fabric of his father’s old, red tunic. Merlin reluctantly set him back on the ground, two hands still on his shoulders, bending down slightly to be eye-level with him. “Don’t worry, Pa,” Thean mustered, though he knew any effort at comfort to be futile. “I’ll be brave.” 

    “No,” Merlin said, a cold look entering his eyes as he gazed at the path that lay ahead of his son. “Be timid; be afraid. Make them think you’re harmless. That’s the only way you’ll get through this.” 

    Thean nodded, absorbing his father’s words. “That’s how you survived all those years in Camelot, right, Pa?” 

    “Yeah,” Merlin said softly, surprised by Thean’s deduction. There was a cruel irony in the parallels between his past situation and his son’s present one. 

    Thean had allowed himself the time to watch the horizon until their three figures had disappeared, his eyes lingering longest on where his father had been. His journey continued on horseback for a few hours more, meadows and open rolling hills shifting quickly into forest. He only stopped when he saw sleeping figures ahead, enrobed in familiar shades of red. Dismounting his temporary horse and creeping forward on foot, he was engulfed without warning by the same overwhelming smell he had encountered when finding his mother on the slopes of Medora. 

    Stumbling to a halt and leaning heavily against a tree for support, Thean retched. 

    When he’d recovered physically, albeit not emotionally, he recited a series of clicking noises to let the horse know they could depart back to Nemeth. This time, he did not wait to watch its shadow disappear, instead hastily making his way as far as possible from the ‘sleeping’ figures as he could. As the sun rose even higher in the sky, he began to sweat, quickly finishing the majority of the water from the leather flask he’d been given. He forced himself to eat an apple. It tasted like soot. 

    He darted his way through trees that were beginning to all look the same. As he backtracked several times in the process, Thean longed repeatedly to have the Blade of Osgath back within his hands. He’d left the weapon/navigator with his father, fearing that having a magical dagger in his possession might make him look a tad suspicious should he be stopped en route to the citadel. Arthur had briefed him before his departure on the easiest trails to follow to the smallest of gates, but warned him in the process to not walk the paths directly, for the invaders had likely found them as well. Thus, Thean had to rely primarily on his quite limited knowledge of Camelot’s forest, wracking his brain for memories of the few times he’d exited and entered the citadel. 

    Every noise of unexplained origin left Thean feeling more shaky than before. Merlin had told his children of countless tales in which he’d entered enemy territory, sometimes even alone, but he’d never fully conveyed to Thean just how terrifying each experience must have been. The young boy had to constantly fight the instinct to turn back and run for Nemeth. At the height of his fear, Thean scrambled for some explanation he could give as to why he could not complete the mission he’d accepted so readily back in the council chambers. 

    His most frightening self-perpetuated false alarm came when a flock of birds began to call out rapidly above. They were fairly ugly, but tired of seeing trees, Thean craned his head and took a few timid steps closer to the branches they inhabited. The birds flew off immediately, squawking mockingly at the flightless boy.

     “Lucky bastards,” Thean muttered to himself, feeling a twinge of guilt; he could almost hear his mother scolding him for such crude language. 

     At least the birds weren’t driven out, he thought dismally, trudging onward. 

    The birds, however, soon made their existence less known as clouds began to hide the sun from sight. Rain sprinted from the sky, obscuring Thean from getting a clear view of the castle ahead as he crested one of the highest hilltops. The lack of vision was for the best, however; he may not be able to see well, but that meant others would not be able to see him, either. 

    The unnatural craters surrounding the perimeter of the city had been filled in- partially. Dirt shifted about by wind and rain revealed that the invaders of the citadel had taken some time to bury those who had previously occupied Camelot and not escaped with their lives. As Thean quickened his pace past each crater, he wondered if they had been left incompletely covered as a warning sign to those like himself who were foolish enough to try and reenter the city. 

    In the end, the path he chose to follow was the same which the blade had led him out of the city on the night of the invasion - through a dilapidated door along the city’s outer walls and into Hovel Corner. He told himself that he chose that way because it was likely to be devoid of life due to its poorly constructed buildings bereft of any wealth, but in truth, he trusted the blade’s past intuition more than his own present instincts. As the rain started to lighten up slightly, Thean took more care to always be near a structure he could dart behind- a bush here, a husk of a fireplace there. 

    Only once did he truly have to take cover, heart threatening to ricochet from his chest as he did so. He heard their voices before he saw them, speaking at unabashed levels of sound that might have made Thean assumed they’d always walked these streets if he hadn’t known better. Peering from the shattered window of a small hut, Thean watched with terrified fascination as the group made their way down the street, striding casually and confidently with no weapons at their sides. They were nearly men, but the stubble on their chins clarified that none could be more than six years older than the boy who watched them from afar. Their clothes were of various shades, some vibrant, others dark. There was a sameness to the fashion, however, despite the differing colors. Through the rain, he could not hear their exact words, but picked up on the lighthearted nature of their conversation, as quite a few of them periodically burst into raucous laughter. 

    As their figures disappeared farther down the path Thean had come from, he toyed with the idea of following them to analyze their goals, but decided against doing so. He had to solidify his existence within the castle before exploring what remained of the rest of the citadel. It was thus with immense relief that as the darkening clouds signified the setting of the sun, he reached that tight space between the castle’s outer walls and the citadel walls, latching onto the dilapidated door he had stumbled through a week ago much like a drowning man might cling to a piece of driftwood. The darkness within the abandoned servant’s hallways felt like a hug from an old friend compared to the approaching darkness outside that had threatened to swallow him whole. 

    He had to backtrack several times to once again find that same path which had led him from his room to the outside of the castle, but felt little panic while doing so. Here, in the tunnels that had provided him, his siblings, and friends with countless hours of exploration and adventure, he was in his element. It was only at the servant’s entrance to his own room that he truly felt dread creep back around him. Before entering, Thean shakily changed into a spare set of dry clothes, stuffing the rainy ones back into his satchel to hide any evidence of him having recently left the castle. 

    He opened the door just an inch, scanning through the crack of light for any unknown soul. Seeing none, he stepped into the room. 

    On the surface, nothing in the bedroom looked entirely different. Thean somehow found that all the more unsettling, because the room still felt different. Where were Clo’s smudged fingerprints on the window, or the ribbons Eloise would periodically leave for Ava on their nightstand? 

    Where were signs of the life Thean had begun to love? 

    Half-collapsing onto the edge of the bed, the shaking boy turned onto his side. His stomach suddenly felt as though it had been ripped from his body and stitched back in upside down. For the second time that day, Thean felt bile rise in his throat and began to heave as a result. 

    Just as he did so, the door to his room opened and shut in quick succession, and before he had time to feel frightened, a bucket was shoved in front of his face. He latched on to it immediately, staring only at the bottom of the wooden safety net for several moments more. 

    When Thean felt well enough to lift his head once more, he turned first to the person who had saved him from spilling the contents of his stomach onto the floor. She sat to his left, foot tapping against the end of the bed as though she were timing his being sick. She wore a simple, dark green dress with a laced white smock characteristic of a servant, over which dirty blonde and excessively curly hair drifted just past her shoulders. From her height and the confident way she held herself, he guessed her to be a few years older than himself. 

    “Uh… thanks for this,” Thean said hoarsely, lifting the bucket.

    “Don’t mention it,” the girl said easily, taking the bucket from his hands despite its foul contents. “I was mostly doing myself the favor; didn’t really want to clean it up in the morning.” She squinted at him more closely in the dimly lit room, spurring Thean’s heart to thump faster. “Who are you?”

    “Raven.” He supplied the answer quickly and without hesitation, having repeated the name in his head countless times en route to the citadel- that name, the names of his “parents,” and the location of his faux village would be his lifeline here. 

    The girl tilted her head curiously. “You’re not that Raven, are you? The one Robin’s been looking for?”

    Thean felt his cheeks heat up slightly. The fact that Robin was well known even among the servants, and had cared enough to search for him despite their brief encounter, made him feel distinctly vulnerable. “I guess I am,” he admitted.

    “Huh!” The servant leaned back to get a better look at Thean. “I thought she might have just made you up! Where’ve you been all this time?”

    “Well… here. Being sick, as you can see.” He gestured sheepishly to the bucket in her hands.

    “Yeah, I did see,” she said grimly, frowning down at the bucket before turning back to him. “Do you feel well enough to walk? I can take you to see the Healer.” 

    Thean nodded at the offer; though he was exhausted and shaking from his recent nausea and unabating anxiety, he figured this might be a good chance to better acquaint himself with the workings of the castle, of which the architecture was familiar, but the people were not. 

    “C’mon then, he’s not too far.” She rose from the bed quickly, glancing at him over her shoulder to add, “I’m Gemma, by the way.” 

    As they passed into the halls, Thean noticed a sharp lack of any former decoration. Paintings had not been common in the castle, but their absence made their previous presence all the more undeniable; large, empty rectangles along the walls etched with defined lines of dirt and dust symbolized where the paintings had once hung. The castle felt more hollow without them. Perhaps an absence of artwork made it easier for the current occupants to forget anyone else had dwelt there just a week ago.

    When they walked down one of Thean’s favorite corridors, the one with arches open to the courtyard, he realized where the paintings had found a new home. A towering, smoldering pile of ash lay in the middle of the cobblestones. Blackened books were thrown carelessly about, with the edges of pages curled in on themselves, many of which the Queen had once read to Thean, and then he to his own siblings. The bare-bones frames of the paintings lay strewn about, the art that had once occupied them turned to little more than soot desaturated of all color. 

    Noticing Thean’s sorrowful expression at the sight of the bonfire, Gemma said, “Don’t worry; there’ll be another bonfire tomorrow night. They’re constantly finding more books.”

    “Great,” Thean murmured. He hoped Gemma attributed his hoarse voice then as merely a symptom of his lingering illness. 

    After walking past several more closed doors guarding silent rooms, they came upon one room with a door half-open. Through it, the sounds of mingled snoring and moaning reached Thean’s ears. A few beds showed bandaged men and women, most snoozing, but some writhing in pain. These people, Thean realized, must be those from the Departed Lands who had been injured in the attack on Camelot. There were surprisingly few of them- the room was large, but could not hold more than thirty beds at most. When Thean compared the number of people here to all the corpses occupying the covered craters outside the citadel, his stomach twisted with dread. 

    A teenage boy, eyes drooping from tiredness, leaned back in a chair positioned near the door. Catching sight of Gemma and Thean, he said curtly, “Next door.” Gemma nodded wordlessly, leading Thean to precisely that location. 

    They were in a wing of the castle completely opposite from the room which Helena and Rupert had used, as well as Gaius and Merlin before them. The room of the Departed Lands healer had once functioned as a spare guest bedroom, but now had the typical bedroom furniture pushed to the side to make room for a few tables sparsely populated with potions- none of which Thean recognized. He wondered numbly if the healing contents of Camelot’s physician chambers had been burned, too. 

    In the open doorway stood a man with graying hair tousled from recent slumber. Despite his evident grogginess, he gave the two children a lopsided smile. “Ah, Gemma. Good evening- or perhaps I should say, good night?” Laughing at his own joke, he turned his attention to the as yet unnamed boy. “Who’s your friend here?”

    “This is Raven- the boy Robin’s been talking about.”

    The man’s eyes widened. “Her imaginary friend?”

    Thean smiled slightly; for this being the first man from the Departed Lands he was meeting aside from handlers, he didn’t seem too unfriendly. 

    “He’s quite real, as you can see- and sick, too,” Gemma said, holding up the bucket directly to the man’s face.

    The healer held up his hands and grimaced. “Alright, alright- I can see that, and ugh, smell that. Come in, let’s have a look at you.” As if on cue, Gemma walked over to a nearby basin, presumably to wash out the bucket. As Thean sat down on a low observation table, the man added, “I’m Roo. Pleasure to finally meet you, Raven.”

    “Roo?” Thean repeated, surprised by the odd name. He bit his tongue a second later; all names were going to sound foreign to him here, but he couldn’t afford to show that. 

    Roo, however, seemed unperturbed. “Short for Rooster. It’s what I get for having red hair, though you can’t tell now.” 

    Once Thean was comfortably positioned on the table, the man placed a hand on his forehead, to which the boy flinched away instinctively. 

    “Sorry,” Thean mumbled; during his time in Camelot, he’d gotten less skittish as he’d begun to trust that most people there weren’t planning to hurt him. Being among those from the Departed Lands, however, was causing him to lapse back into old habits. 

    Roo only nodded and placed his hand back on Thean’s forehead once more. “You don’t seem to have a fever,” he murmured after a moment. “Are you still feeling nauseous?”

    “Not as much,” he answered truthfully. “I think I got the last of it out of my system.”

    “Good, good. I take it from your presumed imaginary existence, you haven’t been to classes yet?”

    Having learned from his recent mistake, Thean was in this instance able to maintain a neutral expression at the question, instead only nodding his head in response. Arthur had warned him that, from what he’d gleaned from the prisoner in Nemeth, Thean would likely have to attend some form of training or education once he was among the invaders. 

    “If you’re still feeling better tomorrow, you should start attending. Kerek isn’t too forgiving with absences.” Again, Thean only nodded, and in the ensuing silence he built up hope that he’d be excused to recede to the quiet of his room. As his luck would have it, of course, Roo began to speak again. “Say, where are you from, Raven?”

    “Strethry- just outside of it, really.”

    Unfortunately, Roo seemed to be awakened with interest at his answer. “I passed through there, a long time ago. I think I remember a young family on the outskirts… is your father-”

    “Farlan.” 

    “Yes, that was it,” Roo murmured, a smile coming to his face. “Good man. Your parents gave me shelter when a storm came. You were just a wee lad then, but wasn’t your name-”

    “Rainier, yeah,” Thean supplied, kicking his feet back and forth from where he sat to feign a casual posture. “But my mother liked to call me Raven, for my hair.” 

    “How are your folks?” 

    Thean stopped the kicking of his feet. He stilled, as he believed the real Rainier would at the question had he survived. “They’re gone,” he said dully. “They died.” Though that was only half true for Thean’s real identity, he spoke with projected sorrow; he felt a strange sense of connection to the real Rainier and his mother, and even Farlan, who had committed crimes which Thean had been on the receiving end of all too often. Whatever the family had done, and whatever they might have done had they lived unhindered by sudden illness, they were still victims of the turmoil of the Departed Lands that Thean only knew the surface of. All that he’d been told of his fake family and identity had been through King Arthur. Though the King had tried to hide it from him then, he could tell that Arthur, too, held some sympathy for the plight of that family.

    Roo’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the answer, and behind him, Gemma paused in her determined cleaning of the bucket. She resumed again after only a moment, the swishing of cloth in water the only sound in the room for several beats. 

    “Sorry to hear that. Truly,” Roo said solemnly. A long pause followed as the man frowned at the boy; Thean could tell he was seeing the memory of a much smaller boy in his place. Roo eventually twisted around towards another table to retrieve a piece of parchment with a blue insignia in the middle, handing it to Thean. “Here, bring this to the dining hall tomorrow. You’ll be able to get extra food for a week to build up your strength again.”

    Thean gave the slightest of smiles. “Thanks, Roo.” He felt a tad guilty for accepting the gift as a result of a faked illness, but had been hungry for too much of his life to turn down any offer of increased sustenance. 

    The healer didn’t smile back, but his eyes maintained a kind emotion. “Get some rest now, Raven- you too, Gemma.”

    The two children departed in silence, wordlessly maneuvering through the halls with Gemma at the lead. Thean has to fight the instinct to tell her he can get back on his own; she must have been assuming quite sensibly that he didn’t not know the castle well after having spent most of it being sick in his room.

    At the door to Thean/Raven’s room, Gemma turned to face him, the now clean bucket still clutched between her hands. “I’ll come check on you in the morning, okay?”

    “You don’t have to,” Thean murmured. She’d already stayed up late to help him. 

    “I do, actually- it’s my job to wake up the youngest children for classes,” Gemma explained, taking a deep breath at the thought of her busy mornings. Mustering a smile, she continued, “Besides, I want to. Not every day I get to meet Robin’s imaginary friend.” 

    Thean breathed out a soft laugh, turning to watch as she walked back down the hall, dark blonde curls swaying with each step. He found an odd sense of peace had settled over him after meeting her and Roo. He had feared all except Robin within Camelot would be similar to the handlers he had known in his lifetime- brutish and relentlessly cruel. At least now, he knew of three people from the Departed Lands (in addition to his mother) who embodied the humanity he knew could exist. 

    As he leaned into his bed for the first time in a week, keenly sensing how big it was with empty spaces beside him, he fell asleep fast. Tomorrow would be the start of his rush to learn as much about the invaders as possible, and of learning if they were as cruel as the handlers he’d known, in addition to his goal of contacting the Camelot survivors dwelling just beneath the castle. 

    But that night, he was lulled to sleep by the memory of the words he’d exchanged with those he once thought of exclusively as monsters, yet had now seen glimpses of kindness peak through.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    Sunlight spilled into the dining hall of Nemeth, bringing warmth to the tables with it. Through the clanging of plates being whisked to and fro by the servants, Arthur could hear his son’s voice ringing out. He turned his head to the sound in surprise, having seen his son at breakfast earlier that day. The prince looked as though he hadn’t moved from his spot on the bench since then. 

    “And those- what are they?” Anselm was sat across from Merlin, a large tome spread between them. From its yellowing pages and faint illustrations, the book was likely one that Rinette had donated to the castle’s library once the ban on magic had been lifted. Arthur had heard her eagerly explaining the details of her treasured tomes to Ava the other day. 

    “Those are spirits known as Vilia,” Merlin explained patiently, a fond smile on his face. “They’re found in brooks and streams.”

    Anselm’s face contorted in concentration. “My dad told me about something like that, though he couldn’t remember their name. Weren’t they what saved you from the Dorocha?” When Merlin nodded, the prince pressed, “But I’ve been near loads of streams. How come I’ve never seen them?”

    “Well, thankfully for you, you were never foolish enough to launch yourself at a creature known to cause certain death.” At this, Arthur snorted in laughter, alerting Anselm and Merlin to his presence. The manservant smirked at the King knowingly before continuing in his patient explanation. “Most spirits are shy, and at times suspicious of us humans; they’ll only help those in dire need, if even then.”

    “Hmm.” And just like that, Anselm was flipping the pages haphazardly, already clinging to another thought. When he found what it was that he sought, he beckoned Arthur over with emphatic waves of his hand. Once the King was close enough, the object of his son’s captivation became apparent: there on the page lay a gruesome picture of a creature with scales like a lizard but the physique of a boar- yet, when drawn to scale next to an etching of a tree, was thrice the height of its less magical brethren. “Dad, how come you never told me about the megaoptataprum?” 

    “The what?” Arthur had already torn his eyes away from the picture with little remorse. 

    Anselm tapped one finger in quick succession on the page. “The this ! Merlin says they’re probably extinct now-”

    “Thank goodness,” Arthur interjected. 

    “But still, they’re pretty awesome, aren’t they?” 

    Dubiously staring down at the illustration once more, Arthur concluded, “They’re something- nightmarish, is the word I would use.” 

    Anselm’s enthusiasm dissipated, replaced with a frown. “What are you doing here, Dad?”

    “Grabbing lunch, of course.”

    The boy’s head swiveled side to side in confusion as he took notice of the gathering of servants and other hungry souls straggling into the dining hall. “But… we just had breakfast!” he protested. 

    “Yes, we did- four hours ago, Anselm,” Merlin said, an amused smile on his face.  

    “Oh.”

    To wipe the perturbed expression off his son’s face, as well as to give himself a chance to grab those delectable rolls that had just been set on the table before someone else did, Arthur said, “Why don’t you go fetch your sister? If she’s found a book half as interesting as this one, she might miss lunch.” 

    Anselm nodded, still looking a bit dazed as he left the dining hall. As Arthur greedily heeped helpings onto his plate, Merlin picked slowly but surely at a bowl of raspberries. It was the same mannerism many liberated slaves showed of eating smaller portions more often rather than the standard three meals each day, for their stomachs had shrunk from years of malnourishment. Arthur tried to view this as a sign of a beginning to a return to normalcy for his friend, rather than as a reminder of all that may never be quite normal again for him. 

    “He’s a quick study, y’know,” Merlin murmured thoughtfully, interrupting the King’s inner monologue. 

    “Anselm ? A quick study?” Arthur had been told by the more honest of his son’s tutors that the boy was apt to daydream rather than focus on any of the lessons he was tasked with. Such revelations made the King grateful that the prince could at least keep his head on his shoulders on the training grounds. 

    “Compared to you? Definitely,” Merlin said in between bites of food. “What he lacks in attention span, he makes up for with curiosity. I’m surprised he doesn’t…” His voice trailed off, hands gesturing vaguely with a hesitant look on his features. 

    “Doesn’t what? Spit it out,” Arthur pressed, more curious than nervous to hear the answer.

    “Doesn’t know more about the Old Religion, given all the changes in Camelot.” 

    “Ah.” There was the source of the hesitancy Merlin had rarely displayed before when criticizing the King. When angered, his servant was quick to call him out on his faults- but it was rare for Merlin to be disappointed with Arthur, hence his discomfort with even suggesting such an opinion. “I wasn’t exactly an expert on the topic myself,” he explained candidly, feeling no ill will for the topic they were discussing. Merlin had been away for over a decade, and considering that, Arthur was surprised it had taken him this long to question the full extent of how much sorcery was now a part of Camelot and the royal family’s reality. “We had tutors teach Anselm and Eloise all that they knew on the Old Religion- which, admittedly, might not have been much at the time. Even with the ban on magic lifted, it took a while for all sorcerers to come out of hiding. While I’m sure the lessons my children received were incomparable to what the great Emrys might have-”

    “You know I hate that name,” Merlin groaned, closing his eyes in palpable embarrassment.

    Grinning when he’d seen his taunt had hit the mark, Arthur continued, “Besides, we realized quickly neither had any innate magic in them. What with my… unusual origins, we thought there was a chance Anselm or Eloise might have some natural talents, so they were both tested at age 5- but they had as much magic in them as a sack of potatoes.”

    “So they didn’t have natural talent, then,” Merlin conceded. “But you didn’t ever try to teach them some magic?”

    “For a time, yes,” Arthur said, chuckling already at the memory. “Anselm’s tutor quit after a month- claimed he was unteachable. As for Eloise, after failing to levitate a teacup after an hour, she threw it across the room.” 

    “And you gave up trying after that?” His manservant clicked his tongue and shook his head in exaggerated disapproval. “You could’ve gotten her another teacup.” 

    “We did. She smashed that one too.”

    Merlin laughed wholeheartedly, spurring Arthur to do the same. They had to take a minute to catch their breath thereafter, swigging their mugs of water until their laughter subsided. It was then Merlin said, “We realized Thean and Ava had magic on the same day.” 

    Arthur paused in taking a sip of his beverage, interest piqued. That was a tale the twins themselves had failed to ever mention to the King. “I was in a different tunnel at the time, but Lea was with them,” Merlin continued. “Clo was just a baby, so she was slower than usual with him on her back. The twins couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time- old enough to help her pick up pebbles here and there, but not much else. A handler noticed there wasn’t much ore in their bucket, so he went over to… well, to hit Lea- as if that would encourage her. But before he reached them, Lea said Ava’s eyes flashed gold, and the handler was suddenly on the other end of that tunnel. When he finally recovered enough to approach them again, he was struck back a second time- by Thean’s magic.” A proud smile that had just been setting up camp on Merlin’s face faded away. “They received magic blocking runes soon after that. For a week, they were so sick they could hardly stomach any food. ” 

    Arthur let silence lapse between them. He’d smiled with Merlin during the better part of that story, and frowned with him now. “Have you heard from Thean yet?” 

    The sorcerer shook his head wearily. Only a day had passed since Thean’s departure, but already the suspense of knowing how he fared hung heavy in the halls. “You would’ve been the first to know if I had,” Merlin sighed. 

    “He’s probably just lying low for now.” Hopefully not the six feet under kind of lying low.  

    “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Merlin said, though in a clearly unconvinced tone. “He was good at that, back in the mines.”

    Whereas initially Merlin had retaliated with anger and denial against the proposal of Thean being sent to spy in Camelot, now that the plan had been irrevocably set into motion, the man seemed to have settled into some form of acceptance- though Arthur couldn’t tell whether or not that was a facade Merlin had constructed so as to not cause further unrest in a castle already brimming with anxiety. 

    Not wanting to dwell then on such uncertainty, Arthur forced himself to speak. “And what of Clo?” he asked, clearing his throat. “How did he first show he had magic?” Clo had used magic so regularly since arriving in Camelot that it was hard to imagine a time when his talents had been unknown. 

    Merlin looked faintly surprised by Arthur’s sudden question, but said nothing of it, answering, “They gave Clo magic blocking runes too when Thean and Ava’s magic was revealed, as a precautionary measure. But just a few years later, when the summer berries were brought in from the forest, he kept pestering us to have more than his fair share of the fruit. So when we told him no- his least favorite word at the time- he used magic to steal some berries from Thean’s hand, but they flew so fast that they spattered all over his face.”

    Arthur grinned at the tale, but one point of curiosity remained. “When I first met him, Thean told me they could only use magic with the runes on if they were in danger.”

    Merlin shrugged. “At the time, Clo was acting as though it were a matter of life and death. He really wanted those berries.” 

    “They’re serving berries today?” Clo entered the dining hall then, his sister and Arthur’s children just behind him. 

    “‘Fraid your father ate most of them- perhaps you’d prefer some peas?” Arthur joked. He was uneased slightly by the sight of Merlin’s youngest son after the boy’s harsh words the prior evening, half-expecting to either be bestowed a brooding silence or a tantrum. Clo, however, provided neither, only sticking his tongue out exaggeratedly in response and reaching for a husk of bread as he sat beside his father. 

    Eloise remained standing for a moment, bouncing on her feet as she often did when she wanted attention. “Look, everyone! I did Ava’s hair for her!”

    Clearly something had indeed been done to Ava’s hair, though had his daughter not claimed credit, Arthur would have assumed the girl had fallen into a bush just before entering the dining hall. “Is it supposed to look like a bird’s nest?” Anselm asked with a frown, his thoughts mirroring his father’s. 

    The princess promptly punched her brother in the arm, crying loudly enough for others in the room to hear, “It’s not my fault they have the most awful brushes here!” At that remark, a passing servant glared at the girl behind her back. 

    “Eloise,” Arthur said in a warning tone, meeting her pout with a stern gaze. Sighing, the girl glumly went to sit beside him, pulling at her own roughly clipped edges of hair to vent her frustration- a habit she had picked up increasingly since arriving in Nemeth. Perhaps as a show of solidarity, Ava took a seat beside Eloise. Anselm sat on Merlin’s other side, glancing at the book that had so captivated him since that morning even as he reached for a bowl of carrots. 

    Ever the comforting presence, Clo whispered to his sister across the table in a not so subtle voice, “Don’t listen to Anselm. I think your hair looks more like a squirrel’s nest than a bird’s.”

    “Thanks, Clo,” Ava said blandly with scarcely veiled annoyance.  

    Their lunch carried on fairly peacefully, save for intermittent sneezing from Arthur’s daughter. He’d woken to the sound of her malaise their first full day in Nemeth, and had promptly taken her to Rinette soon after that. The healer had informed the king and princess that it was a simple case of blooming sickness; apparently, though Eloise admired the beauty of the unique foliage surrounding the castle, her nose found them less than acceptable.  

    As Clo began to cough suddenly at their lunch as well, Arthur suspected he, too, had a case of the benign illness that plagued his daughter- that is, until he spotted a gold flash in the boy’s eyes during his third cough, and again on the umpteenth one. A spell to stop coughing ? He pondered. Had it not been for their conversation the night before, he might have called the boy out on the act. 

    Only when Clo picked up his wooden spoon (which was presumably not supposed to bend as easily as it was then) and began launching peas through the loops of Ava’s hair did Arthur realize the purpose of the boy’s use of magic despite being explicitly told not to while in Nemeth. When yet another volley of peas successfully journeyed through her ‘nest’ of a hairdo, Ava cast her little brother a deadly stare and turned silently to their father. 

    “Now, Clo, stop it,” Merlin said dutifully. “Who taught you that?” 

    “Er, you did, Pa.”

    Glancing at something just behind Arthur, Merlin made a motion for silence, though he subsequently whispered to his son, “You’re supposed to aim for the knights, not your sister.” 

    The whole dining hall seemed to have quieted, and for a bizarre second Arthur believed that perhaps all occupants there had heeded Merlin’s call for silence. When he turned where he sat, however, he was met with the source of the change in atmosphere- Queen Mithian herself, staring down with a perturbed expression at the peas that littered the floor nearest to her. 

    “Lovely food today, Queen Mithian!” Clo called, waving his unnaturally bent spoon in her direction without trepidation. 

    “Good enough for mischievous boys?” she replied with ease, approaching their table but remaining standing. 

    “Yeah, definitely!” Clo said, laughing a little too loudly to sound genuine. “I bet Thean would’ve loved it, too.” 

    A beat of silence passed. Mithian pursed her lips, focusing her gaze on Camelot’s royal family. Clearly, Arthur was not the only ruler who somehow found the words of an almost-nine-year old boy unnerving. 

    “Prince Anselm,” she said. “My daughter would like to see you in her chambers.”

    “What?” Anselm said- then, recovering his amateur royal demeanor, corrected himself, “I mean, yes, of course.” 

    “Did Princess Nietta want to see me, too?” Eloise asked innocently, hazel eyes wide at the prospect. Though she’d been in Nemeth for several days, she had yet to lay her eyes on Mithian’s daughter. Eloise had rarely gotten to meet other princesses throughout her young life- and often they had been adults or mere babes, neither of which she enjoyed talking to as much as those closer to her own age. 

    “Not at the moment. If she does, I’ll be sure to let you know,” Mithian said warmly. “Anselm- whenever you’re ready, the guards know to let you in.” She left the hall quickly, most likely to visit Nietta again herself, leaving Arthur to watch over a befuddled prince and disappointed princess as they finished their meals. 

    Once their plates were cleaned, Ava left to aid Rinette in her medical duties, while Merlin agreed at the behest of Eloise and Clo to take them back to their room and tell them some stories of his and Arthur’s past adventures, and perhaps help them leaf through the book Camelot’s prince had been captivated by. Just before departing with Anselm to head for Princess Nietta’s chambers, which lay at the opposite side of the castle, Arthur pulled Merlin aside. “Don’t tell Elly about that megaop- whatever that thing was,” he said sternly. “I don’t want her to have nightmares.”

    “I think you’re more scared of it than she would be,” Merlin murmured thoughtfully, then raised his hands in surrender at the King’s frustrated gaze. “But alright, whatever you say, Sire.” 

    Anselm watched the others depart woefully, wishing desperately that he’d spot a short, dark-haired boy among them. Finding none, he spoke the thoughts pulsing aloud to his father, who, until a year ago, had been one of the few people he’d confide in. “Why would she want to see me?” he wondered as they walked. “We hardly know each other.”

    “Maybe that’s exactly why,” Arthur pondered. “Nietta might want to know what sort of life she could have had. You would have been a big part of hers.” 

    Anselm stared at his boots; they’d not been shined in days. “What am I supposed to say to her? I’m just… me.”

    “And that’s all you have to be,” Arthur said earnestly, turning the corner to where the Nemethian princess’ room stood at the end of the hall. Two foreboding and decorated guards stood there, hardly even glancing at the king and prince of a foreign land. Placing two hands on Anselm’s shoulders, he bent down slightly to reach him at eye-level, reflecting on how he once had to kneel completely to do so. “Just be there with her- that’ll be enough,” he told him gently. Arthur saw his own sense of ineptitude in his son’s eyes, and hoped the cause of that had been heredity and chance, rather than his own doing. When it was clear Anselm’s worry had not abated, he murmured, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

    “No. I should do this on my own.” Anselm took a deep breath as if he were preparing for a long and hard practice on the training grounds. If only, Arthur thought wearily. 

    But despite his resolute stance, the prince turned back towards his father after only a few steps in the direction of his destination. He looked so very lost in that moment that Camelot’s King had to fight the urge to reach out for him again. 

    “Dad, there weren’t just pictures of monsters in that book on the Old Religion,” Anselm said. “There were some of gods as well. Merlin says they’re real, too- that they’re always… with us, in a way.”

     Arthur couldn’t help but look surprised at the source of his son’s sudden shift in focus. He had never instilled a strong sense of any particular religion in his children; he believed their focus should lie primarily in the current life. Though he had concluded that some afterlife must exist, as he’d met his father through a bridge between the two worlds once, he felt a sense of morality should stem from a belief in the good of humanity, not the will of some gods who, as far as he understood, seldom intervened in the fate of this world directly. 

    “And what do you think of that, Anselm?” he asked then, more from curiosity than anything else. Arthur wasn’t against his children finding some sort of faith on their own, so long as they remained open to the acceptance of all within Camelot. 

    “I think he’s wrong,” Anselm said, turning back to the door. “If any gods do exist, then they surely have abandoned us.” He didn’t stop to see his father’s face fall, or catch the way that even the guards seemed to stiffen further at his words. 

    As the door closed behind the boy, Arthur saw him reaching for the girl’s hands to hold them in his own for the first time, so that he may hold on to the memory should it prove to be the last time. 

*****

    Ava had gone to Rinette’s chambers to aid in organizing potions for the rest of the day’s rounds, but found herself instead rooted to the chair in front of the mirror there as the healer bustled around behind her. Having been informed that they were to visit Princess Nietta herself shortly, the messy hair on Ava’s head felt even heavier than it had in the dining hall. 

    She’d never been one to fret on her appearance for the sheer fact that she hadn’t had the option to for much of her life. The first time she had come across a mirror  had been in Nemeth before being reunited with Thean. Whilst visiting the marketplace on one of her and Clo’s rare outings with Halberg, they’d come across a merchant selling mirrors big and small, and Ava had gawked at herself. Staring back at her from many angles was the repeated image of a girl with bony knees beneath her dress, scabbed hands, and dark, scraggly hair atop a face made pale from long stretches of time in darkness instead of sunlight. The only part of her reflection that she recognized were her eyes, a soft shade of brown just like her mother’s. It was partially for that reason that, once she and her brothers were in Camelot, she brought up the proposal of getting a mirror for their shared room with the pretense of it enabling them to better prepare themselves in the morning. 

    Neither of her brothers had been very receptive to the idea then. “Why would I want to see myself in the morning?” Thean had asked. “That’s when I look the worst.” Too flustered by such backwards logic to argue, Ava had allowed Eloise to take over the duties of tending to her hair, a decision which had gone swimmingly until their arrival in Nemeth, where Camelot’s princess was left without familiar tools to tend to Ava’s less than cooperative mane. 

    As Merlin’s daughter pulled out the host of pins and ribbons that had been added as a last desperate attempt by Eloise to make up for her fruitless efforts, a memory of a similarly unpleasant event surfaced- one from a hot summer evening back in the mines. Her brothers and father had gone to sleep, but Lea had taken her by the hand and led her to the edge of the caves to carry out the girl’s least favorite task- the cutting of her hair. With the heat at its worst, Ava’s locks only served to soak up damp sweat from her neck, encouraging further dirt to collect there. Seeing her daughter suffering in silent detestment of the seasonal affair, Lea had sharpened a few rocks earlier that day. 

    Ava had bitten down on her tongue as her mother pulled down strip after strip of hair, dropping each clump off the cliff face. “Almost done, my sweet,” Lea had whispered as she felt a shudder travel down her daughter’s spine. 

    “I wish it was all gone,” Ava groaned. “Go away, and never grow back. I don’t even like it, anyway.” 

    “Why on earth not?” Lea murmured, setting the cutting stones down momentarily. “I’ve always loved your hair.” 

    At this, Ava turned to face her mother with a questioning gaze. “But it’s nothing like yours. Yours is unique,” she insisted, marveling even then at how Lea’s hair seemed to shine like flickering firelight. “Mine is so… normal.” In comparison, Ava’s locks were as black as the night sky during a new moon. 

    “And that is why I love it.” Lea leaned forward, stroking back a now cut piece of hair behind Ava’s ear. “In this world, being noticed isn’t safe. So being unextraordinary, or looking ‘normal’, Ava? That’s a gift.” 

    “Oh,” was all Ava had managed then, turning from her mother so she could finish the chore. She hadn’t exactly felt comforted, but no longer flinched with each lock that fell down her back and onto the cliff faces below. Henceforth, she was never quite certain whether or not she believed what her mother had told her that night, but decided to err on the side of caution and heed the advice when possible. It would have been what Lea wanted. 

    And so, with her mother’s words ringing through her ears, Ava kept attempting to make her current hair- now much longer than it had ever been in the mines- look as unextraordinary as possible. She did not want to be a blight on the eyes of Princess Nietta, who suffered far too many internal plagues to have to see any ghastly sights before her, not even a relatively minor one such as the unkempt hair of a healer’s helping girl. 

    “Did you lose something in there?” Rinette hummed, readying the last crate of potions.

    Sighing, Ava placed the brush she’d been holding on the table beside her in defeat. “My sense of dignity.” 

    The industrious woman snorted in laughter, eliciting a reluctant smirk from Ava in return. Rinette lacked the grace of Helena, which had made it all the more easy for Merlin’s daughter to feel comfortable under her new tutelage. “It’s not that bad,” Nemeth’s main healer said, handing a crate to the girl now that her hands were unoccupied. “Stop fretting and help me carry these.”

    Ava rifled curiously through the potions and salves before her, a rainbow of colors glistening from the nearby window. Despite their beauty, she doubted their capabilities more than she once had in Camelot. “Will these really help her?”

    “They’ll lessen the pain.”

    “But they won’t cure her.” She understood the meaning behind Rinette’s lack of elaboration; it was the same Helena would use when introducing Ava to a patient with a particularly gruesome and inevitably fatal condition. Merlin’s daughter had learned that an abundance of knowledge proved a jagged path to happiness.  

    “No,” Rinette murmured, and to Ava’s surprise, she continued to speak on the matter. “No magic I know of can do that. Her illness lies deep within. I’ve seen many children with the same symptoms as her, and…” An eerie quiet fell between the woman and girl, the former of whom was lost in memories of unmoving shapes covered in blankets. “But we do what we can,” she finished in a lackluster manner, slowly picking up the other two crates and heading for the door as she beckoned Ava to follow. 

    When they entered Nietta’s chambers after a curt nod of recognition from the guards posted there, they were greeted by the sight of a girl with eyes halfway open. Despite the late afternoon hour, a nightgown peeked out from under all the blankets piled on her. She had been a slender child the few times Ava had spotted her in the castle during their last stay in Nemeth, but now she bordered on frighteningly thin. Purple laced sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing a myriad of bruises old and new. With one arm, Nietta absentmindedly stroked a dour-faced ginger cat who glared at the new occupants of the room. In contrast, the princess gave a wan smile in their direction. 

    “Hello, Princess Nietta,” Rinette said easily, having visited the princess at least once daily since she’d become bedridden two months ago. “How are you feeling today?”

    “Like a lazy daisy,” Nietta sighed, though without any outward sound of discontent. Her voice sounded raspy, and Ava, having never heard the princess speak before, wondered how much the cause lay in her illness. 

    “Let’s see those petals, then,” the healer said, gently helping Nietta to raise her arms a little, as the girl struggled to do so on her own. Rinette waved Ava to come closer to where the princess lay, deftly uncorking bottles and applying them to the girl’s skin with the gentlest presses of her own fingers. 

    Sucking in her breath slightly, Nietta looked away quickly, allowing eyes identical to her mother’s to settle on Ava. She bit her lip in a mixture of consideration and pain, toying with whether or not to speak before she at last asked, “Are you the sorcerer’s daughter? The one from Camelot?” 

    A nod.  

    “Do you have magic too?”

    “I dabble,” Ava said, shrugging and looking away. Her modesty was partially innate, but partially forced as well- her family’s precarious position in Nemeth demanded it to be such. 

    Rinette scoffed at her apprentice’s words, moving away from the princess’ arms and on to her lower legs, where even more bruises lie. “If what you do is dabbling, Ava, then I must know no magic at all.”

    Nietta’s eyes widened in intrigue. “Could you… show me something? Anything, really.” 

    Ava glanced at her mentor for guidance in answering the request. Many in the castle of Nemeth were suspicious of magic, and thus Rinette had limited Ava’s use of spells when visiting patients to when it was only absolutely necessary. Practicing magic without need in Nemeth was taboo, but even moreso was denying the wish of an ill princess. Rinette seemed to agree as well, dipping her head to Ava.    

    “As you wish.” She punctuated her acquiescence with a curtsy, stumbling slightly as she did so. When she’d first reached Camelot, she used to practice in their bedroom when alone. Due to the quick friendship she’d formed with Anselm and Eloise thereafter, she’d come to have little use for such formalities until arriving in Nemeth.  

    Looking around the room for inspiration, Ava’s eyes landed once more on the cat flicking its tail at her and Rinette’s intrusion. Smiling to herself, she whispered, “Cattus lusibus .” 

    From Ava’s fingertips, specks of flickering blue light emerged, coming together to form the shape of a small cat that bounded across the air and towards the princess. The non-magical cat at Nietta’s side startled into a standing position, and quickly began to chase the figment of light, hissing in protest. Nietta giggled quietly, even struggling into a sitting position so as to better watch the spectacle pan out. 

    Her laughter subsided when she coughed up blood. 

    Ava’s focus broke immediately, and the blue-lit cat disappeared, much to the relief of its pursuer. Rinette hurried to proffer a clean cloth to the princess- though that material, like Nietta’s nightgown, was soon spattered with blood as well. “It’ll pass,” Rinette murmured, for Nietta’s sake and for Ava’s. “It always does.” 

    Nietta only nodded, though a minute more crawled by until the healer’s assurances proved correct. Settling the exhausted princess back into her pillows, Rinette stood from the bed to scan one of the baskets nearest Ava. “Almost done, just need to give her a few potions,” she sighed. Only when her apprentice didn’t respond did she look up with concern. “Ava? What is it?” 

    Merlin’s daughter swallowed thickly. “May I… go back to the healer’s chambers?” she whispered. “Just in case anyone else needs help?” 

    Rinette saw through her fib, but only looked away. A sharp sense of shame filled Ava’s chest as the healer said solemnly, “I’ll see you there, then.” 

    Quickly, Ava curtsied in the direction of Princess Nietta, not glancing up to see if the sickly girl had any reaction to her departure. She weaved her way through those in the halls, taking in the sight of their shoes that were fast growing blurry in her gaze. Only when she slammed the healer’s door behind her (startling herself in the process) did she allow the tears to flow unrestrained down her cheeks and drip to the wooden floor below. 

    Ava pressed her back to the wall nearest the door between several stacks of crates piled high with dusty potions too specific in purpose to be frequently used. There in the shadows, with the light from all windows mostly blocked out, the world felt less big- and she, less small. 

    Life was supposed to be different once she had begun to learn healing magic. She’d assumed- quite naively now, she realized- that there would rarely be any illness she couldn’t fix with a few words and a flash of her eyes. 

    But there in Nietta’s room, with the color red tarnishing the princess’ brief moment of joy, Ava felt just as helpless as she had been in the mines, back when she’d watch parents wail over the cold bodies of their children, the threat of catching the same sudden death pressing like a thick fog against her and her brothers. 

    The tears had tugged at her eyes like she was five years old again and weeping at the sight of a maimed rabbit served for dinner. Her departure from the princess’ chambers had been to rid herself of the scene to avoid upsetting the sick girl more than she deserved. 

    When she had been alone with just Clo for the majority of the summer, panning for gold in a stream swirling with dirt and hopeful human greed, she’d been able to bite back her tears. They didn’t help her, after all, and had only served to upset her little brother. When they’d met Halberg, and later been reunited with Thean, she’d felt some self-applied pressure to appear unshakable- first for the little orphaned girls Halberg had taken in alongside her and Clo, and then later on, for her twin brother, who had suffered for seasons without any family at his side. 

    Thean was gone now again, into the great unknown of a land they’d almost called home. Clo was steadily growing up faster than anyone wished him to, and had their father now to tame him when he got too unruly. Who was there left for her to be strong for? Had she ever really been that in the first place?

    Even if Thean returned to them safely, and even if Camelot was restored to its former glory, the scene that had played out before her in Nietta’s room would not be an isolated occurrence. There would be more slow deaths to bear witness to, more people to remain stoic for so as to not increase their own grief. 

    I should just live in the woods when I grow up, she thought sullenly, putting her head between her knees to steady her breathing. The animals won’t mind my crying- or my hair. 

    “What on earth are you doing down there?”

    The healer standing before the girl was laden down with three crates, having had to pile them all on top of one another and carry them back herself. Hearing no answer uttered by Ava, Rinette twisted her mouth in thought as she set the crates down on the nearest table. 

    “Scoot over, then.” The sorceress squeezed in beside her new student; the two of them cramped amidst the shadows would certainly have been a strange sight if anyone had entered. “Nietta seemed to like that little spell you did,” Rinette murmured, testing the waters of their thus far one-sided conversation. 

    Ava laughed thickly, swallowing back phlegm. “Her throat certainly didn’t.”

    “That wasn’t your doing. Likely would have happened at some point today; we just happened to be there when it did.”

    A shake of the head, a curling of fists. “I almost cried back there- in front of the princess!”

    “That’s why you left?” The dismayed silence was answer enough. “Oh, Ava. What do you think Mithian does when she sits beside her daughter?”

    “But that’s different. She’s her mother. We’re healers- or at least, I’m supposed to be one, one day- maybe.” Ava finally met the gaze of her mentor, who couldn’t help but frown at all the doubt there in the girl’s eyes. “The way it hurts to watch, sometimes- does that ever go away?” 

    Rinette took a deep breath, turning the question over in her mind carefully before answering frankly, “No. If it ever goes away for me, that’ll be the day I retire.” 

    At that, Merlin’s daughter returned her head to between her knees, feeling the weight of the suffering of all her future patients upon her already should she continue on the path she’d begun. 

    But Rinette refused to let the girl sulk in fear for too long, gently lifting her chin so that her face may return to the light again. With an earnest yet stern look upon her face, she said, “Ava, we are as human as our patients are. We don’t need to be emotionless for their sake- in fact, they’ll be far less comforted if we are.” Rinette mustered a sad smile then. “Come with me to see Nietta again tomorrow. She likes you.”

    Doubtful, after I practically sprinted from her room. “We barely spoke,” Ava said shortly, though the sorrow previously in her voice had ebbed. 

    “Even so, it’s good for her to speak to children her own age.” 

    “She can do that with Anselm- he visited her today.” 

    “Oh, good- so now she has someone to bore her with incessant talk of swordplay.” Rinette paused to share a knowing look with a chuckling Ava. “The least we can do is ease such a burden with our lovely company. So that’s why it is my hope, for the princess’ sake, that I’ll see you here tomorrow.” 

    Ava rocked her legs back and forth from where she clutched them to her chest. Summoning a smile to match Rinette’s, she murmured, “Yeah. Okay.” 

    “That’s my girl.” The woman reached forward, grinning as she pinched the girl’s cheek slightly- an act which might have annoyed Ava coming from anyone else. “Now go and get some rest tonight, alright?” 

    Ava departed soon after that. As she wound her way through the halls slowly, she reflected on that unfamiliar lilt that had been in Rinette’s words towards the end of their conversation. It wasn’t until she was nearly at the shared chambers of her brother and father that she realized what the sound had been of- pride. Pride Rinette had felt for Ava, even though the recipient hadn’t felt as though she’d done anything particularly worthy of it. 

    In the mines, she’d observed many different emotions directed towards her from her parents- love, relief, and desperation. But pride had had no place beneath mountains that had felt more like a tomb than anywhere that the living should dwell. 

    Laying on her side towards the window of her room, Ava’s hand rested on one particular side of her face, her thoughts brought to some semblance of peace. 

*****

    The next day, she woke up before dawn and, after having scribbled a precautionary note of her destination so as to not worry her family, headed for the Athrangi tree. 

    Seated on the stone bench, the hair on her arms stood at attention to the chilly air of that spring morning, but she did not shiver. Ava had come here to maintain the sense of calm that had blanketed her when she’d departed from Rinette the prior day. As she leaned back, admiring the purple flowers set against the backdrop of a sky still speckled with the faint memories of stars, she knew she’d made the right choice to come here. 

    There was silence here of a kind she’d never found in the mines or the city streets; it was a welcoming quiet, one that dipped its head in recognition that much of the world existed beyond the realm of sight or sound. 

    Ava closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath that smelled of dewy grass and a hint of sweetness. With only the imprints of her eyelids to keep her company, images slipped through her mind- of Nietta coughing blood, of the shapes lining the streets of Camelot the night of the invasion, and a hazy memory of Thean lying on his side, clutching his stomach in pain during a bout of childhood illness. 

    I can’t save them all. 

    But I can damn sure try. 

    When she opened her eyes to the day, the runes of the Athrangi tree burned a brilliant shade of white, illuminating a single fruit that hung from young branches.

Chapter Text

Thean

    He woke to the familiar sound of feet pounding against floorboards. 

    “Hush, Clo. ‘M tired,” Thean mumbled, though he knew it was futile.

    His complaint was met not with a whining voice, but one that jolted him out of his sleepy stupor. “Rise and shine, up and dine!” cried a girl’s voice, and the day before came whirling back- the burnt books, empty halls. Gemma. Roo.  

    Sitting up fast enough to cause a dizzy spell, he stumbled his way to the door, nearly tripping over himself in the process. The door creaked open slightly but loudly at his hesitant encouragement, though the noise was drowned out by the cacophony of fast footsteps and motion that had originally stirred him from slumber. A new sound became all the more obvious as several girls bedecked in outfits similar to the one Gemma had been in last night walked speedily down the halls, banging wooden spoons against frying pans. Thean had not been alone in being woken by the noise- several children of varying ages were emerging from other nearby bedrooms, tunics and dresses thrown hastily on in order to more quickly merge themselves into the growing sea of boys and girls. 

    The sight and sounds were overwhelming, and were it not for the dirty blonde head of curls stopping before his door, he may not have been able to resist the urge to retreat back into the false safety of his bedroom once more. “Raven!” Gemma paused in the clanging of her own pan and spoon to stop and smile at him. A greater spring seemed to be in her step than during the prior night. “You hungry?” 

    “Very,” Thean replied earnestly; his stomach clenched at the mere proposition of food. 

    “Good.” A hand dipped into a hidden pocket beneath her smock, and an apple arced towards Thean, who snatched it out of the air in surprise. “That’ll have to be enough for a little bit, though- let’s get you some proper clothes.” 

    As he followed her throughout the halls, he did his best to focus all his attention on the apple before him (a feat which his stomach thanked him for) instead of staring excessively at the children passing by them in the opposite direction. Chills ran up and down his arms as a girl walked calmly by with hair akin to his mother’s, and then a boy with obnoxious curls like Clo’s, and brown eyes that looked like they, too, might light up when singing a lullaby. At least half of the children had some degree of red hair, while the majority of the rest had hues of black or chestnut; blonde hair proved quite an anomaly, with few others having similar tones of color to Gemma’s. 

    Great work, Thean, he thought to himself in annoyance, swallowing the core of the apple he’d otherwise devoured. Brilliant deductions. I’m sure Arthur and Mithian will love to hear about the hair colors of the invaders. 

    He was jerked from his bout of disappointment when he and Gemma arrived at their destination- a room that just a week before had been the main storage for weaponry in Camelot, but now served as a lackluster laundry room. No swords, bows, daggers, or arrows of any kind lay in that long, stone room. Its fall from grace would have been enough to make Prince Anselm weep. 

    Several basins were arranged in a semicircle, each manned by a young servant, all of whom were girls save one. They paused in steadfastly wringing shirts and pants to dip their heads to Gemma, slight smiles cast in her direction. In the center of the circle of diligent servants lay two heaps of clothing- one clearly still dirty from the smell of it, and the other carrying the pleasant aroma of flowers. As Gemma beckoned Thean forward, he noted that at the surface of the basins floated roses and herbs, some of which he recognized from the small gardens at the edge of the training fields. 

    The only serving girl whose name he knew sorted deftly through the pile of clean clothes, pausing to hold up several tunics in front of Thean’s chest before shaking her head silently in dismissal. She decided upon one small, white mottled shirt. If not for the odd blue insignia that stitched over where a heart would beat beneath, Merlin’s son might have thought he’d see a citadel boy wearing such a tunic to the marketplace, where the need to maintain impressions coaxed the sons of merchants into not wearing their household habits. 

    “Well, what are you waiting for? Get changed,” Gemma said, tapping her foot impatiently. 

    Thean had to bite back a reply telling her to turn around; he could not risk expressing modesty until he knew for sure it was a typical custom of this place. While he changed out of the tunic he’d brought from Nemeth (feeling a twinge of guilt as he dropped it into the dirty pile of laundry, unaware of where it’d end up), Gemma drifted away for one moment to murmur advice to a nearby girl, miming the best way to wring dishcloths. When she did turn back to Thean, it was with a smile and a nod. “Good. We’ve got one more thing to do before you can go to the dining hall, though.” 

    “Oh?” Thean asked eloquently, trying to push hunger and trepidation from his mind. 

    “Don’t look so frightened,” Gemma chided, proving to Thean that his efforts had been futile. “I just want to stop by Robin’s room with you- show her that you do, in fact, still exist. I wouldn’t want people to start thinking I have an imaginary friend if you go disappearing for a week again.” When Thean did not provide any one-syllable response as per usual, the servant girl’s lip tilted downward. “It was a joke, Raven. Did you miss it?”

    A forced smile rose to his face. “I’ll catch it next time,” he said, and though his mouth had gone dry from the joke that had felt a little too pointed, he relaxed at her flippancy. Gemma chuckled slightly, turning away to lead him back through the halls once more. 

    When she wasn’t looking at him, he felt calm enough to let the mask slip a little from his features. He found his acting skills subpar, but if those in this castle continued to not be too perceptive, he might get to stop feeling so on edge. 

    Alas, he was only able to catch his mental stamina for a hallway or two. With a sense of dread clenching his heart, they neared the area of the castle where the royal chambers lay. During their first and only meeting, Robin had told him she’d thought the room she’d picked had been that of the past princess, and Thean, in his panic, hadn’t thought much of the comment at the time. Now, it consumed his mind.

    A guard blocked the path to the stretch of the hall down which Merlin’s children had often followed the heels of royalty. The man was tall and foreboding, and Thean had to ball his fists (which were hidden beneath sleeves just slightly too long) to keep them from shaking. The healer he had met the night before had kind eyes, but this man’s looked like black pits set into a face worn down from a long, harsh life. What made matters worse was that he watched Thean particularly closely, though he addressed his question to Gemma. “Who is he?” 

    “This is Raven- Robin met him the first night.” The serving girl appeared at ease when speaking to the guard, though there was a tightness to her features that showed just a hint of nervousness. 

    Perhaps I can learn a thing or two about acting from her. 

    “He hasn’t been here before,” the man said gruffly, squinting dubiously at the boy before him. 

    “He’s been sick. But he’s better now!” Biting her lip and glancing Thean up and down, she added hesitantly, “Well… mostly.” When the guard still made no move to let them forward, Gemma elbowed Thean sharply in the ribs, who in return threw her a bewildered look of betrayal. Clicking her tongue with impatience, the girl ordered, “Show the good man your sigil.” 

    His mouth becoming an ‘O’ of understanding, Thean fumbled quickly in his pockets, fingers latching on to the etched stone in relief. After observing the makeshift sigil for a few agonizingly long moments, the guard grunted in acceptance and tossed the stone carelessly back in the boy’s direction before stepping aside. “Leave the door open,” he ordered of Gemma. She dipped her head lowly in response; Thean instinctively did the same, though the guard had already turned his back to him by the time he managed to complete the act. 

    They passed by the King and Queen’s chambers en route to the princess’, and behind that great door stirred the faint sound of mingled voices. Someone must have slept in the bed where Arthur and Gwen had comforted Thean on his darkest nights. 

    Gemma did not give him time to linger in thoughts of the recent past, leading them both through another door without so much as a knock of warning. Eloise’s chambers were as beautiful as Thean remembered, but with none of the warmth they’d once held. The pillows and sheets had switched to a drab parchment color instead of Camelot’s signature scarlet hue, and gone were Princess Eloise’s prized set of bedazzled daggers she’d received on her eighth birthday after significant deliberation between her parents. That same summer day, Anselm had revealed to Thean with a smirk on his face that the blades had been purposefully dulled lest Eloise be suddenly angered by other children of nobility. 

    Gone, too, were the rainbow of ribbons that had once littered the dresser, replaced by gems that glittered in the streaming morning light. Another girl lived there then; she was sat down in a pillowed chair, her back turned to Thean and Gemma and gaze fixated on the mirror before her. She wielded a brush in her hand the way a soldier might cling to a sword before battle, the corners of her lips turned down in evident frustration. If she had been much shorter, and her hair a little curlier and her skin a little tanner, Thean might have fooled himself into thinking the Princess of Camelot still dwelled there. 

    But then the girl chose to speak, and the almost-illusion died before it could bloom. 

    “Come here, Gem,” Robin hummed easily, though she hadn’t yet turned around. “Put some gems in my hair.” 

    Gemma remained near Thean, casting an exasperated look to him to garner sympathy. “Ha-ha, that never gets old.”

    “Nor does your tardiness,” the other girl murmured, only half present in the conversation. She let the brush drop to the dresser’s wood and sighed. 

    “I had to be late, or else I might not have retrieved a friend of yours.”

    Robin’s reflection furrowed her brow in confusion before the non-mirror girl turned around. She let out a squeal of surprise, and Thean’s heart skipped a beat at the fear the guards may come running at the noise. They must have been accustomed to such sounds from this particular girl, though, as no one else entered in the time it took for Robin to dart across the room. She stopped short just before Thean, squinting at him suddenly and prodding him in the chest with one finger. Satisfied at her findings, she raised her arm in victory. 

    “See? I told you!” she exclaimed to the serving girl, who bowed her head in mock defeat. Robin did not bask in her victory long, turning to the boy she’d been accused of imagining. “Where have you been, Raven?”

    “Spilling his guts.” It was Gemma who answered for him.  

    Does she do that for everyone, or do I just look that nervous?  He forced himself to take a few deep breaths in the brief space of time it took for Gemma to succinctly explain her meeting with Thean the prior night. 

    Robin’s befuddlement, unfortunately, had not been completely quelled by the account. “I don’t understand, though- I checked in your rooms after you weren’t at the Grateful Dance, but you weren’t in your bed then.” 

    “Well…” Thean trailed, wondering if there was a spell to slow down time so that his brain might catch up with his tongue. I’ll have to ask Pa if I survive this. He scattered the mental image he had of his chambers- the servant’s door which he shouldn’t draw attention to, the window looking out onto the courtyard, the floors which he preferred by far to the litany of chairs littering the castle. 

    “I wasn’t in my bed because… I was sleeping on the floor.”

    “The… floor?” Robin repeated, dumbfounded. 

    Cheeks burning red, Thean nodded meekly. “Mm-hm. Keeps me grounded.”

    There was an agonizingly long moment of silence, during which Robin and Gemma turned towards each other. As their eyes met, both girls broke into simultaneous bursts of laughter, with Robin nearly doubling over in glee as Gemma covered her own mouth, though the laughs still bubbled out as unabashedly as the pots she’d clanged in the hallways. Thean could only chuckle nervously, still on edge from residual panic. 

    Catching her breath and wiping tears from her eyes, Robin clapped him briefly on the shoulder. “Well, we’ll have to make up for lost time.” Her smile turned to a grin as her eyes grew bright with an idea. “I know- you can come watch my archery practice!”

    Gemma had started shaking her head before Robin had finished her sentence. “For your own safety, you should go to lessons,” she said to Thean. “And eat first, of course. Speaking of which, we should be on our way.”

    “Perhaps you’re right on this rare occasion, Gemma,” Robin sighed. “I’ll see you around, okay, Raven? Come back after breakfast, though, Gem- I’ll need help combing my hair.”

    The serving girl acknowledged the request with a dubious frown, squinting at the other girl. “You’ve got two hands, y’know.”

    Robin gasped in mock affront. “But I must preserve their strength for the art of the bow and arrow.” 

    By then, Gemma was halfway to the door with Thean, but she couldn’t bear to leave without a comeback. “Think any of those arrows will hit their target today?”

    “If the winds wish them to,” Robin said, nodding sagely. 

    Gemma snorted in disbelief, holding the door for Thean so that she could call back, “Oh, right, the winds. It’s all up to them.” She let it close before Robin could respond, shaking her head in amusement. 

    As they made their way to the largest of the dining halls within the castle, Thean spoke up hesitantly. “You two seem quite close.” 

    “What gave it away? The constant string of insults?” Though she walked a few paces ahead of him, he could see the edges of her smirk. 

    “Something like that,” chuckled the boy she knew as Raven. 

    “Mm. Well, we grew up together.” 

    “You’ve been her servant since birth?” 

    A shadow fell over Gemma’s eyes. “No, not exactly.” She remained silent as they came upon the hall adjacent to the dining room, where about ten or so children sat scattered on the stone floors. Some held husks of bread, others steaming stews. A few boys and girls had already finished their meals, their empty wooden plates and bowls (not native to Camelot, Thean noticed) quickly scooped up by a handful of serving children slipping amongst them. 

    When they’d maneuvered through the crowd, approaching the entrance to the great room, Thean’s hunger was momentarily forgotten in the midst of his surprise. The reason for some children remaining in the hallway was clear then; there simply wasn’t enough space for all of them to fit in even the most expansive of Camelot’s rooms. The long tables holding serving platters had been pushed to one end of the room so that just like in the hallway, the children could sit on the floor. Most of the younger ones wore tunics similar to Thean’s own, but the clothing of the eldest teenagers varied greatly in color, their deep, vibrant shades contrasting with the sullen faces of their owners. Approximately three-quarters of the children were boys, and those who were of the opposite sex more often than not wore green, laced dresses much like Gemma’s own. 

    “Looks like we missed the best of it,” Gemma sighed then, having led Thean to the line of tables. A serving boy and girl sprinted back and forth on the other side of them, portioning out what remained of the breakfast to the last stragglers. “Luther!” Gemma called out to the boy, who stopped short in dishing out another meal. Gesturing to Thean, she continued, “Got anything good left? He’s got a meal ticket.” 

    Luther grimaced, shaking his head. “Won’t do him much good, unless he’s a fan of burnt bread and soft apples,” he said, adding to Thean, “Best get your bigger fill come lunch.” 

    “Burnt bread will do for now,” Thean said, giving the other boy a small smile that was not returned. Luther nodded wearily, starting to prepare one plate for Gemma and Thean. Both meals were nearly identical except for slightly larger portions on the latter. Several of the sides were unfamiliar once they were bestowed to Gemma and him- the slice of cheese had an uncomfortable blue tint to it, the meat was rolled into a stick-like shape, and he couldn’t decipher what type of dried fruit he’d been given. 

    As Gemma picked up two mugs of apple juice for them (a beverage not foreign to Thean, thankfully), he decided to sample a small bite of the meat. It took a considerable amount of effort to not spit it back onto his plate immediately, as the chewy morsel seemed to be trying to burn a hole through his tongue. Much to Thean’s chagrin, Gemma picked up on his distaste. “That’s salted flounder,” she laughed, handing him the juice, which he gulped down eagerly. “You’ll get used to it after a while.” 

    “I sure hope so,” Thean rasped, shuddering slightly. 

    “We should be having boar tonight,” Gemma said, smiling in sympathy. The news would have been reassuring to Thean’s ears, had she not followed up with, “If I don’t see you again till then, good luck with your lessons.” 

    “You’re not going to eat with me?” he asked sheepishly, feeling like that lost kitten that had once followed his little brother through Camelot’s streets. 

    “You heard Robin- I can’t very well let her delicate hands tackle her own hair.” 

    “But how will I know when lessons start?” And who am I supposed to eat with?  He’d never had to worry about making friends before; his siblings had been the only fellow children in his life till he was ten, and Anselm and Eloise had practically latched onto him as soon as he’d entered their home. The prospect of confronting a room full of children alone felt more daunting than when he’d escaped the fallen citadel a week ago. 

    “You’ll know,” Gemma said very unhelpfully through a mouthful of the unspecified fruit and nuts. She weaved her way through the crowd thereafter, abandoning Thean to his own devices. 

    Seeing few other options, he made his way to the spillover hall outside the dining room and deposited himself against a part of the wall several paces from two boys chatting excitedly to one another. On instinct, he tuned out their conversation as he delved into the depths of his breakfast. The dried fruit, whatever its origin, was edible, which was more than could be said for the salted flounder. 

    Flounder. When Thean had been with the royal family, fish like that had usually been served during the peak of summer when the rivers were rich with them. From what he’d surmised in his time spent learning from Camelot’s head cook, flounder was virtually impossible to find within the kingdom other than at that time- indicating that at least for the time being, the Departed Lands people were still depending on a food source outside of the realm they currently inhabited. Not the biggest piece of information, but something, Thean quietly reflected. Better than hair colors, anyway. 

    Prince Anselm had talked before of how many kingdoms, Camelot included, had been thrust under siege when enemies cut off their food supply lines. Having known extreme hunger, though, Thean was reluctant to make any such suggestion once he had the time and safety to contact his father. Aside from that, it was hard to fathom even the combined forces of Camelot and Nemeth gaining enough of an upper hand to accomplish such a feat. 

    Gold flashed, followed by a gasp and a laugh. One of the nearby boys who’d been talking excitedly before was sprinkling newfound herbs on his portion of flounder. “Konneth!” the other boy hissed, glancing to and fro to see if any older children were nearby. “You can’t just use magic out of nowhere like that.” 

    “Why not? It’s not hurting anyone. The fish is already dead, might as well make it taste good.” 

    Not-Konneth argued, “Maybe it’s not hurting anyone, but it’s not helping anyone, either.” 

    “It’s helping me,” Konneth said through a mouthful of the seasoned food. 

    “I give up,” the other boy sighed, raising his hands in exasperated defeat. “If Zezumo catches you, he can do what he wants.” 

    Konneth shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe Zezumo will want some seasoning too.” 

    As he continued to pick at his own food, Thean couldn’t help but glance over at Konneth several more times, hoping to catch another act of harmless magic. The boy called Konneth couldn’t have been more than 11 himself, but was donned in a purple tunic unlike most of the children his age. 

    “Up and out, lose that pout!” 

    The shouts came from within the dining room, echoing out into the hall. Thean recognized one of the voices as Luther’s. Many of the children did not heed his words as they did, indeed, pout like they’d heard the words thousands of times before; perhaps some had. 

    Once Thean entered the room, pots began ringing to beckon the slowest of the young ones into motion, and all the children still eating stood to deposit their plates and bowls on the long table there. Merlin’s son mimicked their actions, falling into line and peering subtly around. A group of boys in tunics the same shade as his own were making their way towards a tall and muscular man with a mane of brown hair and two scars running down the side of his face and arcing towards the back of his neck. Whereas when Thean had picked up his breakfast, the oldest occupants of the room could not have been older than 17, now five adults stood at different ends. Slowly but surely, children were sorting themselves; the servants in their green dresses and tunics to a young woman, and a handful of the slimmest children donned in blue to a woman with skin hardened from the sun. Those who wore purple, including the boy named Konneth, grouped together as well. The largest of the two groups were about equal in size, and all boys- those in red, and those in white like Thean. 

    Don’t ask questions. Look harmless. 

    He repeated the words in his head as though they were a complex spell that might steady his beating heart. After returning his plate to Luther with hands just starting to shake, the dark-haired boy slipped into the edges of the crowd containing those he would look least auspicious around- the ones with white and cream colored shirts. Not a single girl was among them, and they jostled boisterously against one another, hardly taking note of the presence of a new boy within their ranks. 

    His head was down, so Thean heard rather than saw the question posed to the leader of the boys. “Kerek, will we get to practice on the dummies today?” It was a young voice, likely one Thean’s own age, and so he glanced up hesitantly with interest. Kerek had been a name the healer Roo had mentioned the night before, the one who would supposedly be upset about his sustained absence from lessons. 

    Kerek yawned, not even looking at the boy who’d provided the question. “Nope, today you’ll be putting me to sleep with your stuttering words,” he said. His hand patted a ridiculously stuffed satchel at his side. 

    Mutters of discontent stirred among the boys. 

    As if he’d been slapped across the cheek, Kerek snapped his head towards the boys. “Quit your griping, or I’ll give you a real reason to tomorrow!” he roared. 

    The eldest boys there quickly shut up, though a few of the younger ones snickered; they were quickly silenced by harsh stares from their more experienced peers. 

    Once a few more guilty looking boys joined their ensemble, the thirty or so children were led out of the room by Kerek. Thean was surprised to see few others in the halls; the guards that had been posted near Robin’s room proved to be an exception rather than the rule. 

    If the halls seemed oddly empty to Thean, then their final destination was doubly so. What had a week prior been the coronation room was a slim shadow of its former self, devoid of any ceremonial carpets, tapestries, or embellished thrones. Only the candelabras remained; they had been pushed haphazardly towards the back of the room where the thrones had once been, but Thean clung to the sight of them

    Kerek led them towards the shallow steps at the farthest end of the room that, from Thean’s understanding, had only been there so that the King and Queen of Camelot may be elevated above their subjects so as to emphasize their royal positions. The grizzly man paid no mind to the former function of the architecture, settling himself down on one of the middle steps with the discontented sigh only adults were truly capable of. Unlatching his satchel, he beckoned the boys forward to retrieve various leafs of crumpled parchment that lay within. They reluctantly formed a crooked line that snaked around the perimeter of the room.

    Thean had secured a spot at the middle of the line, where he had hoped he’d remain inconspicuous. When his turn came to approach Kerek, heartbeat thundering in his lowered head, he almost dared to hope his caution had paid off when his fingers wrapped around the bundle of parchment without comment.

    Then, a hand was on his wrist, and he had to force down the well of memories rushing forth at that motion. With an outward calmness he prayed impenetrable, he looked up. 

    “I’ve not seen you before,” Kerek said lowly with a scowl. The origin of his frown lines were quite obvious then. “Who are you?”

    “Raven,” said Thean, thrusting his carved stone forward so as to use his fake family’s sigil like a shield. 

    Kerek waved away the gesture with a hand, hardly glancing at it. “Wasn’t asking what your name was. Was asking why you’re here.” 

    “I was sick this week- couldn’t make it till now.” It wasn’t terribly hard to summon an expression of mingled fear and guilt to his face then, as he certainly felt the former. “‘M very sorry,” he murmured, doing his best to look the part of a child that had just stolen sweets. 

    “Hmm.” The man studied Thean further, though he did so without malice, much to the boy’s relief. “Well, Raven, you’re not quite big enough to be a brute, and not quite small enough to be a messenger. You can probably stay with us, but we’ll test you before chores start to be sure. For now, try not to fall asleep.” With  that final remark, he almost smiled at Thean, whose acting skills were too depleted to mirror the man. 

    The other children had sat down on the hardwood floors, and so Thean did the same, keenly aware of how they’d formed small groups here and there among themselves into which he was not welcomed. Unsurprisingly, the younger boys were more likely to sit near one another compared to the eldest boys. 

    As the last of the children collected their pieces of parchment, Thean unraveled his own and felt his stomach sink. Absent were the letters he’d prided himself on having learned in the past year under the kind tutelage of Gwen and frequent assistance from Anselm. What greeted his eyes instead were a series of smooth, inky symbols bordered by jagged edges, long and convoluted and practically indistinguishable from one another. 

    “Hennon!” Kerek called, pointing to one of the oldest boys in the group. “Start from the top to the third line.” 

    “Request for ten dozen apples, thirty dried haddock, four dozen yams. Desired within two fortnights and to be filled at the behest of…” 

    The young man droned on, and though he knew he should be attentive lest anything worthwhile was read, Thean struggled to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. He’d assumed he’d have the advantage of knowing how to read on his side, and that were he to find any documents detailing the Departed Lands not meant for the eyes of children, he could decipher them with ease. He hadn’t accounted at all for the now fully realized possibility of these invaders having a written language that was foreign despite their spoken tongue being nearly identical to that of the rest of Albion. 

    “Alright, who’s next? Any takers?” Kerek scanned the crowd, most of whom avoided his gaze due to sudden interest in the walls and floors of the coronation room. “Thought not,” the man grunted. “Raven, read from the fourth to the seventh line.” 

    His mouth felt as though he’d not drank in days. He moved his thumb down the edge of the page, finding the fourth line just as unreadable as the rest. At his silence, Kerek stood, joints popping and strides made with considerable effort. The parchment was taken from Thean’s shaking hands, turned top to bottom, and handed back. 

    “Now that it’s right side up, please enlighten us,” the man said to the boy, grinning smugly at his confusion. 

    “I can’t,” Thean whispered, hoping he had been just loud enough for Kerek to hear. 

    “Parents never taught you to read, eh?” Kerek murmured. “Seems I misjudged you, then. Perhaps you’ll do better alongside the serving girls.” 

    Snickers circulated the crowd, spurring Thean’s cheeks to burn. He wasn’t innately ashamed at the prospect of being a servant, but the other children’s laughter made him sense that he should be. 

    One of the younger boys was called upon to read what Thean had been unable to. He read the lines aloud more slowly than the older boy before him, but with a confidence not warranted by his speech. “Girl born to woman with known magic. Mage needed for placement of preventative runes.” 

    Another boy. “Spotted fever spreading amongst the children. Parents separated four nights and worked past sunset to make up for lost workers. Five died, yield decreased by forty crops per day. Request for sufficient replacements.” 

    Another. “Workers no longer needed, settlement deemed insufficient. Brutes to be sent out three days hence. Messengers will carry new handler designations.” 

    And so it went, each line read delivering one more piece of a dawning realization to Thean as to what these children were meant to become. Glancing around, it was hard to imagine some of the young boys as capable of morphing into the monsters that Thean had grown up with. The eldest, however, had seeds sown in their eyes of the hardset mentality needed to ruthlessly bend the lives of others to their whim. 

    He wanted nothing more than to be rid of their company. 

    Not until the sun had arced to the top of the center window in the coronation wall did Kerek collect the parchment from the boys and bid them leave for lunch. As Thean handed the paper to the man, the man nodded to him and said, “See you in the courtyard after lunch.” 

    With a numb sensation in his legs (both from the act of sitting for so long, as well as the dread of those he’d been amongst), Merlin’s son followed the crowd of white-clothed boys to the dining hall. Through the entrance, he spotted a similar horde of children as had been present for the prior meal. Three serving girls manned the long table, dishing out a stew slightly more aromatic than the food distributed at breakfast time. 

    Seeing no dirty blonde curls, and hearing no exuberant voice calling his fake name, Thean quickly lost interest in silently enduring another meal. He let his feet lead him to one of his oldest haunts in the castle- the kitchen. Scores of servants bustled there, some glancing curiously at the dark-haired boy who lingered for a moment at the doorway, but most otherwise preoccupied by the dismembering of a boar lain across the largest wooden table. 

    Though most within the kitchen were girls, there was one boy working on the slain animal that Thean recognized. Quickly walking forward before he lost his nerve, Thean approached him. “Luther,” he murmured once he was a step behind him. “Have you seen Gemma?” 

    Luther bestowed only a mere glance at the other boy before returning to sorting out the mass of entrails before him. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” he said. “What’s it to you?” 

    “I just want to ask her something.” 

    “Hmm.” Luther paused in his work, arms slick to the elbow with a mixture of fresh and drying blood. He turned to Thean, scanning him up and down in a way that Merlin’s son was quickly becoming familiar with among these people. Coming to a decision, Luther spoke once more. “Give me your meal ticket.” 

    “What?” Thean said, taken aback. 

    “Give me your meal ticket, and maybe I’ll remember if I’ve seen Gemma.” 

    Thean had played this game of bargaining before, though when last he had, he’d been in damp and cold caves instead of the warm ensconcement of a castle’s kitchen. A handful of berries for a carrot, a carrot for a sharp stone that could be used for drawing on the walls- or a meal ticket for information on the whereabouts of a particularly knowledgeable serving girl; it was all the same in the end, the sacrifice of one desire for another. 

    “Deal,” Thean said, handing over the piece of paper given to him by Roo the night before. He couldn’t afford to aimlessly wander the castle and be cast in suspicious light, nor did he want to endure whatever test that lay before him without knowing what he was to face.

    Luther smiled for the first time in the other boy’s presence, clutching the paper in his bloodied hands as if it were the most precious of jewels. “She’s in the forge, just past the courtyard.” With that, the serving boy returned to his cutting up of the boar with newfound vigor. 

    Thean walked briskly through the halls and out into the courtyard, trying to look busy rather than alarmed. He didn’t glance at the pile of history laid to ashes, nor did he slow at the gates leading out onto the citadels. The four guards posted there- two in red, two in purple- hardly glanced at him. 

    The forge Luther had spoken of had once belonged to Tom, the father of Gwen and Elyan, before he had met his untimely end. It lay close enough to the castle to be glimpsed from the courtyard when the gates were open. All this, Thean had only learned when questioning Anselm why the Queen always looked in that direction wistfully. According to the prince, Uther had seized the forge’s materials and hired other blacksmiths to work it solely for weapons of the knights. Once Arthur had come to reign, having been aware of how Tom had met his end, he was understandably uncomfortable with taking advantage of the tragedy, and thus had passed the workplace on to an ordinary family that took requests as they pleased rather than only from the castle. What had befallen the fate of that family during the Departed Lands invasion, Thean doubted he’d ever know. 

    He did know, however, that Gwen’s father would likely be horrified to see his workshop currently being manned by several girls and boys. An adolescent boy bedecked in green was at the anvil, hammering a sword unlike any Thean had seen before. In contrast to the stiff, straight edges of Camelot’s swords, this one was curved grotesquely, forming a shape akin to the letter ‘c.’ At the tip, it curved in the opposite direction as if meant to hook into something. 

    Or someone. 

    Stifling his grimace and nodding to the older boy like one who felt completely at home there, Thean made his way through the archway where smoke billowed through. The only light supplied there was dim sunlight from the entrance, and the warm orange glow pulsing from the forge. A few girls and one other boy had their backs turned to him, their necks slick with sweat and soot as they leaned towards the metal melting before their eyes. Sacks of copper, coal, and iron lined the perimeter of the room. 

    This is where it goes. 

    All the copper he had ever chiseled away at all those years- some of it could even be in this very room. Stones that his mother had run her fingers over might be glistening above the fire just then. 

    “It’s so hot,” pouted one of the youngest girls, though she did not take her eyes off the metal. “Can’t I go outside for a bit?” 

    “Shut it, Miltha,” another girl grumbled, sorting through one of the sacks to find the biggest stones. “You just went out, it’s my turn next.” 

    “This batch should be done in a few minutes.” That was Gemma speaking, though in the polarizing light, Thean hadn’t known the figure to be hers previously. “We can stop for water then, though not for long. You heard Sadovy- the Balancer says we need to make as many swords as possible.”

    So great was their concentration, Thean almost didn’t want to break it. If he were a kinder version of himself, he might not have.

    “Gemma.” 

    The girl of that name turned in surprise, and Thean recognized her dirty blonde locks then that framed a darkened face. She turned back momentarily to the girl closest to her, murmuring something before walking towards the anxiously awaiting boy at the entrance.

    “Raven!” she said as she approached, summoning a small smile. “How are you? Already got lunch, huh?” 

    “I need to talk to you,” he said, wincing at his own bluntness. 

    Gemma tilted her head and frowned quizzically. “Isn’t that precisely what we’re doing?”

    “No- I mean, yes. I need to talk to you about the test.”

    “Test?” Realization lit her eyes. “Ohh, the test. Failed to mention that bit, huh?” Thean nodded vehemently, provoking her to raise her hands in defense. “I didn’t think Kerek would even bother- he’s always looking for more students. Did you do something to get on his bad side?”

    “Not exactly, but…” He glanced away from Gemma, puzzling on how to skirt around echoing the shame he’d felt. “I don’t know how to read, so he said I’ll probably be a servant.”

    “That’s alright, though, isn’t it?” The girl crossed her arms defiantly. “We’re not a bad lot,” she said, chin tilting up as though daring him to suggest otherwise. 

    “I’m not worried about that,” Thean coaxed. Now, it was his turns to raise his hands in a placating manner. “But what exactly am I going to be tested on?” En route to the forge, he’d already thought of all sorts of crooked ways the people of the Departed Lands might test him. Would they throw him into a pit of snakes to see how he’d react, or put agonizing runes on him just for fun? 

    “I’ve never done it myself, but from what I’ve heard, they ask you questions,” Gemma said, shrugging. 

    “Questions?” If he was quizzed on the history of the Departed Lands, that may be a more frightening experience than any deadly animals or runes he could imagine. 

    “Yeah, just like that,” Gemma said, smiling cheerfully. 

    Thean’s brow still remained creased with worry. “What if they don’t want me to be a servant, either? What will I be then?” 

    “Well, there’s the brutes, who are really just cocksure guards that patrol the inner grounds, and sometimes the surrounding lands as well- but no offense, you don’t look up to the task.”

    “Yeah, Kerek said the same.” For once, Thean was grateful for his smaller stature; he didn’t wish to be part of any group that accepted the title of ‘brutes.’

    “And then there’s the messengers, who as you can probably guess, run messages to and from handlers’ outpostings.” 

    “Anyone else?”

    “Aside from Kerek’s group? Nope.” In the ensuing silence, Thean prepared to excuse himself, when Gemma piped up again, “Well- there’s also Zezumo’s mages, but you don’t have magic, so he won’t take you.”

    Merlin’s son couldn’t help himself- he grimaced instinctively at the falsity. 

    Gemma, unfortunately, was not as unobservant as Thean had hoped. “Raven?” she murmured, stepping closer to him as she cast her voice lower. “You don’t have magic, do you?” 

    “Does it matter?” he said, voice crackling with uncertainty. “It’s not forbidden, is it?” He knew he was gambling with his fate by speaking so vaguely, but he’d seen the spell cast by Konneth, as well as those of the mages attacking the citadel a week ago- surely it couldn’t be a taboo topic among these people if some used their magic so openly?

    “It’s not… forbidden, no.” Somehow, even though she’d moved closer to him, Gemma seemed leagues away. 

    “Then it wouldn’t be bad, right? If I did have magic?”

    The serving girl didn’t answer right away, looking out at the seeping sunlight and stone buildings of Camelot. Still not turning her gaze to him, she took a deep breath and said, “Look, I shouldn’t be saying this- but Robin seems to like you, and I don’t want to see her getting hurt.”

    “I don’t-”

    “Just listen.” Gemma cut him off in a tone that left no room for discussion. “No one really knows what the mage kids learn; all the teachers don’t share too much with others’ students, but especially not Zezumo. So I don’t know for sure what they’re taught, or how- but I know this: sometimes it takes weeks, months, maybe even years, but all those kids? Eventually, they go cold.”

    “Cold?” Thean repeated, uncomprehending. 

    “Yes, cold, harsh- get this empty look in their eyes and don’t act like they did when they first joined us.” Though she had been gravely reluctant to speak on the matter reluctantly, they spilled out of her mouth then like water through a broken beaver’s dam. “Most avoid ‘em once they get different like that, even the brutes.” She finally looked at Merlin’s son again, but without the smile she usually greeted him with; her eyes, much like the children she was describing, had turned frosty. “So, Raven,” she continued pointedly. “If  you were to have magic- I’d suggest you forget that little fact about yourself for a while.”

    The stirring sounds of nearby voices reached the ears of the boy and girl- mingled in that cacophony was Kerek’s voice calling out orders. “Guess I missed lunch,” Thean sighed, though that was the least of his worries right then. 

   “Yeah, guess so,” Gemma murmured, biting her lip. “I’ll be in the kitchen later if you got any more hypothetical questions.” Jutting her chin in the direction of the courtyard, she added in a low voice, “Better get out there. Remember what I told you.”

    “Thanks, Gemma,” Thean said earnestly, seeking out a smile that did not grace her face. She nodded and turned back to the smoldering room. 

    The five adults Thean had seen earlier in the dining hall were present in the courtyard. Messengers in blue were gathered around an older woman, green servants near a younger woman. Kerek was there too, catching Thean’s eyes for a moment before waving a group of boys to the stables. As Merlin’s son drew closer to the one adult he was most familiar with, he recognized Konneth passing by with a girl in purple and three other boys dressed in various shades. 

    “Don’t wanna get firewood,” Konneth muttered. “It’s all gonna be damp anyway.” 

    “So what?” said a muscular boy in red- a brute, Thean gathered. “You and Clara can just use your spells to dry it all anyway. Say, Clara- know any spells that’d make Konneth quit whining?” 

    Exclamations of annoyance and laughter followed that comment as they trailed out the castle gates with no signs of stopping anywhere nearby. Thean allowed himself a moment to gaze after them a little wistfully, thinking back to when he’d see Ava and Clo do much the same. They’d reveled in the freedom without fear, though Thean had never been able to feel quite as much  ease. The constant undercurrent of uncertainty he’d felt all his life had still lingered about even after many months in Camelot; at times it wavered, but always to be thrust back into his mind after a frantic nightmare in which he’d lost his family all over again. Standing in the courtyard of an invaded castle then, he knew his anxieties had been sadly justified. 

    Once most of the children had departed from the courtyard- all to various chores within the castle or citadel- Kerek acknowledged Thean’s presence. “All right, let’s get this over with,” he said, clapping his hands and glancing towards the four other adults drawing in closer to the boy. “Sadovy, I think this one might be yours. Says he can’t read.”

    “Well, we’ll see,” said Sadovy, a young woman wearing a dark green dress with a white smock over the front- the head of the servants, Thean surmised. She had kind eyes, and smiled in his direction as she said, “Perhaps you have other talents?” 

    Remembering Gemma’s words of warning, he settled on merely shrugging his shoulders in response. Sadovy let out a ‘hmm’ of understanding, and turned to the towering man beside her. “What do you think, Brutus?”

    “Don’t look like you’ll be much in a fight. I’ve got enough boys as is, anyway.” The man who spoke this was the largest of the five, with chainmail pulled tight over his barrel of a chest and red cotton poking out underneath. 

    So the leader of the brutes is called Brutus. Seriously? 

    “Can you run?” That question came from an older woman in blue, the same color that had donned the leanest of the children Thean had seen. Messengers. The woman pointed to a distant section of the courtyard. “There and back as quick as you can.” 

    Self-conscious of the stares from the adults, as well as those of the few children still nearby, Thean jogged to the indicated wall. He could easily have run faster had he wished to, but found the prospect of becoming a servant much more favorable than a messenger. More time spent away from the main hub of the invaders meant less opportunities to learn their ways and weaknesses. 

    When he returned, Brutus was chuckling. “I’ve seen mice cross such a distance faster than that. Looks like you won’t get a new pupil, Lilan.” 

    “As if you could do much better,” the older woman, Lilan, jibed, a smirk emphasizing the dawning wrinkles on her face. Brutus gave her a sour look at that comment; if not for his size, he would have looked all the part of a sulking child.

    “Zezumo, your turn,” Kerek said.

    The shortest of the adults stepped forward. Zezumo was portly, with dark hair sprinkled white from age. His belly was round, and his face equally so. From a hand that had been held behind his back, he procured a small, golden ring that he set on the cobblestones. 

    “Pick it up,” he commanded softly. 

    Thean shuffled on his feet uncertainly for a moment before moving towards the ring and reaching out his hand. “Not like that,” Zezumo said, shaking his head. “Pick it up without your hands.” 

    He understood then, but pretended to struggle with the order. Thean knew what he was capable of- he just wasn’t quite sure if he wanted these adults gathered before him to also be aware of his abilities. Should he do what Zezumo commanded, his talents would become a certainty instead of a possibility. 

    Make them think you’re harmless, his father had said when they’d departed. To be inconspicuous and afraid is what Merlin would want, and it was all Lea had ever wanted him to be in the mines. 

    But that was not what Thean wanted. 

    The gold ring lifted, and the boy’s eyes shone the same hue. Whereas the other adults looked a tad surprised, Zezumo’s expression remained blank. The man opened his palm, and Thean bid the ring to settle there. 

    “Sadovy,” Zezumo said, not taking his eyes off the dark-haired boy. “This one’s mine.” 

    The serving woman nodded without protest, and the other leaders began to depart wordlessly. Only Kerek paused as he passed by Thean, squeezing his shoulder and whispering, “Nice knowing you, kid.” 

Chapter Text

   Thean

    Aside from the distant noise of children calling to each other, the man and boy were alone. Zezumo eyed Thean with an emotion that might be wariness or disinterest- Merlin’s son knew not which. 

    “Raven,” the man murmured, taking a few steps forward. When the boy remained silent, he asked, “That’s what your parents call you, is it not?” 

    Fake Raven nodded. 

    “Are they the ones that taught you magic?” 

    “Not really,” Thean said, shrugging his shoulders. Arthur had never mentioned anything about Farlan or his wife having a hint of magic, so that seemed to be the safest answer. 

    “Got any runes on you?” Zezumo asked. 

    “Runes? No!” The question startled Thean nearly as much as his vehement answer. Had this man recognized him? Had he been a handler himself before settling into teaching, one who had frequented the mines of Medora? Such a possibility had been one Thean had ruminated on during his journey back into Camelot. He had grown in height and weight since his days as a slave, and was no longer covered in the thick layer of filth that had been like a second set of clothes to him during his first ten years of life, so his chances of being recognized by past handlers was slim. Still, that didn’t make such a prospect any less bone-chilling. 

    “Relax,” Zezumo said, raising the hand not holding the ring in a placating manner. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I just found it curious that you did not use any words when you brought this back to me.” 

    “Oh.” 

    Idiot, Thean thought to himself furiously. He had wanted to show he had magic, but he hadn’t wanted to show quite how naturally sorcery came to him. Such talent was likely to plant suspicion. 

    “Most cannot do that until they've had many years of training, and sometimes not even then,” Zezumo continued, not taking his eyes off of the boy. He had a uniquely curious gaze that made Thean feel distinctly uncomfortable. “I’ve never met one so young who could do it- excluding myself, when I was your age. Here…” The ring Thean had willed into the air before was placed into his hand, and with the gentlest of prodding, Zezumo made his fingers curl around the cold gold. “Keep this. Even if I didn’t give it to you, with your magic, I have a feeling you’d be able to steal it out from under me anyway.” 

    The mage smiled at him in jest, and Thean forced a tight smile to his own features in return. “Thank you.” 

    Zezumo nodded, stepping back. “You’ll begin lessons with your new fellow students on the morrow. For now, there is horse shit that needs shoveling.” As Thean’s fake smile turned into a genuine frown, Zezumo grinned. “Take care not to dirty that ring while you’re at it.”

    The mage strolled away thereafter, easing his way back through the castle doors. Heeding the advice, Thean pocketed the ring and made his way towards the stables. Even if he hadn’t been familiar with the castle’s layout, he would have been able to find the structure by the smell alone. The tall wooden doors were only open a sliver, but the unmistakable scent pervaded the surrounding area, as did the occasional groans of disgust from the children within. 

    A few of such aforementioned children glanced up as Thean made his way in and grabbed a shovel from a pile just to the side of the entrance. They quickly lost interest and returned to the repetitive task of transporting the dung to barrels littered across the hay-covered floor.

    When Thean had last been in the stables, he’d entered through a wooden door half his size on the night of the attack. There had been no horses then, with the vast majority having been taken by the knights to speed them on their way through the overrun citadel. Now, however, one could not walk two paces without bumping into a horse’s front or rear end. The shovel-carrying children had to frequently move under the disgruntled horses to have any success in their sullen chore. 

    Slowly but surely, shoveling into a nearby barrel every few steps, Thean made his way to where the door that had secured his escape lay. He had thought the opening inconspicuous enough when he had only wanted to hide from curious Camelot servants, but worried he’d been too optimistic in its unassuming nature. 

    His relief was twofold when he reached his destination: the door was mostly hidden by a hay barrel, and standing just in front of it as if aware of the secret entrance, was Arrow- the horse Thean had first learned to ride on with Sir Gwaine’s assistance. 

    “Hey boy,” Thean whispered, ruffling the horse’s mane with one hand and pressing his forehead lightly to his snout. Arrow nudged him back in recognition, snorting in what Thean assumed to be discontent. 

    “They’ve not been treating you well, have they?” he murmured, scanning the horse’s filthy white hair. He was glad- and intrigued- to see that the Departed Lands showed no shame in utilizing Camelot’s animals. At least the invaders had not treated the land’s animals as they had its people. 

    “Oi!” An older boy called, glaring in Thean’s direction. “These animals won’t stop shitting, so don’t you start quitting!” 

    Thean shoveled with new vigor, but lingered near Arrow for longer than the task demanded. When the older boy moved farther away, reassured that Merlin’s son wouldn’t start slacking again, Thean quickly shoved the hay barrel a few hairs more to the left so as to completely hide the entrance to the servant hallways. He knew not how he’d reach the Queen and those hiding in the siege tunnels if the servant hallways were to be explored in depth by the Departed Lands people. 

    When the children could no longer lift their arms, and the light streaming in through the stable doors shifted from white to yellow and then orange-red, the end to the day’s work was signaled by the collective dropping of shovels and tired shuffling feet heading for the courtyard. They had heard what Thean had not from where he’d lingered near Arrow; several servants had brought large buckets of lukewarm water and brushes so that those who’d been in the stables would not burden the rest of the castle with their odious odors. 

    Thean did his best to cleanse himself of the stench, though he took care to stop at the armory-turned-laundry room and grab a new set of clothes- the other stable children did the same as well, changing without any semblance of modesty. He chose a purple tunic from the growing pile of freshly dried clothes, one that was similar in shade to what he’d seen Konneth wearing earlier. 

    A chill ran down his back when the shirt had just settled over his head and the room was at the forefront of his gaze once again- there in the corner, one boy from the stables was bent over the pile and scrambling for a dark green shirt. Across his chest lay a thick, black rune standing out starkly against pale skin. Thean’s stomach roiled in nausea at the sight, but he did not have time to swallow back bile for long. The boy had noticed the sudden attention, and scowled at Merlin’s son before turning heel and covering the blight on his chest with a servant’s shirt. 

    Thean did a mental count to ten before exiting the room as well. Don’t think too much yet, he told himself. Gemma’s in the kitchen- just get to the kitchen. 

    Don’t panic. 

    Don’t panic. 

    His struggle to remain calm relented once he spotted a curly, dirty blonde head bobbing amidst the crowd of servants. After hours working in the stables, he sighed in content at the aroma of spices thickening in the air, and slipped in easily amongst the children in the kitchen. There one rolled dough, there another stirred stew- these actions were familiar to him in ways more pleasant than the rune on that boy’s chest. 

    Gemma was working at berry pastries, her hands stained with a reddish paste as she parceled out the fruit. She gave Merlin’s son a cursory glance as he approached, having every intention to remain focused on her task- but her gaze lingered on him for longer than she planned. Her mouth settling into a thin line, she returned to scooping handfuls of berries and slapping them into the dough with enough vigor to splatter some of the juices onto her face, though she did not seem to notice. 

    “Nice shirt,” she muttered, not looking up at him again. 

    “Thanks,” Thean said slowly, glancing down. In his joy to see her, he’d momentarily forgotten what had transpired earlier that afternoon. “You’re… upset?” 

    “Upset?” Gemma repeated, tilting her head in mock thoughtfulness. “Upset, yes, but not surprised. After all, why would you listen to my advice? Balance forbid you became a servant.” 

    Doing his best to not question the unfamiliar saying, Thean countered, “I did listen to you. I just decided against hiding my talents.” 

    “Well then, I hope you and your talents are very happy. It’d be a first for one of Zezumo’s students.”

    “We’re- I’m not,” Thean admitted frankly. He knew he was in danger of oversharing, but Gemma had done the same even when she had been hesitant to. Leaning closer, he whispered, “Honestly, after what you told me- I’m scared, Gemma.” 

    “Then why’d you do it?” 

    Merlin’s son bit his lip in concentration; there were many reasons he’d made the decision, the majority of which he couldn’t confide to her. “I’m not good at a great deal of things,” he said. “But if I learn more magic, I can become good at protecting people.” 

    That wasn’t a complete lie; he did want to protect those he cared for- those beneath the castle’s structure, and those stranded back in Nemeth. 

    But Gemma wasn’t impressed by his noble cause. “Protect who?” she challenged. “Your parents?” 

    Thean took a step back, feeling a sting in his eyes he struggled to not succumb to. His fictional parents were both dead, but the reality of Gemma’s statement in terms of Thean’s real mother had hit too close to home. At once, he was thrown back to the mountainside of his childhood, where Lea’s body reaffirmed his rising belief that there was very little in this world he could control.

    Taking in Thean’s shocked and sorrowful look, Gemma moved one berry-stained hand to comfort him, but then thought better of the action and let it fall to her side. “I’m sorry, Raven,” she murmured, staring down at the same spot on the floor that Thean had taken sudden interest in. “I didn’t mean to say that. Just… around here, think about protecting yourself first. Don’t go around trying to be brave. Like my mom always said- bravery and stupidity are one and the same.”

    Thean nodded, though he did not raise his gaze until a clanging sound rang out. In the moment of silence between them, Gemma had removed a tray of freshly baked pastries from the nearest wood-burning stove. Golden brown on the perimeter and shining scarlet at their centers, Thean’s mind (and stomach) latched on to the sight of them, grateful for the distraction. 

    “Those look amazing,” he gasped in awe. 

    Gemma raised a brow at him in surprise. Glancing around, she grasped two of the warm pastries in one hand, making a show of studying them for cracks in the dough. As she glided past Thean to tend to one of the unbaked trays, he felt rather than saw two warm objects slide into the pockets of his pants. In understanding, Thean tugged the edge of his shirt so as to better hide the gifts she’d bestowed. 

    “Heard Luther bragging about a meal ticket he just happened to find on the ground,” Gemma murmured as she smoothed the edges of the raw pastries. “Figured he must have weaseled it out of you.”

    Thean sighed, resting a hand on his growling stomach. “Yeah, that he did.”

    The serving girl shook her head in mingled exasperation and sympathy. “Like I said, Raven- protect yourself. It’s what everyone else does around here, anyway.” 

    You don’t, he thought to himself, keenly aware of the pastries filling his pockets. All he felt safe to say, however, was a measly, “I’ll try.” 

    Several of the children and teens began to file out of the kitchen whilst laden with boar legs, rolled and stuffed cabbage leafs, and pots of stew. Gemma became agitated at their movement, putting her hands to her head. “My pastries aren’t done yet!” she bemoaned. “Ah, whatever. Hopefully everyone eats slowly.” Glancing at Merlin’s son, she added, “You better get to dinner. Robin’ll notice if you aren’t there.” 

    Thean straightened in surprise. “She’ll be there too?” 

    “Yeah. Her and her father don’t usually eat with us, but there’s a group going out beyond the walls, so we’re having a little feast for them.” 

    Out beyond the walls? Why? 

    They were questions he could not help but wonder, and could not afford to ask lest he raise suspicion. Thus, Thean settled for a curt farewell and embarked to the dining hall as instructed, munching hungrily on the pastries from his pockets- they had a good balance of tart and sweetness, but were a tad underbaked. 

    The dining hall was empty, devoid of the delectable platters he’d seen servants carrying moments before. Muttering to himself in frustration at yet again feeling lost within a castle he should know all the in’s and out’s of, he wandered past the smaller of dining halls in case Gemma had overestimated the size of the feast she’d described. Only when he neared the coronation hall did he begin to spot servants again, and start to smell the same scents that had pervaded the kitchen. 

    Music, too, bounded through the halls leading up to the feast, but the instruments were not like any he’d heard before. Trumpets and flutes, those had been the favored instruments amongst the rightful citizens of Camelot. And though there had been faster paced music made exclusively for dancing, even the quickest of jigs had some level of restraint, and were usually thought too brash to grace the ears of the royal family. 

    As he entered the coronation hall, the beat picked up even further. The source of it came from several older servants armed with an array of strings and bows- not for shooting arrows, but for creating what had to be the fastest song Thean had ever heard. The children had already formed a line that wove through the wooden tables that had been brought into the hall since the handler lessons hosted there earlier in the day. The youngest boys and girls danced merrily to the beat, and even the eldest children couldn’t help but tap a foot along. 

    On the raised part of the hall lay the most elaborate of tables in Camelot, the one which Thean had often ate at with the royal family, though Thean didn’t immediately recognize them. A large likeness of the Pendragon sigil had once been carved into each side of the table, but had since been smoothed over so that only an awkward overhanging part of the wood hung down. Sitting at the center of the table was an unassuming man, brown hair draped over a bored expression. At one side of him was a man similar in features, though with gray specks in his hair and a much more animated expression as he talked to Robin, who was on the other side of the unassuming younger man. 

    Robin wore a white dress similar to the one she’d had on when Thean had first met her, though longer in the sleeve, and with gold beads instead of diamonds. She paused in between devouring her dinner and listening to the older man to glance towards the doorway of the hall- at which point, she spotted Thean and began to eagerly wave her fork in his direction, grinning through a half-chewed mouthful. Face burning bright as several gazes began to dart towards him, Thean gave a short wave in return before sheepishly melting into the thick line of children awaiting their dinners. 

    As he progressed further along the line, passing by a sea of boys and girls eagerly indulging in the dishes that appeared far more elaborate than those of the morning, Merlin’s son took care to observe his surroundings as subtly as possible. There was far more order in the seating arrangements of the children than had been the case in the normal dining hall. Five additional long tables were organized, with benches Thean recognized as once being situated in the practice field. Moss and mildew had been cut away, and an unnatural polish glowed from the furniture that had previously been exclusively outside- the product of magic, perhaps. 

    They’re resourceful, Thean thought grimly. Good for them. Bad for us. 

    At the head of each table were sat the adults that had tested Thean earlier in the afternoon. Green shirts for the servants, white for the handlers, red brutes, blue messengers, and purple mages- purple, like the shirt he now had the right to wear. At least he’d have no trouble figuring out where to eat his meal. 

    Thankfully, the plates of boar legs hadn’t been completely emptied by the time he got to the serving area. Whipped potatoes, carrots and cabbages seasoned with spices he’d never caught a whiff of before- and pastries that Gemma was just then bringing into the hall with huffing breath. When his plate had been almost filled to the brim, he eased his way between two other boys to get to where her platter was. 

    Placing the fruits of her labor on another girl’s plate, she asked him without a glance, “You want any?” 

    “Already had some,” Thean said, prodding her to look up at the recognition of his voice. “Wouldn’t want to take them away from anyone else.” When he received only the raise of an eyebrow in response, he ventured, “So… this is what you call a ‘little’ feast?” 

    “T’was a relative term, Raven,” Gemma said cheekily. “You should see what Robin’s birthday feast is like, in the fall- nearly everything coated in honey, and music till dawn.” 

    “Looking forward to it,” Thean murmured, quickly removing himself from the conversation thereafter. 

    Gods, don’t let me still be here by then, he thought to himself as he made his way to the mage’s table with his head down, taking care to sit at the end farthest away from where Zezumo sat. Other boys close to his age seemed to have either the same intention, or had been instructed to act the same way, for the tallest of boys were the only ones closest enough to converse with their teacher. 

    “Oi.” 

    Next to a boy he recognized as Konneth was the source of the pointed word- a girl. “What’re you doing here?” she asked. 

    “I’m Raven,” he said, laying down his fork hesitantly, much to the protest of his stomach. He wished to have respite from this constant explanation of his sudden existence, but such was the nature of his mission. “I was sick for a while, so I didn’t take the test till today.” 

    “Hmm,” Konneth said, wrenching apart a piece of tough bread with his teeth. “Looks like I’m not the shortest one here anymore, eh, Clara?” 

    “No. Now you have the glory of being the second shortest,” said another boy- the one who had chastised Konneth for openly using magic at breakfast. 

    “Put a lid on it, Etho,” Konneth sighed. “I’m sure there’s a spell to make oneself taller. Zezumo’s just too chicken to teach us it, cause then none of his students will be shorter than him.” 

    Clara and Etho averted their eyes from Konneth, casting their gazes to the other end of the table in anxiety. Too weary to ponder the implications of their silence, Thean managed a few mouthfuls of food before he was plagued by another question. 

    “So, Raven- how do you like it here so far?” Konneth asked. 

    “It’s… fine.” 

    “Ah, so you hate this place too, huh?” 

    Etho hissed what was likely a curse word as Clara batted Konneth’s arm in frustration. The boy only laughed. 

    “Seriously, Kon, cut your miserable attitude,” Clara muttered. “It’ll get better, you’ll see.”

    “Will it?” Konneth murmured, suddenly losing interest in his assault of the piece of bread in his hands. “Or will we just get used to it?” 

    “Don’t listen to him, Raven- as long as you’re not the self-pitying type, you’ll get by just fine,” Etho said, though his look was pointed at Konneth rather than the subject of his words. Sensing that nodding was the safest response, Thean did just that, trying to salvage his last hopes of enjoying his meal amidst the tension. 

    By the time the music began to pick up speed rapidly, Merlin’s son had indulged in the majority of his plate and was feeling fuller than he had in days. He even had enough energy to tap his foot to the beat. The other children seemed to share in his renewed vigor, with several even drumming their hands on the table or slamming their mugs to the rhythm. A sweep of light swung about the raised stage, and that light was Robin, twirling and skipping about. None seemed surprised by this; the oldest man at the table she’d been at laughed and cheered her on, while across from Thean, Konneth rolled his eyes at the sight. 

    “Does she think herself a princess or something?” the boy muttered. 

    “She might as well be one,” Clara sighed, wistfully watching the swish of glittering lights on the other girl’s dress. 

    Princess or not, Robin didn’t seem to care. She started waving one arm high, as if beckoning someone on stage. For one terrified moment, Thean thought she might be indicating for him to come forward- but to his relief, it was Gemma who reluctantly climbed up. Grasping each other’s hands, they began to spin about rapidly until they were naught but a dizzying mixture of green and white. Such a spectacle continued until the instrumentalists tired and their bows lowered, looking nearly as breathless as the two girls on stage. 

    With a final slamming of mugs from onlookers, Robin returned to her decorated table, and Gemma to her serving station. “Thank Balance,” Konneth side, receiving a sharp elbow in the side from Clara. 

    Sudden silence not just from the dimming of the music fell over the hall- this was a fearful silence, Thean sensed, the kind that would fall over him and his family in the caves when handlers passed by too close for comfort. The younger of the two men on stage rose, lifting his arms to shoulder height as he did so. With that, the five teachers rose. Several children from the brutes, mages, and messengers stood as well, forming a circle before the man. 

    For the first time that night, the man at whom all eyes were trained on spoke. “In Hazard, Bind Chaos.” His voice was soft, but seemed to seep into the walls with its weight. 

    With a start, Thean repeated the words as they boomed from the mouths of all the children gathered, managing only a meek mumble with a hesitancy that he prayed went unnoticed. The ten or so children in the circle at the forefront of the room dipped their heads to the young man who had spoken- not a bow as would be done in Camelot, but rather a quick and sharp motion that Merlin’s son paid close attention to lest he need repeat it thereafter. They then departed quickly from the room, steps almost in line with one another, save for a boy in an oversized purple shirt who had to take twice as many steps to keep up. 

    He looked scared. 

    Life in the form of conversation came back slowly to the hall. A few children here and there began to return their dishware to the serving tables, yawning and trudging out into the halls; no one stopped them. 

    No more chores, then. Though he wouldn’t have minded seeing Arrow again, he was fine with not shoveling any more horse shit that day. 

    Whilst shifting on the bench in consideration of when it was safest to follow the few other children into the halls, he was startled into sitting up straight by the protesting shout of a girl. She, in a green dress, dragged a stumbling boy in white- Thean recognized him as one of the elder children from his mistaken inclusion in the handler’s class earlier that day. 

    “He tried to grab me!” she proclaimed, loud enough for the whole hall to hear, though her words were directed mostly to the younger man at the head table. “In the bum! ” 

    In the ensuing silence, Thean had to bite his lip from laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, in enemy territory, and this was what he was listening to. How exactly was he supposed to describe such events to his father, King Arthur, and the Queen of Nemeth? 

    “It was an accident! I swear!” cried the accused boy, waving his hands as though they displayed a written testimony of his innocence. 

    “Very well,” the younger man said, his face unreadable. Just as the petrified boy began to look hopeful, the man added, “Five stripes, in the courtyard. Brutus, you attend to the matter.” 

    Roars of approval rang from the table of the brutes, banging their mugs even louder than they had to the music. 

    “Stripes?” Konneth asked, clearly just as confused as Thean was. “What did Inoth mean?” 

    “What the Balancer meant,” Etho said in a voice pointed as usual, “was five lashes. He just didn’t want to say that in front of Robin.” 

    “Lashes?” Thean repeated dumbly. “Does the punishment really fit the, uh, crime?” 

    “Hmm, no, you’re right,” Clara said, turning to look over her shoulder as the accused boy was dragged by a tide of red tunics towards the door, led at the helm by Brutus. “I’d say he deserves at least ten lashes- but it is a feast night, after all.” 

    “Right.” Thean glanced towards the stage, only to be greeted by the sight of its emptiness- somehow, Robin, the older man, and Inoth (no, the Balancer- whatever that means), had left the room with little ceremony. 

    “So, Konneth, Raven- care to see your first lashing?” Etho asked, yawning. 

    “No,” Konneth said immediately. “I’m tired of all this, and I’m tired- would rather sleep than watch that charade. You sound like you ought to do the same, Etho.” 

    “Nah,” Clara said, twiddling her thumbs distractedly. “Us, missing a chance to see a bunch of brutes cheer on their Top Brute in an act of brutishness? Wouldn’t dare think of it.” 

    “Fine. It’s your loss of sleep.” Konneth got up with dishes and mug in hand, leaving without another word. Thean flashed the other two children a brief smile that went unnoticed before following the other boy’s journey into the crowd. By the time he’d returned his own dishes, Konneth was nowhere to be seen- nor was Gemma, he noticed with a twinge of disappointment. 

    Several groups of children had also made the decision to retire for the night, though more still bounded excitedly in the direction of the courtyard. Through the half-ajar doorways littering the halls, he could see some cramped with beds at odd angles and children kicking at each other for more blanket space. His room had been lucky to remain untouched, save for the absence of the clothes and trinkets he and his siblings had left behind. The former might have been added to the collective laundry of the invaders- and the latter, burned. 

    He collapsed onto his bed, burrowing face first into a pillow and curling on his side. 

    But as luck would have it, he was not able to wallow in the self-pity Etho had warned him against for very long. 

    “Not on the floor this time, huh?”

    Thean sat up suddenly and twisted to face her, knowing from the way his hair stuck to the side of his face that he must look a right mess. “You alright?” Robin asked, smirking slightly at his discomposure as she came to sit down beside him. 

    “Mm. Just tired.” 

    “I’ll bet! Gemma told me how you were misplaced with the handlers at first. I’ve heard their lessons are a real snore fest.”

    “They are.” He inhaled, debating whether he should speak more- but Robin’s brows were already raised in expectation, so he forged on reluctantly. “‘Specially since I can’t read.”

    “Oh. Well, neither can I.” She began to kick her feet back and forth against the base of the bed, rekindling a memory of how Camelot’s prince had often done the same when bored. 

    “Really?” Thean murmured with restrained disbelief. Anselm and Eloise had been taught lessons regularly, and learned how to read almost as soon as they learned how to speak. What kind of semi-princess couldn’t read the language of her own people?

    “Why would I need to?” Robin said easily, shrugging. “Reading’s just for messengers and handlers when they need to receive orders from Papa.” She tilted her head thoughtfully for a moment before continuing, “I think some of the mage kids know how to read. You could also ask Gemma for help, if you really want to learn.”

    “Gemma? But she’s a servant. I thought none of them knew how to read.” 

    “Yeah, but she’s the smartest of the servants!” Robin exclaimed, chest puffing up with vicarious pride. “Kaya taught her how to read.”

    “Who’s Kaya?” 

    The words were out of his mouth just as he began to regret them. This girl, or princess, or whatever she was, was making him far too lax in keeping his guard up. Just a few words were all that was needed to throw him out from his tenuous safety in this place and into fatal suspicion.

    Robin, however, did not seem surprised at his question, though she did become oddly disheartened at it, shifting away from Thean by an amount that would have been imperceptible had he not been on high alert once more. 

    “Kaya was Gemma’s mom, but- I thought of her as my own, too.” Her voice had gotten much smaller, and her eyes stared at nowhere and nothing in particular. “My mother died the day I was born. Gemma was just a month older than me, so Kaya became my wet nurse- and so much more after that. She’d look after me when Papa and Jay were away, teach me how to do my hair or pick the best flowers.” An echo of a smile faded from her lips. “But she passed away too. We were 8.” 

    Thean knew he should say something, should offer some empty form of comfort, but he only sighed. He had expected a revelation of that sort from Robin as soon as she became withdrawn.

    “Well?” Robin said, turning her gaze back to him suddenly. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

    “Like what?”

    “Like, ‘oh, Robin, that must have been so hard for you, you poor, precious creature.’” Her voice took on a fake high pitch and a simpering tone at the imitation. 

    “Is that how all the other kids talk to you?” 

    Robin slouched once more, her animated behavior flickering out. “No. Mostly, they just stay quiet. Keep their heads down while I’m around.”

    “So they’re like me, then,” Thean said, offering her a small smile that she did not mirror. 

    “Not like you,” she insisted, shaking her head. “The first night we met, you looked me in the eye. Hardly anyone else except Gemma’s ever done that.” 

    Thean nodded slowly at that. Though he’d lived a life far less privileged than her, he could sympathize with the wish to simply be seen. 

    “I lost my mother too,” he said in the ensuing silence. In a better world, he could have stopped there, but to maintain character he added, “And my father. Just this winter.” 

    Just a year ago. 

    A niggling voice at the back of his head told him he should stop admitting so much, should try to close the conversation right then and there. But this girl had unearthed her sorrows right in front of him- how could he not do the same? 

    “Sorry, Raven,” Robin murmured. 

    Thean nodded and met her eyes, but this time, without fear. She was evidently a year or two older than him, and from a different land more akin to a different world- but at that moment, they were just two children.

    “Kaya. Do you still miss her?”

    “Every day. Every hour. I wish I could tell you that goes away, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure I’d want it to, anyway. And even though I never met her… I miss my birth mother too.” Robin shook her head and laughed a little at herself. “That’s strange, isn’t it? To miss someone you didn’t even know.”

    “Not at all. You miss what might have been.” He’d ‘known’ his mother for ten years, but sometimes when he’d look at her in the caves, it’d feel like she was just a stranger with hair like Clo’s and eyes like Ava’s. All the stories she might’ve told about her life had she been freed with his siblings and Merlin, all the happy memories they could’ve formed after their escape- they died with her on the mountainside. 

    Robin stared at him with wide eyes as she said, “Yeah. That’s just it.” 

    As they sat in front of the starlit window for a few more silent moments, Thean assumed their conversation would continue in a similar serious manner- but Robin had other ideas, sucking in a deep breath and standing from the bed suddenly. “But I try not to dwell on it too much,” she said, dusting off her hands. “And I’m lucky, I know that- I have Gemma, and Papa, and Jay.” Casting a slight smile in Thean’s direction, she added, “And I have friends, too, I hope.”

    Thean returned the smile, but said nothing- partly because he was afraid of saying too much once more, but also because he didn’t want to ruin this rare moment of understanding. It reminded him of when he’d once sit with Ava at the cave entrances. They’d talk slowly, no clear aim of conversation in sight, and then lapse into a silence of tranquil nothingness. 

    Robin didn’t seem to care for silence as much as Thean’s twin, though, and glanced around the room for one last conversation topic before settling on the purple shirt of the boy before her. “You’re with Zezumo now, right, Raven?” After a nod of affirmation, her smile widened as she said, “That’s great! Their lessons are the most fun, that’s what my Papa says. Still, you better rest up. Got all sorts of cool spells to learn on the ‘morrow!”

    Again, Thean only nodded, watching that baffling oddity of a girl depart from the room. As she opened the door, he realized two guards had stood just beyond the threshold the entire time. One made eye contact with him, staring for an uncomfortable moment before turning on his heel to follow the almost-princess. 

    Once he’d waited long enough for their footsteps to recede, Thean closed the door and fell back onto the bed, keenly feeling all the empty spaces. He remembered why he’d so often sought out the King and Queen. Nights spent alone were long nights indeed. 

    His eyes begged leave to shut, but he stared at the ceiling, catching a piece of dust and forcing it to turn about in a draft he willed into existence. In his younger years when listening to his father, he’d yearned to wield the knowledge of tomes and tomes of spells. Once that knowledge had been available to him in abundance, Thean had discovered it was the smallest and most harmless acts of magic that brought him joy. 

    Somehow, he doubted he’d be practicing much joyful magic in the coming days. He’d already witnessed on the day of the invasion how the Departed Lands believed sorcery was best used. 

    He only realized he’d drifted asleep when he found himself blinking awake to the darkest hour of the night. The respite had not been entirely restful; no annoyingly vague and nightmarish premonitions had haunted him, but an ever present thrum of anxiety had remained on his chest even after his heartbeat had slowed. 

    Arthur. Gwen. 

    They were who he would have gone to see during this hour had he felt as uneasy as he did now. He couldn’t see both of them, but he could see one. 

    The thought sent Thean pulling on his boots in a sweep of motion, determination prying apart the residue of sleep that clung to him. He arranged the pillows and blankets so as to give an impression that someone lay beneath them still. Any close inspection would render the deceit ineffective, but Merlin’s son had to hope that for now, it was enough. 

    Slinking from one darkness to the next, closing the door to a room he’d once found comfort in, the boy began his journey back to those who’d remind him of the land they were trying to reclaim. Every pebble underfoot bade Thean to step with more care, but growing excitement spurred him to walk faster. Only when he grew closer to the fake stone that hid an entrance into the siege tunnels did he become more hesitant, as wary optimism gave way to trepidation. Who was he to assume everything would be alright? Thus far, life had seemed to make every effort to prove otherwise to him. 

    A “Patentibus” first to reveal the wooden door, and then “Corium” to force the mirage of stone back into place. After that, nothing stood between him and the enveloping blackness. 

    Worse than the absence of light was the presence of overwhelming human stench, much akin to the way the Medora mountain would reek on the hottest of summer days. Thank goodness Clo isn’t here. With his brother’s heightened sense of smell, he couldn’t imagine how he’d cope were he beside Thean then. 

    There was, however, no scent of death- a scent that, unfortunately, Thean was also acquainted with. Thus, with slow steps and one hand trailing the stone wall for balance, he made his way towards where he thought he might find signs of life. 

    It was not long before one such sign of life nearly made him jump out of his skin. 

    “You there!” 

    The words came out as a harsh whisper, but to Thean, they might as well have been a belligerent shout, for they made him stop in his tracks immediately. 

    “What are you doing out here?” continued the voice at the same level. “Go back to the halls!”

    “I, um…” He knew the voice lay in front of him, but he did not recognize it as one of the knights he was familiar with- and, with his eyes still adjusting to the absolute darkness, he couldn’t even make out the edges of their figure. 

    “Thean? ”

    “Gwaine!” Thean cried in relief. A startled gasp from the other guard spurred him to say excitedly, but in a whisper, “Yes, it’s me!” 

    That’s my name! He thought joyfully. 

    “By the gods,” Gwaine murmured. There was a shuffling of dirt, and Thean’s eyes were able to detect the faintest bit of motion as the knight knelt to come closer before him. Next thing Thean knew, there were hands clapping his shoulder, then grabbing his ears and giving his head a little shake. A laugh of disbelief crinkled the edges of the air, and Thean matched the sound. 

    “You scared the shite out of us, little man.” With his eyes finally adjusting to the dark, Thean was able to see a frown come across the face before him, and suddenly Gwaine was gripping his shoulders a little more tightly. “Where are your siblings- and Anselm, Eloise?”

    “They’re fine, last I saw them,” Thean said. “It’s a long story, but- I don’t have much time, and I can’t stay here. I need to see Gwen.”

    “What do you mean you can’t stay?” The unidentified knight said, sounding less on guard than before, but still rightfully flustered. “Where did you even come from?” 

    Gwaine hesitated in a moment of tense silence before standing up resolutely. “We’ll do as he says.” With a sigh, he added, “Knowing how Gwen’s been of late, she’s likely not even asleep.”

    With the as yet unnamed knight leading in the front, Gwaine walked alongside Thean in continued silence. When he did at last speak, Merlin’s son hoped to hear some jest or lighthearted remark. He was disappointed. 

    “I don’t know where you and the others went, Thean, and I don’t know why,” Gwaine murmured. “But I do hope it proved worthwhile. It has worn on the Queen.”

    Thean breathed in shakily, nervousness clenching his fists as he said, “It was- worth it, I mean.” At least, I hope so. 

    “Good. Then I look forward to hearing about it, big man.” A flash of white brimmed where Gwaine’s face was, a grin Thean knew well even in the absence of light. The echo of happiness faded as they neared the inhabitants of the siege tunnels. They were strewn about the hallways- those who were lucky had blankets, and those who were not had to curl in on each other for warmth as Merlin’s children had once done in the mines. One woman sat awake and alone, knees hugged to her chest as she eyed Thean and the knights with weary disinterest. 

    They stopped at one of the few archways Thean remembered from his brief stay in the tunnels- the room where his siblings and the royal children had dwelled. “She should be here,” Gwaine said grimly, confirming what Thean suspected. “I’ll check if she’s awake.”

   As the knight disappeared into the deeper darkness, a pang of guilt tugged at the boy. Gwen had remained in the last place she’d known her children to be safe, the place they might have stayed had Thean’s impulsivity not led them astray. 

   “Were you the one who threw the buckets at me and Kerwyn?” 

    The question from the other knight came as a surprising distraction from his spiraling thoughts. “Er… no?” was all he managed at first until he recalled the last time he’d heard mention of flying buckets. “You’re thinking of my little brother.” 

    “Hmph,” the knight grunted in discontent. “Well, tell your brother he has good aim.”

    “Will do,” Thean acquiesced, letting out a brief chuckle. 

    Faint murmurs from beyond the archway were punctuated by a sharp exclamation, and in another heartbeat there were hands on Thean’s face, then around his shoulders, pulling him forward into an embrace. Though he still couldn’t see well, he knew without asking who was before him- as did she. 

    “Thean. Gwaine said it was you, but… seemed too good to be true.” She was sniffling, and the hands upon his shoulders shook to an alarming extent. Gwen guided him into the room quickly to sit on the edge of what must have been her bed (though previously Anselm and Eloise’s), with the bucket-concussed knight and Gwaine remaining outside. 

    As the Queen sat down beside him, she leaned forward and said in a rush, “My children- your siblings. Tell me-”

    “They’re safe,” Thean said, interrupting her without a care for decorum in his haste. “And so is Arthur. And so is my Pa.” 

    The shadow of Gwen’s figure remained silent for a moment, the air around her thick with mingled confusion and joy. “Your father? And Arthur, how could you have…?” A shocked laugh escaped from her, and she quickly covered it with her mouth. “You must have quite the story to tell, Thean.”

    “And not a lot of time to tell it.” He launched into the narrative, tongue stumbling often; he did not think he’d ever spoken that much nor that fast ever before. He told of their escape into Nemeth, of their reunion with Arthur and Merlin, and of his entanglement in the affairs of the baffling Departed Lands people. 

    When at last he’d said all that his breath would allow, Gwen reached for his hands.

    “Thean, do you know that you have been very, very brave?”

    Thean shifted uneasily, slowly untangling his hands from hers and turning his gaze to where he and his siblings and lain for less than a night. The praise felt unearned; all of this devastation could have been avoided, or at least diminished, had he heeded the warnings of his dreams. The Queen would not be sitting then in the darkness, without her King or her children. 

    “I know that I’ve been reckless,” he said dully. “I shouldn’t have let Anselm and Eloise follow me. They could have been captured, or hurt, or- or worse.” 

    Though he’d worried for their safety, he’d felt far less guilty about allowing Ava and Clo to accompany him from Camelot; they were his family, his responsibility. Anselm and Eloise, however, were his friends primarily because of the hospitality of the King and Queen- and what had he been to them thus far but a burden, a drain on their resources and energy, and a spark for the prince and princess to launch themselves into the unknown? 

    “No, Thean, you are not to blame in that matter,” Gwen sighed. “That could have happened had they stayed here, too. They’ve been in danger of being used as political pawns since the day they were born.” She paused, struggling to arrange her thoughts amidst the maelstrom of emotions she’d just endured. “It’s probably for the best they’re not in these tunnels. Every day here brings us closer to the chance of being discovered, or running out of food or water. We don’t burn torches anymore lest the smoke seep through where the ceilings are thinnest, and all the children stay quiet as mice. And-” The Queen hesitated, as if she’d forgotten who she was speaking to. “And those who have not survived thus far must be buried without any eulogy to mark their passing.

    “When I realized you were gone- that all of you were gone…. I wanted nothing more than to rush out into the citadel to search, invaders be damned. Gwaine and Elyan, bless their hearts, kept me from acting on that instinct initially. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered the idea every hour since that night.”

    Thean found he had little to say that sounded worthwhile in his head. He’d expected Gwen to worry, but he had not expected her to still be in a grievous mood despite the news of her family’s wellbeing. 

    “You’re needed here,” he insisted meekly. “You’re their Queen.”

    “I wanted to be Arthur’s wife; I never wanted to be Queen.” Her words sounded so small. “And at first, I thought I’d come to accept that- and then Anselm was born, and Eloise. And I realized that with the name Pendragon, they’d never be safe. They’ll never be safe.” 

    In the darkness, the time and distance between Merlin’s son and the Medora mountains seemed to thin. Upon hearing the hollowness in Gwen’s voice, Thean was reminded of his own mother, of how he’d always try to find some lasting glimmer of hope or joy in her eyes. All he’d ever done was keep searching. 

    He began to cry, and unlike the first time he had in front of the Queen, he didn’t try to hide it then. His sobs came out in strangled gasps despite his struggles to remain quiet. Her arms wrapped around him, harkening back to the first few months after Lea’s death when Merlin’s son would make his way into the royal chambers, desperate to not feel alone in that new world. The nightmares were still there, but now they were in the waking world as equally as they’d been in sleep. 

    “Please don’t give up,” Thean whispered once the sobs started to ebb. “They need you here. I need you here.”

    “Thean.” She lifted his face a little from where he’d curled up on her lap. “One of the good things about being a Pendragon, is that we never truly give up.” 

    Thean let out a wet laugh, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand and regaining some sense of composure as he did so- and with that, a return to the reality of his precarious situation. 

    “I have to go back,” he said apologetically. “My room, I shouldn’t leave it for too long.”

    “I understand,” Gwen said, standing up quickly with an echo of her royal demeanor. “Gwaine and Hembert will lead you out. I’ll have a mage and knight stationed at that entrance from now on, so that you do not have to be on your own.” When Thean had stood up himself and they’d reached the archway, she turned to him once more. “And Thean, come back and see Gaius soon.”

    “Of course!” Thean whispered, cheering up slightly at the mention of his father’s old mentor. “Why wouldn’t I?”

    Gwen was silent for a moment. “I just mean that, you should see him soon. As soon as you can.” 

    Thean, sensing with dread what she could not bring herself to say, only nodded. Words wouldn’t do a lick of good to lighten what she implied. 

    They left- he, Hembert, and Gwaine. Over the legs of sleeping and listless survivors and through the halls they walked, with Thean beckoning them to stop once they’d reached the wall that wasn’t really a wall at all. 

    As stone turned to wood at the boy’s command and he stepped back into the tunnels, Gwaine murmured, “Take care of yourself, Thean.” 

    Thean swallowed thickly and nodded, savoring the sound of the name his true parents had given him before summoning the stone back. 

    Alone again.

Chapter Text

Anselm

    The prince of Camelot held his new sword, one palm under the hilt and the other at its tip. 

    Today was his birthday. That would have meant something back in Camelot, but here in Nemeth, name days only garnered the scantest remarks of acknowledgement. Still, his father had informed him at breakfast that he’d requested the cooks make some of Anselm’s favorite dishes for dinner that evening. Then, Arthur had given him the sword forged from Nemethian steel before hurrying off to a meeting with the promise of seeing his children later. 

    Though Anselm appreciated his father’s efforts, he’d have preferred no celebration at all rather than a lackluster one. The mother that would hug him a little more tightly during happy affairs was out of sight, but not out of mind, and all the knights that he usually celebrated with were either busy maintaining order in the refugee camp, or under the siege tunnels with his mother, or slain on the streets of Camelot turned battlefield. 

    Thirteen. 

    Not quite the age of a young man, nor of a young child. He had been given his first steel sword, as was traditional for the thirteenth birthday of a Camelot prince. But for the time being, or perhaps for all time, he’d be a prince only by title, not by lands. 

    Should a prince by title, not-man, not-child long so much for his mother? 

    He and Eloise, with the intermittent accompaniment of Clo and Ava, had scoured the Nemethian castle for activities to occupy their restlessness. Having already done so with Thean back in the winter, however, Anselm lost interest in the quest much sooner than his little sister. Distractions- that was all their escapades had ever been, as had been all their tomfoolery when Camelot had still been in one piece. Back then, they’d wished to distract themselves of the lifelong duties of their royal statuses. In Nemeth, they explored so that they might forget the reality that they may never rule over the lands promised to them by their bloodlines. 

    “Anselm?” 

    Ava’s timid voice reached his ears, and he turned from where he sat on the bed to see the girl looking far paler than usual. She’d seemed out of sorts at breakfast, hardly responding to any of Eloise’s cheerful remarks about her own prior birthday in the summer. Ava had departed shortly after the King, muttering something incomprehensible about needing to study herbs. 

    At the prince’s inquisitive silence, Ava said hesitantly, “Could you… could you follow me?”

    Anselm followed her out of the room easily enough, asking only once they began to briskly make their way through the halls, “What is it?” 

    Ava’s unkempt braid swished back and forth as she shook her head. “I need to show you something.” 

    They reached the castle gardens, with Merlin’s daughter still not slowing her pace. The foremost aspect of the grounds was interspersed with servants planting bulbs that’d blossom in the summer. Farther on towards the northernmost walls, however, the two children found themselves alone, with the Athrangi tree repelling all Nemethians as well as a horde of wasps might.

    When they’d reached the bench before the small tree, Ava turned to Anselm meaningfully, waiting for a reaction. When he gave her no significant response (other than a look of confusion), she glanced at the tree and muttered, “Oh, right.” Standing on her tiptoes, she brushed back the branches to reveal a shape that did not match the emerald leaves and purple flowers surrounding it. 

    “Huh. Rinette never mentioned anything about this being a fruit tree,” Anselm murmured. The fruit had a form akin to that of an apple, but was shinier and had a purple color a few shades darker than that of catnip flowers. 

    “That’s because it’s not supposed to be one,” Ava said, scanning their surroundings uneasily. “I looked in all the books I could find, Anselm- Athrangi trees are only supposed to sprout flowers, not fruit. When I was here in the morning, it was empty- I closed my eyes for a second, and then this was just there.” 

    “So, you’ll make a good farmer someday. Congratulations. What’s the big deal?”

    Ava stepped closer to him, lowering her voice and narrowing her eyes in frustration at his nonchalance. “The people in this castle look like they want to throw Clo out a window every time he so much as mentions the word ‘magic.’ How do you think they’ll react if I’m suddenly creating things that aren’t supposed to exist?”

    “Isn’t that the whole point of magic?” As Merlin’s daughter scowled (in a manner eerily similar to how Thean had the first time Anselm had thrown a snowball at him), Anselm decided to attack the seemingly not troublesome issue from a different angle. “And anyway, if you’re so worried about someone finding it, why don’t you just eat the fruit then? Problem solved.”

    “Eat it? Are you crazy? What if it’s poisonous, and I break out in hives?” A shadow fell across Ava’s face. “Or- what if it tastes bad?”

    “You wouldn’t have created something bad with your magic. You wouldn’t.”

    He’d expected his words to bring a smile to her face; instead, she bristled with anger, jibing, “How can you be so sure of that?” 

    Anselm gaped for a moment. Did she really have no such faith in her abilities? But no, of course she didn’t. When he watched Merlin’s children, it was easy to forget their talents had been locked within them until only a year ago. The full extent of their abilities, good or bad, were still unknown to them- and he was just beginning to realize how frightening that uncertainty could be, manifested in the creased brow of the girl before him. 

    “Ava,” Anselm sighed, not knowing where to begin. 

    As if echoing the weary prince, another voice called out, “Aaaaava!” 

    “Rats,” Ava whispered, recognizing her little brother’s voice. Clo wasn’t in their line of sight yet, but he would be soon. In a quick flash of movement, she plucked the fruit of her dilemma and shoved it in one of Anselm’s pockets. 

    “Hey, I don’t want it! Use your own pockets!” he cried out. 

    “It’s a dress, Anselm!” Ava hissed back, gesturing emphatically to her outfit. “It doesn’t have pockets! ”

    Her voice dropped even lower as the redheaded boy at the focus of their anxieties came into view. 

    “What are you two doing here?” Clo asked, perturbed. Ava, he was used to seeing visiting the Athrangi tree; Anselm, however, he knew to prefer the libraries and training grounds adorned with straw-filled dummies. Nose twitching, the younger boy’s eyes darted to and fro between the others. “And what’s that smell?”

    At a panicked look from Ava, Anselm said deadpan, “I stepped on some flowers.” He laughed forcefully in feigned embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oops. Say, have you seen Elly?” 

    “Yeah,” Clo said slowly, looking only a little less confused. “She’s with Pa, waiting by the gates. Trying to convince him to let her come with us.”

    “Guess I should go see her, then,” Anselm sighed. He’d rather not hear more of her exuberant talk about how birthday celebrations were supposed to be. Even without such talk, he was growing tired of her constant company. In Camelot, they’d had enough lessons to separate them for the better part of the day, resulting in less bickering when they could finally reconvene. With an excess of time and worry on their hands, Anselm could hardly say a word without his sister contradicting him, and vice versa. 

    Clo fidgeted with his hands for a dreadful moment, during which the two older children feared he might ask more questions. To their relief, however, he turned his gaze to Anselm and yelped, “Bet I can get there faster than you!”

    “You’re on.” Whereas Thean could outpace the prince in sprinting, Clo proved more of a challenge over longer distances, with he and the prince usually disagreeing over who’d crossed a make believe finish line first by a hair’s breadth. With his most recent defeat in mind, Anselm took off quickly, darting forward through the neatly clipped grass. When he could only hear his own quickening breaths, he turned his head slightly in the hopes of seeing Merlin’s younger son struggling to catch up. 

    There was no one behind him. 

    “What the-?” Anselm gasped, skidding to a halt. 

    Ava was still in the same spot in the garden as she was before, looking even paler than when she’d first led Anselm to the garden- a feat which he hadn’t known possible. “He… disappeared,” she murmured, the words scarcely reaching him from where he stood many paces away. They stood like that for a moment, keenly aware of the empty space between them. 

    Ava walked. Then, she ran, and he ran alongside her. 

    With the hearts in their throats pounding in tempo with their feet, they burst forth into the courtyard, ready to panickedly explain the sudden evaporation of the boy to Merlin- only to find Clo in one piece there before them, hands behind his back and head down as his father spoke to him in a low voice. Camelot’s princess eyed the spectacle from several paces away, looking amused. 

    Once they reached Eloise, Ava huffed breathlessly, “What happened?” 

    “Oh, it was amazing!” the princess exclaimed. “Clo left to go find you, Ava, and he said he’d be back super fast, and he was! I was just explaining to your Pa why I’ll be safe in the citadel if I bring my daggers, when all of a sudden- poof!” Here, Eloise waved her arms emphatically. “Clo was there where there’d just been air! Amazing, right?” 

    Merlin did not seem to think it was amazing. His arms were crossed, he himself looked very cross with the boy shuffling his feet before him. 

    “Where’d you find that spell, Clover?” Anselm stood up straighter himself at Merlin’s words; he’d almost forgotten what Clo’s full name was. The use of it did not bode well for him; whenever Arthur’s children had their full names invoked by one of their tutors, that usually meant they were about to be smacked upside the head with a book they’d not been reading. 

    Thankfully, there were no books in sight, as far as the prince could tell. 

    “It was in one of your old books,” Clo mumbled. “So I figured it must be safe.” 

    “I specifically crossed that spell out and wrote in big letters, ‘bad idea.’” 

    “Oh… well, I’m still not very good at reading.” 

    “Good enough to read spells, though?” Merlin sighed, massaging his temples with one hand- a habit Anselm had often seen his own father show after long counseling sessions. “Clo, I crossed out that spell for a reason. It’s dangerous, especially if you do it alone. One misstep, one break in concentration, and you could find yourself at the bottom of a lake, or in the middle of a stone wall. Is that what you want?” 

    “It might be interesting to at least-” 

    “No. The answer you were looking for, is no. Do you understand?” 

    Clo nodded slowly. “I understand. It’s not safe for me to practice alone- but that means it’s not so dangerous if I practice with you, right?” 

    “Not here, Clo. Even the smallest of spells aren’t safe in Nemeth.” 

    “But in Camelot?” 

    Merlin grimaced in consideration. “Perhaps.” As Clo bounced on his feet as if promised his own pony, his father turned toward the other children, nodding in their direction. “For now, let’s just focus on seeing your grandmother.” 

    “And Anselm and I can come too, right?” Eloise chirped, darting forward now that the scolding session was over. 

    “No, Anselm and you will stay right here. Your father would surely banish me if I brought you into the citadel against his orders.” 

    “No he wouldn’t!” the princess claimed, offended on Merlin’s behalf at the suggestion. 

    “No, he wouldn’t,” Merlin acquiesced, giving her a smile. “But he’d be quite angry, and rightly so.”

    Seeing his sister still not close to backing down, Anselm spoke up. “C’mon, Elly. Let’s go to the library and see if we can find anything good.” 

    “Nothing is good here! Almost all the books are about…” She shuddered. “Practical stuff.” 

    “Tell you what,” Merlin said, kneeling on the cobblestones to be at eye-level with her. “When I get back, I’ll show you that book your brother and I were looking at yesterday.” 

    Eloise’s eyes widened. “The one with the megaoctopus?” Anselm had only vaguely mentioned that mythical creature to her when she’d pestered with him with questions. He’d been hesitant to divulge more information on the book to her, but had given in due to his wish to annoy her with his superior knowledge in that area. 

    “The megaoptataprum- yes, that one.” 

    “Promise?” 

    Here, Merlin hesitated. Promises were something he’d hardly ever made to his own children; words were trivial in the dangerous circumstances they’d been born into. But he was speaking to a princess- and not just any princess, but Arthur’s daughter. She was no doubt accustomed to having the world promised her, only to be told ‘not yet’ just after. 

    “Yes,” Merlin said after some deliberation. “Promise.” 

    Eloise spun on her feet in delight, and did not protest when Merlin and his children headed to the stables without her. With that distraction gone, she turned to her brother for entertainment. “Let’s practice swords and daggers,” she said decisively, her voice leaving no room for Anselm to argue unless he wanted to witness a royal tantrum. 

    “And then get something to eat,” she added, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps some fruit.” 

*****

    “Over there’s our favorite canal, in the winter all the snow would melt in till it was nearly overflowing. Oh! That’s where they sell the best raisin pies, and next to that is where Halberg would buy us clothes. And over there-” 

    Merlin’s attention faded in and out as Clo’s tour of Nemeth’s citadel wound on, with him only adding the occasional ‘hmm’ or ‘go on’ to prove to the boy he was at least partially listening. He’d missed his youngest son’s incessant chatter, a trait which no amount of hardship had managed to permanently break. They shared the same horse, with Clo sat in front of him as Ava led her own steed on ahead. She knew the streets best after spending the better part of two seasons delivering Halberg’s pottery, and thus tasked herself with finding the quickest route to the refugee camp. 

    With the sight of his daughter ahead, a transient sense of peace and pride stirred in Merlin’s chest. She had a good head on her shoulders, and a sense of caution rivaled only by her mother’s. 

    I wish you could see them, Lea. All of them. 

    Thean had still not contacted him. Merlin knew that silence left few interpretations of his fate, most of which were not favorable. Silence was what had made the vast majority of Camelot assume Merlin dead, save for its King. Silence was what made Merlin fear the same for his eldest son. 

    He tightened the arms he had wrapped around Clo without realizing, and the boy’s monologue paused. “What is it, Pa?” he asked quietly. 

    “Nothing,” Merlin said, glad that they weren’t facing each other lest his son pick up on his obvious lie. “Just a little chilly, that’s all.” The skies were fairly clear and the sun reached down easily enough upon their backs, but years of being underfed had left him feeling perpetually cold save for during the hottest of summers. 

    “Here, then.” Clo unwrapped his father’s old neckerchief from where it had adorned his chest, and passed it backwards with one hand. “I don’t need it.” Thean had left the vast majority of his father’s old neckerchiefs behind in Nemeth due to his lack of knowledge on the typical fashion of the Departed Lands, leaving his little brother to adopt the habit of wearing them. 

    Merlin accepted the fabric gratefully, more for the sense of comfort it provided than actual warmth, and glanced about at their surroundings more observantly since Clo had stopped pointing out their minutiae. They were just finishing passing through a market square, one that had a distinct lack of merchants and a surplus of worried shoppers. Trade between Nemeth and Camelot had always been bountiful when Merlin had still been at court, and he suspected that their interactions had only increased after his disappearance. 

    With Camelot invaded and an influx of refugees on the outskirts of the citadel, food was quickly becoming scant for those outside of the castle. Of the few council meetings Merlin had attended, rationing was one of the primary concerns, just behind prioritization of defense. With no known deadline of when Camelot would be freed, restrictions were already being placed on how much grain would be distributed by the castle to the refugees and standard citizens so that they could survive through the summer if needed. And while such measures were for the benefit of all in Nemeth, they certainly weren’t pleased with it. Even those in the square dressed in laced dresses and elaborate tunics appeared disgruntled at the lack of variety, unaccustomed to being able to eat food only for sustenance rather than pleasure. 

    Some glanced at Merlin and his children warily, for though they’d brought no guards (at Merlin’s insistence), their horses were clearly better groomed than the average citizen’s. Clo’s light hair made their status as outsiders even more obvious. 

    “Almost there!” Ava called out, and Merlin sighed with relief. The cobblestones sloped downward, and the refugee camp was sighted over the tops of the humble houses lining the street. The scarlet banners of Camelot’s people rippled in the slight breeze- as did several dark blue and grey ones depicting crests of Nemethians. 

    Strange, Merlin pondered. Those weren’t there when we arrived. 

    He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, trying to summon up some semblance of happiness. He was going to see his mother, a fact which was only dampened by the news he’d bring with him. 

    They tied up their horses by the outpost of Nemethian knights. A few of Camelot’s knights moved among them, the occasional one dipping their head in respect to Merlin. Most, he did not know- but evidently, they knew him, a fact of which he wasn’t sure he was glad of. For so long, anonymity had been his armor. He’d just been getting used to being respected for who he was when he was taken to Medora and forced by circumstance to hide his true identity once more. 

    At least once immersed in the camp, they were not stared at excessively. Merlin thought he spotted a former slave or two from the cavern camp he’d reunited with Arthur in, but they scarcely glanced at him. His attempts to make acquaintances with any of them prior to the liberation had largely been met with suspicion, leaving him to spend his spare time focusing his energy on weakening the guarding runes in the camp- and dreaming of his family and Camelot and imperfect but happier times. 

    There was something different about the refugees, something Merlin couldn’t quite place. When he and Arthur and the children had first entered it a week ago, there’d been plenty of haggard faces, but an abundance of hopeful ones as well. The people there had fled likely danger or certain death, and felt at least momentarily safe in the shadow of Nemeth’s citadel. 

    But their relief had ebbed away like a tide unreturned. 

    “Merlin!” 

    It was his mother’s voice, and she sounded much the way he remembered her from years ago- happy to see him, without the note of disbelief that’d been present at their initial reunion. She hugged him tightly all the same, and for a moment, he could pretend a decade hadn’t separated them. 

    The moment passed, and she pulled away, turning her attention to the two children beside her son. Clo shuffled his feet, and Ava glanced up shyly. The stories they’d heard of Arthur had been manifold with adventure, defeat and triumphs- but Merlin told tales of his mother far less often. When he did, he told them of peace, and of a village that had never accepted him, but a mother who always had. One who had always made her love apparent through words and actions. 

    And then his children’s eyes would turn to Lea, and they’d wonder where they went wrong. 

    So Ava and Clo had a great deal of admiration for their grandmother, but a great deal of questions as well, most of which they’d never think to ask. Sensing their solemnity, Hunith smiled to put them at ease. “And you my dears,” she murmured. “Are you hungry?”

    Clo perked up and nodded eagerly. “Always.”

    “Just like your father, then,” Hunith said, chuckling. The boy beamed even further. “There’s some bowls of stew set inside.” When Merlin gave her a surprised look, she added, “Leon came by earlier, told me you were planning to stop by.”

    Her son nodded in understanding. “Arthur’s been keeping him busy, running back and forth to the castle.” 

    “It’s the people here keeping him busy,” Hunith sighed, a tired look grazing her face. She hid the look as soon as it peeked through, glancing at the children. “Where is Thean?”

    Clo and Ava lowered their heads, and Merlin winced. “I’ll explain soon. Let’s eat first.” He waved the two present children on into the makeshift tent. 

    Hunith remained at the entrance with Merlin a moment longer, all too familiar with his evasive tactics. “Is he safe?” she pressed. 

    “I think so.” The words felt weak on his tongue.

    “That’s not good enough.” Hunith had lived far too long with possibilities running through her mind to feel comforted by half-hearted assurances. 

    “Mother… please.”

    She also knew when to turn away, when to let Merlin collect his thoughts before he talked of the storm in his head. Though she pursed her lips in evident displeasure, she settled on tending to the two of her grandchildren until she could learn of the third. The tent was even more humble than the hut Merlin and her had lived in back in Ealdor, with only a woodfire stove, a table, benches, haphazard crates, and a blanket on a worn patch of carpet. A twinge of guilt wracked the sorcerer upon thinking of the feathered, padded beds they had been granted in Nemeth’s castle. 

    The stew she’d set out for them could hardly be called that, for it was far too watery; Clo still lapped it up, slurping all the while, but Ava took more timid sips. Merlin’s daughter glanced up hesitantly as her grandmother watched them with a slight smile.

    After shifting in her seat to the point of Clo glaring at her for the creaking sound, Ava asked, “Why’s it so quiet here?”

    Merlin and his children were not unacquainted to silence, but they each knew that cities were known for their raucous timbre. Yet the refugee camp hearkened back to the nights in the mines when the only sounds were tired and resigned sighs. 

    The peaceful look Hunith had worn while observing the two children disappeared promptly. “Those who come in are often tired from traveling. As for those who’ve been here for a week like myself…” She laughed bashfully, gesturing to the not yet finished bowls of stew. “Well, the food leaves one wanting.”

    “We’ll get you better food then from the castle!” Clo exclaimed, hitting his spoon against the table for emphasis. “Right, Pa?”

    “That’s alright, Clo,” Hunith murmured, commencing her own meal. “Your father and I didn’t exactly live luxuriously in Ealdor. I can handle a few less pieces of bread here and there.” 

    “You shouldn’t have to,” Clo pouted, and though Merlin was in the thick of worrying for his mother, he also felt a surge of pride for the boy. Whilst he and Lea had always taught their children to do whatever it took to survive, Merlin had worried equally for their moral well-being. If the hardship of their childhood made his sons and daughter impervious to the woes of the others, then they would not be able to live good lives amongst society should they escape. 

    But Clo, their wild child, their youngest, had a heart that truly lived up to his nickname of little mountain lion. 

    “It’s not all bad here,” Merlin’s mother said presently. Standing up, she rifled through her few crates, grunting from the strain. When she came back to the table, she held out a small object before her with a grin. “A crafter was handing out these the other day, said it was called a ‘flying bear.’” Pulling a string, part of the wooden object sprung to life, twisting towards the table in an arc. Clo cried out in delight and caught the toy in his hands. When still, Merlin could clearly make out the shape- a bear with paws splayed out as if it had slipped in mud, mimicking the form of wings. 

   “That certainly flies more than a bear,” Ava remarked, leaning towards her brother. “How high can it go?”

   “Let’s test it out!” Clo ran out of the tent immediately after Hunith handed him the other part of the toy with the string. Ava glanced at her father for permission, and Merlin nodded with a smile. He’d never seen them play with anything but rocks before. 

    With his children still in sight through the flap of the tent but far enough to not hear his words, Merlin told his mother of the reasons for Thean’s absence. She remained silent throughout the tale, grimacing as her son recounted how eagerly the Nemethian administrators had been to take up Thean’s volunteer to aid them at his own risk. Silence continued to lapse between them when Merlin ended with the revelation that he’d still not yet received word from Thean. He waited for his mother to speak angrily, either to voice her discontent with the Nemethians, or to scold him for his inability to keep her grandson safe- just as she used to scold him for running through Old Man Simmons’ yard, or showing off his magic to Will, back when he’d only had to worry about endangering his own life. 

    But Hunith held no scolding tone as she said, “You did what you could.”

    “That’s what I keep telling myself,” he sighed. “Still don’t quite believe it, though.”

    “I felt the same when I sent you to Camelot.”

    Merlin looked at her in surprise. She’d been so adamant about his initial departure from Ealdor. At the time he’d been pondering on the idea himself for many years due to restlessness and the wish to fully discover his magical abilities, but it had been his mother who had claimed with finality that it was best for him to leave. “That’s different,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “You sent me there to protect me.”

    Hunith eyed him skeptically. “Yes, Merlin, I sent you to the heart of a citadel where magic was punishable by death to protect you.”

    “Then why’d you do it?” He vaguely remembered Camelot seeming a lot more averse to magic than he’d anticipated, but had assumed his mother had known little about the specifics of their politics. He should’ve known better- for someone who’d lived in Ealdor her whole life, Hunith was always wiser than one might assume. 

    “Because I knew you were meant for more than just our little village. And I was right in the end, as always.” Her eyes glimmered as she gazed upon him. “Camelot was where you found yourself.” 

    The pride in her voice sparked shame in Merlin. Though he’d sent her frequent letters throughout his time in Camelot thanks to Arthur, out of fear of discovery, he’d left out many key details of all the deeds he’d done- the noble, and the detestable. “It’s where I lost myself many times, too,” he said, turning away from her where he sat. 

    “But you’ve always found your way back,” Hunith countered, not to be discouraged. 

    “What if Thean doesn’t?” His jaw worked, and seized by a sudden stab of distress, he stood and paced restlessly, glancing out the tent flap at the two children he knew to be safe as his mother looked on with a worried frown. “All the stories I told them, all that talk of destiny,” he said, voice carefully restrained to keep from shouting in frustration. “What if that’s what gave Thean the idea? What if I did that?” 

    Perhaps Lea had been right. Perhaps he shouldn’t have filled their heads with exaggerated belief in the goodness of the outside world, should have stripped down what he told them to the truth she’d come to terms with: that the world was cold and harsh and random, and even those who make the greatest efforts may be left grasping at dust with desperate hands. 

    Hunith rose from where she sat, laying a hand against one of her son’s arms to still him. “Children need stories- especially yours.” She looked out to where Clo chased the flying bear toy as Ava launched it, and a small smile rose to her face. “I told you stories of the same kind, Merlin. Do you remember what your favorite quote was, the one that Thean the Wanderer would always say when exploring a new area? Once you’d left for Camelot, I worried you may have taken it too literally. That the only thing worse than death-”

    “Is to never live at all. Yes, I remember.” He had repeated that line in his head during his and Arthur’s first expeditions outside of Camelot, before he’d begun to have full faith in their ability to protect one another. He’d been a young man then, though- not a young child. “I want Thean to live freely,” he murmured. “That’s all I ever hoped for him and his siblings when we were in the mines. But I want them to live in a time of peace, not of war and fear.”

    “They might still. The world you and Arthur have always tried to build? Believe in it.”

    That world. His children had seen more of Camelot in its recent flourishing than he had, and the way in which they ached for its restoration proved it was a place worth longing for. “Thean got a taste of that world. He believes in it.” Bittersweet memories rose to the surface of his mind of Arthur telling him of the strange but largely happy times his eldest son had had during his year in the citadel- all of which, Merlin himself had not been there to witness. 

    “Then you must, too. For him…” Hunith paused to gesture to where Ava and Clo still played outside the tent. “...and for them.”

    Merlin followed her line of sight to where the two of them played. They could almost be two ordinary Nemethian children, torn into uncertain circumstances but still ensconced in the sense of safety and belonging that most children had. 

    “We should go,” Merlin sighed, letting the illusion fade before him. “There’s something else we must do.”

    “Is it safe, this ‘other thing’ you must do?” 

    “I think so.”

    Hunith gave him a knowing frown. “I don’t think I’ll ever find those words reassuring, Merlin.” She sighed, cupping a hand against his cheek. “But I know you’ll do your best- you always have done.” 

   “Let’s hope that’s good enough,” he said grimly, leaning away from her touch. He wanted to stay here; the tent was a poor imitation of the old home he’d inhabited with his mother, but she was there, and that made the place more like a home than any he’d had in a long time. He wished to stay not just for his own sake, but for Ava’s and Clo’s, too. They’d gone without either of their parents for longer than any child should have to, and Merlin knew he’d never be able to make up for the loss of their mother. He was only one man. 

   A thwack! followed by a cry of outrage distracted Merlin from his self-pitying. The flying bear had been struck and sent earthward to land at the feet of a gaggle of smirking children, the closest of whom held several sharp rocks in one hand. He stooped to pick up the fallen toy with his other free hand. “Ooh, looks like the bear fell into a bear trap, huh?” he said tauntingly to Merlin’s children. 

    “I’ll put a bear trap in your face if you don’t give it back!” Clo cried, taking several paces forward. The children he sought to intimidate with his bold and ineloquent words only snickered. 

    Merlin was preparing to break up the dispute before Ava moved forward herself, placing a calming hand on her little brother’s shoulder and approaching the child holding the toy until they were nose to nose. 

    “Give it here. Now.” She held one hand open, and her voice held no aggression, but no opening for discussion, either. 

    The boy seemed to hesitate for a moment. Whether he was flustered by her being a girl or by her calmness, Ava did not know, but he handed over the toy regardless, muttering, “Whatever. It’s a lousy toy, anyway.” 

    “You’re lousy! All of you!” Clo shouted after them, even as the boy and his group merged with the rest of the camp. 

    “C’mon, let’s move along now,” Merlin said once he’d joined them, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I see you’ll not make many friends here.” When Clo still stared at the spot where the other children had disappeared, Merlin glanced at Ava. She still held the flying bear in her hands, where its faux wings lay in pieces. 

    “Let me see, Ava,” he said gently, and she handed it over without a word. There was no spell Merlin knew for fixing the wings of wooden flying bears, and so he had to concentrate longer than usual, as well as glance around to reassure himself that no one was watching. Once Ava saw his eyes shine with unrestrained magic (a reality which she still found unusual and worthy of awe), he returned it to her once more, and she took a moment to smile down at it before passing it on to Clo, who shuffled closer to her, impatient to hold it once more. 

    After a nod from their father, the children hugged their grandmother with promises to return soon, and then followed him out into the encampment beyond. They took their time, pausing to observe the few merchants that barked out their wares to the glares of most of the surrounding refugees. Those who were able to sample from the stock received even graver looks. 

    As the crowd thinned and the flaps of makeshift tents grew scarcer, Merlin and his children picked up their pace. The most experienced of the three sorcerers began to whistle, Ava echoing the tune, and Clo spluttering unevenly, as that was one skill he’d failed to pick up. His father and older sister tried to stifle their chuckles at his expense lest they attract the attention they were trying to avoid. 

    Alas, just before they reached the edge of the tree line, a voice carried out across the grass. 

     “Oi! Where do you think you’re off to?”

    Merlin turned slowly, brow carefully raised in faint surprise. A young Nemethian stood before them, blue crest freshly painted on his shield and armor plates not tied down quite tightly enough. 

    “To pee,” was Merlin's response. If the excuse had worked well enough on Arthur before, he figured it may suit a knight of another land just fine. 

    Perhaps the Nemethians were made of more suspicious stuff though, as the knight asked with a frown, “All three of you?” 

    Ava nodded solemnly. “We’re a very hydrated family.” 

    “Well that’s… great, but there are enough chamber pots to go around.” 

    “Pots?” Clo said, sticking his tongue out. “Being one with nature is much more natural.”

    Merlin swallowed hard in the pursuing silence, struggling to keep a straight face. 

    At last, the knight grunted, “Very well then, but don’t go out too far. A wolf pack’s been heard in recent nights.” 

    The three turned to leave before the knight could change his mind, Clo muttering as they stepped into the trees, “Oh gods, not wolves. This forest is just so full of petrifying creatures!” 

    “Shh, Clo. Not yet,” Ava hissed, though she was smiling, glad to be out in the woods again. 

    When they’d walked for another minute in silence, Clo broke out into a sprint. They were in no particular rush- he ran for the sheer joy of doing so. Merlin stopped himself from instinctively calling to him to slow down; he could extend his sight about their surroundings, and Clo’s sense of smell grew keener each day. These lands were not entirely safe, but they posed less risks than the mountains his children had once lived in. He did not wish to make them fear the world in its entirety, to make them stay still when for so long they only ran in the face of danger. 

    Clo called out for Ava to join him on occasion, and she indulged his wishes, carefully avoiding the rocks strewn about the forest floor. As the ground began to incline steadily and then steeply, she held back until she was walking breathlessly alongside her father once more. 

    Ahead of them, the boy’s cheeks had become as red as his hair from exertion, but he showed no signs of slowing down. In both hands he held two short wooden branches, and after scrunching up his face in concentration, he merged them into one longer stick. Letting out a cry of delight, he held up his creation high above his head to show his family before turning around and hitting it against a low-hanging tree branch with a thwack!  

    Merlin chuckled; Ava sighed. “Everything comes so naturally to him,” she said. “He could be anything he wants to be.”  

    “So could you, Ava. When I was your age, I wanted to be a knight. Really, it’s true!” Ava’s mouth had become a small ‘o’ of surprise, and Merlin laughed to himself once more, focusing his attention on her and hazy memories. “‘Course, that was before I realized I was rubbish with a sword- and that knights were required to be from well-known families, though Arthur changed that eventually. Speaking of which, don’t tell him of that ambition of mine- he’d never let me hear the end of it.”

    Ava laughed then, too. “I won’t Pa. Promise.” The smile faded from her face as she looked on ahead towards Clo, too, and admitted quietly, “I’m not sure what I want to be.” 

    “Well, that’s alright,” Merlin said easily. “You have a lot of time to figure that out. And whatever you decide- we’ll be with you.”

    Ava stopped suddenly, turning to him with a solemnity that demanded to be seen. “But what if you’re not?” she challenged, fists clenched. “What if one day you’re gone, you’re all gone, and then I’m…” The fight went out of her; her fists uncurled, her shoulders drooped. The thought of Thean having endured months without any of their family, and that now he may endure many more, made her heart feel tight. The possibility of ever suffering the same fate was impossible to confront.

    Merlin breathed deeply, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Ava,” he said, taking the time to utter her name so she might feel grounded again. “Ava, you are never alone. Once someone is in the next world, they don’t truly leave. They’re out of sight, but not out of our lives.” 

    Ava shuffled on her feet, the corner of her mouth quirking in half-hearted acknowledgement. “I want to believe that,” she murmured. “I do believe that. Sometimes I think Ma is still with us. But other times, it’s so faint.”

    “I know,” Merlin sighed, giving her shoulder one last squeeze before withdrawing his hand. He’d felt similarly torn between faith and desolation once he’d been taken to a cavern, the one where the eyes of his fellow slaves were even more unwelcoming than those in Medora. A part of him sensed rather than knew that not all of his family was still in this world. Those dreams he’d had when he’d been taken to the new camp- of a hand laid gently across his cheek, of her back to his as they’d once slept on cold winter nights in Medora before their children were born, the sound of one of her rare laughs- he only knew for sure that they weren’t just dreams when he’d seen Arthur’s face fall on the night of their reunion. 

    “Not far now! I can smell her!” Clo called out, picking up his uphill pace even more so at the exclamation. 

    “I wonder what dragons smell like,” Ava murmured, kicking a stone. 

    “Probably not very good,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “After being in the castle’s dungeon for decades, Kilgharrah didn’t exactly smell like a bouquet of flowers.” 

   His daughter chuckled, a sound that made his heart feel a little lighter. “Guess it makes sense if Aithusa doesn’t smell great either, then,” she laughed. 

    Merlin winced slightly. He didn’t think Ava meant any harm by her words, but they brought to the surface of his mind the many years that Aithusa had been bound- not in physical chains as Kilgharrah had been, but by Merlin’s magic, a manifestation of his fears for her safety. 

    If she could speak like Kilgharrah, and understand that his secrecy had been the primary cause of her long hibernation from the world, would she express contempt for him? Would she feel rage?

    No. The wind stirred around him. She is good.

    He had to believe that. If he didn’t, who would? 

    “Whoa!” Clo had stopped in his tracks, allowing Ava and Merlin to finally catch up to him. He pointed emphatically to the sky. “Look, look!”

    A flash of webbed white against the blue, and a burst of red as the dragon’s maw clamped down on a large bird- an eagle, Merlin realized, as Aithusa landed spritely in front of them. Her graceful balance was made even more impressive by her sheer size. When they’d last seen her, she’d been a hollowed out husk of her former self. Now, Merlin could once more see what she had been, and what she’d become again: a breathtaking creature that had survived all the trials the world had thrown at her and her kind. His runes from all those years ago had indeed worked, allowing her to regain her stature far more quickly than what would have been possible by non-magical means. 

    Clo shifted closer to Merlin, his breaths shallow and fast, though not because of his run through the forest. His gaze was trained on the transformed dragon before them, and he made no signs of moving towards it. 

    “Clo? It’s alright,” Merlin said softly. 

    “She’s… grown,” the boy murmured. 

    “She’s grown beautifully,” Ava gasped, quickly closing the distance between her and Aithusa. The white dragon mewled in greeting and placed her snout in the girl’s proffered hands. That childlike gesture was all Clo needed to overcome his initial hesitation, and so he moved forward with his father. 

    “What are you doing all the way out here?” Merlin murmured, stroking the side of her face once close enough. The cave wasn’t terribly far, but too far for comfort for a sorcerer hiding a creature meant to no longer exist. “Ichthe, ichthe,”  he sighed. Aithusa let out a throaty reply- one which, though Merlin couldn’t be sure, he believed to mean, I will be careful when I wish to be. A reply which made sense, given that her age corresponded with a dragon’s teenage-like years. 

   “What’s that mean?” Clo asked, scrunching up his nose. “Icky-the?” 

    “Ichthe . It means ‘be careful.’” 

    “How come Ava and I don’t know dragontongue?” 

    “Being a dragonlord is a fickle thing; it can only be passed down from parent to child, but not all children necessarily receive the gift.”

    “And,” Ava said, frowning at her brother, “We won’t know if we’re dragonlords until Pa…” 

    “Oh,” Clo said softly. “Oh, right.” Looking solemnly in Merlin’s direction, he murmured, “I hope we never find out, then.” 

    Merlin let out a content sigh, drawing closer to his son so as to fix the unkempt collar of his shirt- not because he cared much for the task, but simply to have a reason to be near him. “Odds are one of you, or perhaps all of you, will make excellent dragonlords one day,” he said proudly. “Though I fear the only dragon we know of is not the most obedient…” As his words trailed off, he glanced at Aithusa, who paused in her eating of the eagle to cock her head in indignance. 

    “That’s okay. Thean and I are used to Clo never listening to us, so we’d know how to look after Aithusa.” Ava smirked in her little brother’s direction. 

    “Hey, I can listen!” 

    “‘Can’ and ‘do’ are two very different words, Clo,” Ava said. Finding no witty retort springing to his mind, Merlin’s youngest son took several haughty steps towards her with his chest puffed out, waving his tree branch intimidatingly. With a flick of her hand and a flash of her eyes, Ava bid the branch to be carried away by a convenient gust of wind. 

    As Clo chased after his makeshift weapon, sputtering incessant protest all the while, Aithusa turned to follow his path, tail sweeping up dirt and dust that settled swiftly on Merlin and Ava before they had time to react. They turned to each other, eyes alight in darkened faces, and burst into laughter. 

    The children played. After much convincing, Merlin acquiesced to Clo’s and Ava’s requests to sit atop Aithusa once he was certain the dragon would not take off into flight. She behaved well, keeping her head close to the ground and her gaze on Merlin even as the exuberant boy and  girl ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ from their somewhat elevated view. 

    “When can we fly her, Pa?” Clo asked as he was helped down off the dragon’s back, Ava sliding down behind him. 

    “One day, when it’s safe.”

    “When will it be safe?” 

    Merlin looked away, catching Ava’s eye. She knew the answer. 

    Something whistled. 

    He felt pain radiating down his back again, slippery with an engulfing numbness. But no, that was just a memory- this present pain was not his own. The ground shook as Aithusa lifted her front legs repeatedly, letting them crash back earthward with a force that nearly knocked the children off their feet. In the cascade of dust she stirred, Merlin had to squint (and use an old gazing spell) to spot the trickle of blood that ran down her side. A thin line, but one that had no right to be there. 

    Two gales, and Aithusa was in the sky, her hind legs clumsily hitting the tops of the nearest trees as she took off aimlessly. 

    “Aithusa, no!” Merlin yelled, waving his arms wildly. She did not turn at his words, so he used the ones that tied them together. “Edcierr! ”

    Aithusa cried, but she did not turn back. 

    Another’s cries joined hers, and in the just settling dust, Merlin saw Clo challenging the forest. “I see you!” he shouted at the trees, darting into them. “Leave her alone!” 

    Merlin swore and started forward, Ava at his heels. “There was a man,” she said shakily as they broke into the tree line, Clo’s figure disappearing ahead at an alarming rate. “A man that saw Aithusa!” 

    A man that had a bow and arrow- weapons which could not do more than scrape and scare a dragon, but which could put an end to a child should the wielder be cruel enough. 

    Merlin ran faster; Clo was out of sight now. He extended his hearing rather than his vision to compensate for the distance, and with a small burst of relief, heard the angry gasps of his boy. A little more distant were harsher gasps and the light-footed steps of the man stupid enough to think a single arrow could kill a dragon, and unlucky enough to strike the blow right in front of a dragonlord.

    Merlin thought, he hoped, that Clo and the unknown man would slow down soon enough, that he’d be able to see and hear them once they became as out of breath as he was. But they kept going, and Merlin kept slowing. 

    “Pa!” Ava cried, tugging on his arms when he skidded to a halt to rest them on his knees. He could scarcely hear her over the thunderous rush of blood in his head. “Pa!” she exclaimed, pulling even more persistently until he started to stumble forward. 

    He cast a rudimentary spell to make his limbs feel lighter and his breaths come more easily. It was an imperfect form of magic, one that only delayed the exhaustion rather than abated it completely- but it would have to do. 

    Slipping dirt underfoot, small forest creatures bounding out of their way, and the dizzying bursts of high sunlight piercing through the tree branches. These were all that Merlin and his daughter knew until they reached the clearing before the refugee camp, until they heard the cause of Aithusa’s fright and Clo’s mad dash into the woods. 

    “Wings as wide as a castle!” the man cried to the encircling refugees, who shuffled and muttered with growing alarm. A bow and nearly full case of arrows at his back confirmed his identity. “Teeth as sharp as any sword! That monster, just a walk from camp!”

    “You’re wrong! You don’t know the half of it!” That was a voice Merlin and Ava were well-acquainted with, one that prompted them to shoulder their way more persistently through the crowd. 

    “Then tell them, boy.” The man grabbed Clo roughly by one arm, jerking him into the forefront of the crowd. “Tell them why you were playing with that thing, goading it on. Tell them! ” He shook Clo fast enough to make the boy’s face and hair blur together.

    Merlin did not think; he did not have to. He strode forward and wrested his son away, sending the man stumbling back a few paces with a rush of wind for good measure. “Lay a hand on him again, and you’ll have one less,” he said lowly, pulling Clo close and behind him so that he was next to his sister, who wrapped one arm around him protectively. 

    The man remained on the ground for only a moment, helped back up by those nearest behind him. “A sorcerer,” he huffed, shaking his head with disdain. “I should’ve known. Who else would harbor the same creature that killed our brethren at Camlann?” 

    The murmurs rose, a rising wall that bade Merlin and his children to step further away from the refugees, many of whom were just starting to turn hardened eyes in their direction. 

    “That’s right!” the archer called out, invigorated by the reception of the crowd. “I know what I saw. That was the same beast that burned my brother. We couldn’t even tell which body was his- there were so many on that day, blackened and charred. Creatures like that are not meant for this world.” 

    “Where did the dragon go?” It was a woman’s voice this time, a thin figure clutching a babe more tightly to her chest. “We’re all out in the open here!”

    “I scared it off for now,” said the archer proudly. With a smug smile fading from his lips, his eyes flicked towards Merlin. “But I’m sure our sorcerer here can tell us where to find it.”

    “I can’t.” How was it that the crowd could feel so close? 

    “You mean you won’t,” muttered a man behind his ear, breath hot. 

    Not believing any of those gathered had the patience to listen to his explanations on the limitations of magic and dragonlord abilities, Merlin steeled himself, turning his back on the archer to face the greater extent of the crowd. Their numbers had grown; Nemethian guards lined the perimeter, but made no move to step forward. Camelot knights dotted the setting horizon as well, but there weren’t nearly enough of them to keep order without assistance from the Nemethians. 

    Ava looked up at him desperately. “Make them understand,” she whispered. “Make them see her the way we do.” Her father nodded solemnly, praying to the gods that he might fulfill this one request. 

    “That dragon is no more monster than any of you,” he began, voice slowly rising after years of keeping it low. “How many fought against you at the Battle of Camlann? Did you punish them all when the dust fell? Or did you let them walk to keep the peace?” 

    “No one killed as many as that dragon did. And not in such awful ways.” The archer spoke up from behind, though he scarcely had to; the refugees hung on his words. 

    “She was manipulated, coerced,” Merlin insisted, unable to get another argument in edgewise before another voice overtook his. 

    “If she can be manipulated so easily, who’s to say it won’t happen again?” cried out another man, jabbing a finger in Merlin’s direction. “Camelot’s overrun with sorcerers! Who’s to say that sorcerer and his friends won’t use their beast against us?”

    “Mind your tongue!” Merlin and his children turned in the direction of that familiar voice, but they could only spot the top of her graying hair. “It was a sorcerer that saved all those at the Battle of Camlann,” Hunith said sternly, frowning at those who frowned back. 

    “I don’t recall my brother being saved,” the archer said, crossing his arms. 

    “Nor my husband!” cried out a woman, spitting in Merlin’s direction. “And I doubt this weed could save a fly right now!”

    “Enough! ”

    Merlin could almost sob in relief at the sound of Leon’s voice. He was struggling to make his way through the crowd with a few trailing comrades. Some of the refugees moved aside quickly and dipped their heads in reverence and recognition; others remained resolutely in his way. 

    “I understand you are upset,” Leon said levelly once he and his knights reached a particularly thick wall of ruffled civilians. “But this man and his children will do you no harm. Let them pass.”

    The crowd did not part. 

    “And what of the dragon?” asked one of the men who blocked Sir Leon’s path. “Can you promise they’ll do us no harm?”

    “Not on our watch. Queen Mithian and King Arthur-”

    “What king?” boomed another man. “We’ve seen no bloody king since we stepped foot in this gods-forsaken place!”

    “Camelot swine!” cried nearest to the source of her fury. “How dare you speak of Nemeth that way, after all we’ve given you?”

    “You lot have given us shite! In another fortnight, we’ll have naught but our hands to chew on!”

    “If we even live that long!”

    “Sorcery, hunger, and a monster,” said a man close to where Merlin and his children stood. “That’s all Camelot’s brought us in return!” Another man, scarcely more than a boy, let his fists rain down on the offender; Merlin had to pull Clo and Ava back to prevent the entangled skirmish from falling on them. 

    That one disagreement was a spark for the inferno. No longer was there space for hurled insults and bitter words; only unintelligible yelps and the sound of bone against bone. 

    Two men trekked towards Merlin and his children, but found themselves stopped in their tracks by an invisible force, one which neither hurt them nor gave way. Merlin could hurt them if he wished to do; he could fight back, he could, but then he’d just be proving them all right, and Camelot would be beyond redemption in the eyes of the Nemethians. And his children would once more have to see that magic could be as destructive as it was beautiful. 

    Fissures in his protective wall grew more obvious. Exhaustion that he had pushed down during the chase through the forest began to ebb at his vision; he wouldn’t be able to stand on his feet much longer, let alone maintain a protective spell. 

    A stone broke through the makeshift shield. Ava screamed, and as Merlin pressed a hand protectively to her forehead- too late, too late - a warm stream of blood slipped through his fingers. 

    He couldn’t see Leon, nor his mother. No more than disjointed lines lay beyond them. 

    “Clo,” Merlin said, squeezing his son’s shoulder with the hand not clutched to Ava’s head. “We’re going to use that traveling spell, okay? I’m going to help you.”

    Clo stilled beneath his grasp. “But you said-!”

    “Forget what I said! We need to get out of here!” He hated himself for this, for going back on his word, trading one danger for another. Confronting a traveling spell was only marginally less terrifying than the angry crowd before them. 

    Merlin’s shield splintered into nothing. His knees threatened to buckle, and he maintained balance only by grabbing onto the hands of his children. 

    “Now, Clo!”

    Clo squeezed his eyes shut, and the writhing mass of people became three lesser.

Chapter Text

Merlin

     Merlin had been short growing up, and Will had teased him relentlessly for it. Before he’d at long last gone through a growth spurt, he would dangle from low-hanging tree branches, stretching the tips of his toes to the forest floor in the hopes that if he lengthened his body just long enough, his temporary gain in height would become permanent. 

    His insides felt like they were being stretched again, torn and twisted about like a river caught in a storm. The forest floor he saw in flashes, dizzying whipped images of colors and chaos. 

     No, not there. Too close, too fast! 

    The grasp of his children’s hands in his own felt more tenuous with each passing second. Or had it been minutes? Days, years?

    Slow down!

    The inward tearing sensation stopped, now at the periphery of the onslaught instead of the forefront. In this new space, he was only falling in one direction. 

    Down, down, down. Wind and branches and the ground rose to meet him, one at a time and then all at once. 

    Merlin knew not if he slipped away, but when he once more grew aware of his still being alive, the ringing in his ears was all he could focus on. The din grew louder and more persistent, morphing into a sound he knew well- Clo, wailing like he was four years old again and had just slipped in a game of chase. It was the long, drawn-out cry an almost-nine-year-old should never make. 

    Everything hurt, and the trees before him refused to remain still. One lurched towards him, one with hair and a strange red mark on her head. “Ava,” Merlin sighed, wrapping his arms gratefully around her. As she came into focus, he touched a hand to her forehead, his fingers coming away slick and bloody. 

    She shook her head, murmuring in a foggy voice, “Clo. Needs us.” 

    Together they moved to the sound, their path a short but arduous journey as their limbs came back to life. Clo had propped himself up against a thick tree, one hand clutched to his shoulder as his wails continued unabating. He scarcely noticed their approach through eyes squeezed shut. 

    “Hurts!” he proclaimed, though his father and sister had surmised that much as they fell to their knees beside him. As Merlin began to murmur unheard words of comfort, Ava moved one hand to inspect the source of his woes. “NO!” Clo cried sharply, lurching away from her touch. 

    “I can fix it, Clo. Helena showed me how, but you have to let me help!” 

    Shaking, Clo slowly lowered the hand protecting his wound. No blood seeped into his tunic, but a harsh, unnatural bump lay beneath the skin. Merlin suppressed a grimace, placing a hand on the unharmed shoulder- to provide comfort, and to stabilize it; he’d seen Gaius do this procedure before on a handful of unlucky knights. With a word muttered under her breath to lessen the pain, and two hands positioned on the injured arm, Ava worked within seconds; a pop! and the boy was gasping in relief instead of misery. 

     His face, however, twisted into something resembling turmoil once more. Moving as if he hadn’t just injured his shoulder moments ago, Clo launched himself into his father’s arms. “Don’t make me do that again, Pa, please,” he sobbed, burrowing his face into Merlin’s tunic. “I’ll do any spell, anything, just not that one!”

    Merlin held him close, chest tightening at how much the boy shook. “Okay, Clo,” he said into his hair. “Never again. I swear.” 

    Ava watched them from where she knelt, eyes tired and dull. When her father’s gaze rose to hers- or more accurately, above hers- she touched a hand to her forehead, willing the fresh blood to return to its home, and for her skin to keep it there. She caught the look of Merlin’s surprise and mingled relief at the corner of her vision, but her focus was elsewhere, on the mountains that stabbed like claw marks against the horizon. 

    Those damned mountains. 

    “Of all the places,” she sighed. “Why here?” 

    “I didn’t mean to.” Clo untangled himself from Merlin, stubbornly rubbing his dripping nose. “I’m sorry. I wanted to go back to Camelot, but…” 

    “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. We’re safer here,” Merlin said, helping his son to his feet as they went to join Ava. He shook his head, feeling a hysterical, unwelcome laugh rise and die in his throat. “Never thought I’d say that,” he breathed as the peaks of their once unending imprisonment stood before them. 

    “They could almost be beautiful.” That was what Lea had said once of the Medora mountains. She, Merlin, and a scattering of other ‘workers’ had been sent out into the forest under sets of watchful eyes to collect water. They’d been sharing slop for nearly a year then, and Merlin hadn’t known it at the time, but his son and daughter had just come into being. 

    “Why almost?” he’d asked, though not fully invested in their conversation, thoughts thrown instead to the emptiness that had long since taken residence at the pit of his stomach. 

    “Because we know what these mountains really are,” Lea had said, tapping him on the shoulder and sweeping a hand out towards the horizon. “Don’t you think that if it were just you and I walking by here, that we might stop and think- how wonderful it must be to live there, to watch the sun rise and set every day there?” She let her hand fall to her side. She had his full attention then, just as she began to slip away. “But we know better,” Lea had said softly. “So they’ll never be beautiful.” 

    They never were. Beautiful things had dwelled here once, but they were gone now. 

    “Aithusa,” Ava sighed, calling her father back to the present. “They’ll be looking for her. They’ll want to hurt her.” 

    Merlin nodded, surveying the surrounding forest where high trees stood without respite. Not an ideal landscape for a scared and possibly wounded dragon. The better option was also the worse one, at the slopes of those mountains he scarcely wanted to look at. “I’ll call for her,” Merlin said, already grimacing in anticipation of his children's reactions. “But we’ll need to reach more clear ground first.” 

    Clo gave a tired nod, but Ava’s face twisted. “Are we sure this place is safe? That all the handlers really left?” 

    “Pretty sure,” Clo mumbled. “Thean didn’t say much about when he came back, but I could tell that- that he found no one else alive.” 

    A stone lodged itself in Merlin’s throat and refused to leave. These weren’t just mountains of imprisonment anymore; they were a graveyard, too- a prison extending beyond mortal life. 

    When we walk above you, will we even know? 

    A hand slipped into his, and Clo gave the smallest smile in response to his father’s surprise. He’d used to pester away his father’s attempts to aid him while traversing the darkest corners of the mines. “I have two eyes too, you know! I can see just fine,” he’d claim, boldly and blindly walking forward. He only realized as he grew older that his father might have been asking for help as much as he was offering it. 

    They walked together, but this time in the light of the setting sun, not under the stonecast darkness. When the trees gave way to the gradual slopes, the sheer absence of life lay bare for them to see. Though three seasons had passed since Camelot’s knights had set to work in digging a mass crave (save for one knight, who attended to keeping one boy hidden away from the cruel sight), the markings of that ghastly event still remained. Patches of ground lay devoid of any vegetation, and none of the forest creatures that Ava had so loved dared approach the graves. Neither the flora nor the fauna wished to stand witness. 

    She spotted it first, that piece of cloth waving in the light breeze. Thean had never mentioned that to them, but she could almost see the ghost of him breaking away from where he’d huddled beneath Gwaine’s cloak, ripping off of a piece of one of their father’s old neckerchief and tying it to the sturdiest branch he could find. A small tribute for a small life, left lest it not be forgotten. 

    Ava ran to the spot, falling to her knees in a rush. Merlin and Clo came up beside her, the first of whom had been initially bewildered by his daughter’s sudden departure. He was just beginning to recognize the tattered, weather-worn edges of the fabric when Ava’s fingers started to scramble frantically in the dirt. 

    “They shouldn’t have left her here!” Ava cried, her voice breaking into guttural sobs. “They could have buried her anywhere else, but not here, she hated here…” 

    “Ava,” Merlin said, touching her lightly on the shoulder. She showed no signs of stopping her search however, fingers becoming caked in dirt as she dug wildly. “Ava!” he repeated more persistently, desperate to not let her dig too deep and find what she was looking for. When he got down on his knees beside her, she finally paused. “She’s not here anymore, not really,” Merlin said, laying his hands over hers. 

    “Pa’s right,” Clo said. “Ma’s with the birds now.” 

    Ava stifled another shuddering gasp and rose unsteadily to her feet, turning her back to them. Only when her back grew stiller did she muster in a hollowed out voice, “Aithusa.” She latched onto the name. “If she comes to your call, what then?” 

    “She can’t go back to the original cave. It’s too close to where that archer found her,” Merlin sighed. His eyes drifted back to the outlines of the mountains, and it was then Ava faced her family once more, and the caught the brimming idea in her father’s eyes. 

    “No,” she moaned. 

    “Well, if they really are clear…” Clo murmured hesitantly. 

    “Fine.” Ava sat down resolutely in the dirt with a huff. “You two can go check the mines then, if that’s the best idea you’ve got. I’m staying here.” 

    Clo looked up at Merlin, searching for certainty that wasn’t there. “If you see anyone- or anything-” Merlin started. 

    “You’ll know,” Ava replied shortly. She didn’t think she’d ever been this terse with her father before, and she bristled with shame until the sparse cloth flickering in the wind called her attention back to it. 

    Merlin and Clo departed, both glancing back frequently during the ascent of the slopes. Each time they found Ava still sitting in the same spot, still gazing down. 

    “She’s going to be alright, right?” Clo asked, careful to step only on the patches of grass so he did not disturb those under the more barren areas. 

    “‘Course,” his father replied easily, forcing cheer into his voice. “She’s got you and me looking after her, doesn’t she?”

    Clo nodded, satisfied by the answer. They tread close together in companionable silence, the boy not having any more questions until they approached the slope that had once separated them from the rest of the world. “I wonder if all our drawings are still there?” he pondered then. 

    “Maybe.” Merlin shuffled where he stood. He’d been without his children for a year, and when they’d finally reunited, they’d been doused in freedom untasted before. Their father had long grown used to fearing for their lives within an enclosed space; now that they were free, he was unaccustomed to the multitude of unseen threats pushing in on all sides. Even if the handlers were truly gone, the imprint they had left on Merlin and his family remained and likely always would. 

    “Clo, you don’t have to come inside. Not if you don’t want to.” 

    “Why wouldn’t I want to?” Clo asked, tilting his head in confusion. “They’re just caves, Pa. They’re not… for us, anymore.”

    Merlin nodded, a genuine smile rising to his face in spite of their troubles. He, for one, felt sick to his stomach at the thought of what they’d see once they ascended. They entered through the cave that workers would be sent through when firewood or water needed collecting from the forest. The first few times he’d been selected for those tasks, he’d found the forest exhilarating and taunting in its openness. The marks on his skin, the threat of handlers dotting the horizon, and the anticipation of Lea’s look of fondness when he returned to the caves had been all that kept him from darting forward in the hopes of catching that slim chance of freedom. 

    When his children had gotten old enough to be selected themselves, he’d lie awake dreading what would happen if they went through that dark passage and never returned- if they darted into the great expanse as he had once ached to do. 

    Just caves, he told himself as he helped Clo over heaps of tumbled down rocks. They’re just caves. 

    Empty caves, for that matter. Silence was their only ruler. Father and son approached the first of the outermost guard posts hesitantly, but found that one and all those that followed deserted. No torches, no apple cores or beating sticks strewn on the floor; no signs of life lay before them until they reached the cave where they and the other slaves had slept. 

    Clo gasped in delight then, rushing towards his family’s old spot. In the dying light of the sun, the shadows of his fingertips followed the rough drawings he and his siblings had etched into the walls. Figures with swords, large birds meant to mimic their father’s tales of dragons, and scribbles heaped on one another from when they’d been too young to do much more than grip sharpened rocks between stubby fingers. 

    “They’re all still here,” Clo said in awe. Merlin came to stand beside him, eyes drifting to the ground instead of the wall. He still remembered each of their favored sleeping areas; he and Lea back to back at first, then facing one another with three little ones between them. When the children had fallen fast asleep, she would look over at him, and they’d both feel that sort of quiet contentment only found at the edge of the night, when daytime fears faded into acceptance. 

    Whilst Merlin had been lost in memory, Clo had set to correcting his inaccurate depictions of dragons. Their sharpened drawing stones lay undisturbed- neither knew it then, but Lea had kept them safe her last few nights in the hopes that her children might return to use them again. 

    “We can’t have Aithusa see this,” Clo murmured to himself in concentration as he lengthened the wings on the bird-turned-dragon. “Wouldn’t want her to be offended.” 

    Merlin laughed wetly, startling himself with the strangled noise. Thankfully, Clo was too absorbed by his task to notice much of his father’s unease. “You do that,” Merlin said, relieved to see him not as distressed as he and Ava. “I’ll go check the den.” 

    The ‘den’ was where the handlers had gathered to eat, sleep, and give especially vicious and prolonged beatings. Few slaves were permitted in at a time, and the area was heavily guarded by those not partaking in leisure. Merlin had had the displeasure of serving the handlers at mealtime only once. All parties involved had learned that was not a good idea thereafter.

    The den was dark now, cold where once it had been the warmest space within the mountains. The first and last time he’d entered, Merlin had savored the lack of chill. A spate of brisk nights had shepherded him into his second spring in the mines, marking a year since his capture. The warmth had quickly been forgotten as orders were barked to him, meat that he could not eat brought to their greedy mouths. 

    They did not thank him; that much was okay. Arthur had rarely done such at mealtimes either. But he had looked at Merlin, had spoken to him as though he’d existed. That much was true.  

    When the subtle hunger of the handlers was dampened, the drinking of copious beverages began. The calmer ones partook in water brought from the streams, but most indulged in spirits stored in barrels. The task of transferring the spirits from the barrel to jugs was tedious, but it was Merlin’s favored task that night. From there, when he could turn his back to the handlers and the din of their voices was muffled by the slosh of pouring liquid, he could think himself back in Camelot. The voices were not those of foul men, but those of the knights- imperfect, good-hearted men, reveling after a long round of training- 

    “Fancy I’ll teach her a lesson on the ‘morrow.” 

    Stiffen. Don’t react. 

    “Eh? Which one?” 

    “That redhead we’ve had a while. She’s been slacking. Could use some motivation, don’t you reckon?” 

    Laughter. 

    Splinter. 

    Initially, Merlin didn’t realize he’d done anything at all, confusing the roar of protests bearing down on him with his own rising heartbeat. When he shuffled in alarm over rough hewn edges of shattered clay, he knew that the twist in his stomach was not just from anger, but the beginning of his body’s reaction to the pulse of magic he’d sent forth instinctively. Each jug had burst outward, deeply dismaying the handlers with the waste of spirits. 

    Further dismaying for them were the edges which, instead of laying on the ground, lodged into their skin. Most cuts were superficial, but deep enough to elicit fury. Merlin did not have much time to ponder his predicament thereafter; a hand at the back of his head sent his jaw smacking against the edge of a barrel and into blackness. 

    When he woke, he thought for a moment that he had traveled back in time. His arms aching, and Lea’s voice singing above him. This time, she did not recoil when he opened his eyes; she stroked his hair, hummed, and bid him not to speak lest he further aggravate his bruised face. Such was their way for days until he recovered enough from the injuries and onslaught of new runes to tolerate her admonishments against provoking the handlers again. 

    “When they say anything, say nothing,” she’d said. “Please. Don’t even look at them.” 

    He hadn’t wanted to look at their harsh features much in his first year, but less even then. Nor did they wish to gaze at him. He was never chosen to serve at mealtime again; and Lea, despite the comments of the handler who’d sparked Merlin’s misdemeanor, was not ‘taught a lesson’ of any sort in the following season. Any misgivings the handlers had towards him and Lea were kept quiet. 

    That is, until their children were born that winter. Their sons and daughter inherited not just the looks of their parents, but the repressed rage of the handlers, too. 

    The den was cold. There was nothing that should keep Merlin there any longer; no barrels to be poured, no fires to be fanned, no jugs to shatter. 

    He stayed anyway, giving himself a moment to feel the cold air as he had once felt its warmth. When the moment passed, he felt as though he’d been hit, even though he knew distantly he was the one doing the hitting. There were no jugs to shatter now, gods forbid the handlers left behind any of their precious spirits. So he hit the wall, first with his fists, and then with open palms when his knuckles lost feeling. 

    He did not know how long he stood like that, but when he came to some recollection of himself, he was on his knees. If not for the awareness of Clo being in the old haunts of the caves, and Ava out on the slopes turned graveyard, he would have stayed there long past the point when his breaths returned to shallower depths. He tried to heal the still bleeding scrapes on his knuckles to no avail; the healing arts had never been his greatest strength, much to his frustration. Had that been the case, he could have saved himself and Arthur from a lot of concussions and near-death experiences. 

    When Merlin had dragged himself to his feet and made his slow way back to the main stretch of caves, he found Clo curled up on his side, one thumb in his mouth. The boy sat up quickly at the sound of his father approaching, but Merlin almost wished he hadn’t. He’d not seen his youngest son look that peaceful in a long time. 

    “All clear?” Clo asked. With a nod of confirmation from Merlin, he gestured proudly behind himself at the image littered cave wall. “Look, Pa. Much more accurate now, right?” 

    “Definitely,” Merlin said, tilting his head at the many feathers- no, scales- which had been added to the gargantuan bird/dragon. 

    “Your hands,” Clo murmured. Without waiting for any explanation, he grabbed at his father’s wounds. “ Dolor subsistos .” Merlin flexed his hands in surprise, watching as skin was pulled taut over bone. Only the barest hint of scab lay as proof he’d ever lashed out against a wall that didn’t deserve what it got. “Ava taught me that one,” Clo said proudly. 

    Merlin laughed, shaking his head in wonder. “You three… you’ll outpace me in spells in no time.” 

    Clo grinned at the praise, letting out a small “oh!” of surprise as Merlin bent down to pick him up. He settled into his side with a frown of confusion. “I’m not hurt anymore, Pa. I can walk.” 

    “I know, but you don’t have to. I can carry you for a bit.” In truth, he was already winded from the effort, but he stifled that prickle of doubt to smile in reassurance. “Let’s go find our dragon, shall we?” 

*****

    “Don’t even get me started on the food.”

    This is stupid. 

    Leon had seen little logic in Arthur’s first visit to Farlan, and Arthur had begun to hold a similar perspective on the second. But the King of Camelot, extracted from his homeland duties, found himself momentarily unoccupied with a council meeting. The stillness he’d felt then had made him uneasy. Staying still meant thinking, dwelling, waiting- all of which, Arthur did not feel terribly keen on. 

    “The spirits were abysmal, no hint of honey in them. And the meat, dried and rolled to look like rabbit poop instead of fresh off the bone as all meat should be.” Between riveting recounts of the food allotted to handlers, the thin man glanced up at Arthur, at times displaying a lopsided smile as if they were sharing a joke. 

    “My wife spoiled me, she did,” Farlan continued, mistaking the other man’s silence for interest. “Roasted chicken at least once a week, cabbages and peas with all the right spices.” He sighed with contentment, and seemed to wait for Arthur to acquiesce that that did indeed sound lovely. Hearing nothing, Farlan shifted where he sat, fiddling with his fingers. Not daring to look up this time, he asked slowly, “Do you… have a lady back home?”

    The question was posed so innocently that it caught Arthur off guard, and he nodded before stopping to consider if he should be so transparent. 

    “Does she cook well, too?”

    Arthur let out a small laugh despite himself, thinking back to when he’d tried to ‘cook’ for Guinevere just as their romance had started to bud. She’d quickly corrected his blundered attempts, and they’d shared a few secret dinners at her house in between all the madness of his last years as a prince. The food hadn’t been what he’d focused on those nights, though. 

    “She does alright,” Arthur murmured, lost in thought.

    Once Queen, Gwen had no true obligations in the kitchen, but she’d frequently visit the servants there to inform them of what she and the King might favor, as well as point out a few tricks and tips she’d learned from her time among them. Gwen had never truly forgotten her serving days, and took care to watch out for any new servants enlisted during her reign, keeping any visiting nobles in line lest their eyes wander or their mouths let loose cutting words. That was one of the things Arthur admired most about her, that refusal to change who she was at the core of her being even as life continued to change all around her. 

    By the gods, Guinevere, Arthur thought, a lump rising in his throat. Where are you? 

    “Well!” Farlan chuckled. “Maybe she can make you an ‘alright’ meal next you see her.” He offered a small smile, and any semblance of happiness on Arthur’s face disappeared at the sight of that.

    “Your people attacked our home. I don’t even know if she’s alive,” he replied coldly, staring a hole into the other man’s brow. “Asking her to make me dinner is the last thing on my mind.”

    Farlan’s back had already been against the opposite wall, but now he seemed to melt into the surface rather than lay against it. “Sorry.”

    “Are you?” The words of the incognito king came out hot and short, and he began to pace in a futile attempt to lessen his anger. “You complain of- of such stupid things, eating food that didn’t taste good, while you were starving people for years! Killing people, and for what?

    “I’ve told you why,” Farlan said, regaining some of his confidence. “I had to- for my family.” Arthur scoffed, turning away even as the prisoner continued to speak more desperately. “If you think me such an evil man, then why are you still here? Don’t you have knightly duties to attend to? And you could just kill me.” That last comment regained Arthur’s attention, and Farlan shrugged helplessly at the confused gaze directed at him. “You have the sword, a good looking blade, at that. I suppose there’d be worse ways to go.”

    “No, you don’t get out of this that easily.” He knew he had to stifle his anger then. Kings were entitled to losing their temper; knights, not so much. “Not that it’s my decision anyway,” Arthur said, tone smoothed down. “Your life is in Queen Mithian’s hands.”

    Queen Mithian was likely thinking little of the prisoner rotting in her cells, if she even thought of him at all. Though she spent her days in more than her fair share of meetings, she was never fully present even as she spoke of barricades and rations. Always her eyes wandered to the windows, her thoughts no doubt cast to the bed where her daughter lay largely unmoving. The Queen was preparing herself for the harshest grief, grief which the prisoner before Arthur was still suffering through and would continue to until the end of his wretched days. 

    A week ago, Arthur had tried to convince Farlan of his own humanity, back when battle-weary shock had still clung to his frame. Now that the dust had begun to settle, he could scarcely see straight anymore, but he could hear just fine, hear the way Farlan had talked of his son and even of his wife moments ago before Arthur’s outburst. Those were the reasons Arthur had been drawn back to this cell, even though he’d forgotten them once he’d stepped over the threshold once more. 

    “I don’t think you’re evil, for what it’s worth.” He continued to pace, though with less urgency. “That’s what I’m trying to understand. Didn’t you ever think-”

    “No,” Farlan cut in. “I tried my best not to think about all that I did, and all I didn’t do. That made it livable. Just barely. I know I have done wrong, have had my share of regrets. But you’re a knight- surely you’ve done things you regret, too, when you felt as though you had little choice?” 

    Just about every day, lately, Arthur thought to himself, though he wasn’t going to admit that to this man. His words rang too true for comfort. Most days, Arthur lived with his mistakes by trying not to dwell on them, but there were moments when circumstances or self-doubts pushed them to the surface. One such moment still lay at the back of his mind and the edges of nightmares- the druid’s clearing, where as a boy he’d trembled as his men wrought death and destruction, where his protests were drowned in the cries and where he’d stood again as a man and been forgiven by a boy whose death was on his hands. The forgiveness had assuaged his guilt, but had not unbound him from it entirely; he doubted anything ever would. 

    “You’re needed, my- sir.” 

    The sound of a voice that was not theirs startled the prisoner and the King. The latter turned to the door in haste to rid himself of the small cell, while the former leaned forward in surprise at the sudden departure. “Will you return?” Farlan asked. 

    Arthur paused at the threshold, but did not break focus. “Perhaps,” was all he said, unwilling to commit to any stronger word. Farlan’s disappointment was unseen and unspoken, but tangible nonetheless. 

    Just to the side of the closing cell door stood a Nemethian knight bland of feature. The knight gave the shortest of nods to Arthur, and were he dressed in more kingly attire and in his own lands, he might have the space of mind to feel affronted. 

    Sir Layrin, a young Camelot knight who was waiting for Arthur further down the hall, displayed more than enough disdain at the disrespect for the both of them. “I told him you were otherwise occupied, Sire, but he insisted on interrupting,” Layrin began as Arthur and the Nemethian knight caught up with him. Layrin had only been recruited just a few years prior, but had enough of a commanding and self-assured presence to convince one otherwise. He’d been trained primarily by Gwaine, and had clearly been influenced by his teacher’s blend of chivalry and rebellion. 

    “Forgive me, my Lord,” the Nemethian said, walking briskly at the forefront. “There is a bit of unrest in the citadel, and Queen Mithian requests you and your children stay in your chambers as a precaution till it dies down.” 

    “Unrest? What sort of unrest?” Arthur asked, a tide of other questions rising to his mind. 

    “The restless type, my Lord.” 

    Scoffing with impatience, Sir Layrin pressed, “And where in the citadel is this restless unrest?”

    “It is where it is, and when it’s over, it won’t be there any longer.” At last, the knight graced them with a cursory glance over his shoulder to ensure they were still following. “We do not have the exact details, but we have the situation under control. I’m sure the Queen will alert you once we’ve learned more.” 

    Arthur and Layrin shared a knowing look. The knight was talking to them in the same manner Arthur had talked to Anselm when he was much younger and needed calming down from imagined monsters in the night- empty, vague assurances that were given as much to silence as to comfort. 

    More Nemethian guards were stationed at either end of the hallway where the chambers of Camelot's royal family lay. “Just a precaution?” Arthur asked of the Nemethian knight who’d first accompanied him. 

    “Indeed. Should the unrest take longer than expected, your dinner will be brought to your chambers.” 

    “Wonderful,” Arthur said bitterly. When the man was far enough out of earshot, no doubt discussing something not deemed for his ears, Arthur turned to Sir Layrin with a look of unmasked disgust. “He talks of this unrest as if it’s a dinner affair.” 

    “Which means it’s certainly more than that.” 

    “Go for a walk, Sir Layrin,” Arthur murmured. “See what you can figure out.” 

    “If they ask questions, I’ll tell them you wanted to know what’s on the menu,” the knight replied, smirking before turning heel. 

    In the room, Anselm was sitting on his bed, jostled periodically as Eloise leapt from her mattress to his. Her back-and-forth sport halted at their father’s entrance, and she landed nimbly, rushing forth for a hug. 

    “Hey, you’re playing dress-up again!” she remarked as she pulled away, scrutinizing his odd outfit. 

    “Well, a King only has so many crowns and capes,” Arthur said, forcing half-hearted cheer into his voice. 

    “Mmhm.” Already, her focus had shifted, mind moving fast from being cooped up for a ghastly amount of time. “Dad, guess what? I’m not sneezing anymore!” 

    “Is that so?” Arthur moved towards the window, looking futilely for any signs of the so-called unrest. The streets were dark, their unusual silence at that time of the day the only indication that something was not quite right in the citadel. 

    “Yeah! Anselm gave me this piece of fruit- I think it was an apple, or a pear? And I ate it, and then my sneezing went away!”

    “Must have been a good apple,” Arthur murmured, turning away from the window and to his son, who slouched where he sat on the bed. “Sorry, Anselm,” the King said earnestly. “Looks like you might not get that birthday dinner after all.” 

    The prince looked surprise. “Oh, that’s alright. It wouldn’t have been much of a party without Mom.” He kicked the bedpost nervously. “And besides, we wouldn’t have started without Merlin and the others, right?” 

    “They’re not back yet?” A speck of worry buried itself deeper into Arthur's mind. 

    “They’re probably just having loads of fun,” Eloise sighed, falling against her bed in a huff, oblivious to the fearful looks exchanged between her brother and father. “Meeting other kids. Buying stuff. But they’ll be back soon; Merlin promised.”

    “What did he promise?”

    Eloise sat up and said in an eager rush, “That he would read-!” She stopped suddenly, biting her lip. “Er, that he’d read me and Clo some new books.”

    “Hmm.” Arthur remembered the wicked-looking illustrations Merlin had shown Anselm at breakfast the other day; either his son had subtly bragged of his newfound knowledge, or Eloise’s curiosity concerning the tome had gotten the better of her. Neither would be out of the ordinary for Arthur’s children. 

    “A-and anyway,” Eloise said, beginning to kick her legs against the bedpost in the same manner as her brother. “Ava and Clo know the streets of the citadel in and out, right? So… I’m sure they’re fine.” 

    “Right,” Arthur acquiesced, sending a small smile in her direction. He could not let himself look as uncertain as he felt; his children were dealing with enough of their own fears to have his heaped atop them, too. 

    But oh, he was afraid. When Merlin began to use magic openly in front of him, Arthur started to notice all the little things that he’d never questioned before but suddenly made sense. How Merlin could be clumsy one moment, and narrowly avoid injury the next, or how tree branches seemed to have a sentient preference for aiding the knights of Camelot instead of their enemies; it was by some twist of fate- or destiny, as Merlin liked to call the few good things in his life- that Arthur had never discovered his magic prior to the sorcerer revealing it in his own time. 

    Or, perhaps Arthur had just been blind. If the Nemethians weren’t half as blind as he, and twice as cruel… 

    He’d begun to pace without fully realizing, and in the dying sunlight he spotted another shadow behind his own. Eloise had started to stalk in his footsteps, her face twisted in mock concentration. Arthur caught her mid-step as he turned around. 

    Anselm succumbed to the laughter he’d been stifling as the princess sprinted away, their father slow at her heels. She used the excuse of his pretend anger to resume her back and forth jumps between the beds. Usually, Guinevere would come in around this point in their charade, gently scold the children for their rambunctiousness, and proceed to scold Arthur less gently for his lack of scolding them. 

    Instead, they were soon visited once more by Sir Layrin. “Any news?” Arthur murmured, coming close to the doorway to make himself out of earshot of the children. 

    “They’re cooking roasted potatoes and seasoned hare tonight,” Sir Layrin said jovially. Without changing tone or facial expression so as to not alert any nearby Nemethians, he added, “And Sir Leon is with Queen Mithian in the Great Hall. They’re having a lovely discussion. Very… animated.” 

    “Then I shall join them,” the King said decidedly. “You stay here, look after the prince and princess till I return.” He clapped the younger knight on the shoulder, ready to leave quickly before time ate away at his determination, but Layrin spoke up before he was over the threshold. 

    “I couldn’t agree more, my Lord- but perhaps you should change into one of your more, ah, usual outfits?” 

     Contrary to what Merlin may have thought, Arthur could dress himself, albeit untidily. Once his red tunic was adequately tucked, light chainmail in place, and crown atop his head, he left the chambers, trying to ignore the twist in his gut at the worried glance Anselm cast his way. He didn’t wish to leave them, much less in such uncertain circumstances. But he had known since the day they were born that for as long as the Pendragons held the crown, his children would never be just children; they could never command the full attention a child deserved from their parents. Such had been Arthur’s childhood, and try as he might, such would be theirs. 

    The laced gold felt heavier upon his head as he approached the end of the hall. He took not a few steps before the Nemethian knights turned to meet him. 

    “Sire, you should be-” 

    “In my chambers, yes, so I’ve been told,” Arthur held up a hand to halt the man’s speech. “But I’m not going back there- at least, not till I’ve seen the Queen, and consulted with her on this ‘unrest.’”

    “She has made no request to speak with you yet.” 

    “Well I’m taking initiative to make the request. So one of you can accompany me to see the Queen, or I’ll find her myself.” His voice had risen slightly, and he let it. He’d spent the better part of his adulthood trying to control his temper in an effort to appear kingly, but standing here in this foreign court and being treated like a scolded toddler as his kingdom hung in the balance made worrying about demeanor seem trivial. 

    The two closest knights held eye contact for a long moment, seeming to have an entire silent argument in the span of seconds. Finally, the one who had not yet spoken cleared his throat. “Follow me, my Lord,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a begrudging edge to his voice as he ducked his head. 

    The surrounding halls were strangely empty for the nearing suppertime, save for a few servants that scurried close to the walls, eyes trained carefully on the floor. Through the emptiness, Arthur and the knight reached the Great Hall quickly. Just as they approached the threshold, one of the double doors flung open, a woman emerging on the verge of tears. 

    “Rinette,” Arthur called in surprise. He’d had only a few interactions with the Nemethian physician, but she’d never seemed one to be easily moved to emotion. 

    “Oh, my Lord.” She curtsied with a sniffle. 

    “Is something the matter?” 

    Rinette gave a wet laugh of surprise. “What isn’t? Nietta, the riots in the camp…” So great was her distress that she did not see the glimpse of shock on Arthur’s face. He’d known the first knight to inform him of the unrest- nay, riots - had been carefully vague, but he hadn’t assumed the true location to be omitted. 

    Somehow he didn’t think Merlin and his children would be back in time for dinner. 

    “But she wants me to stay here, for Nietta, and for those that come back.” Rinette had been talking for some time before the panic in Arthur’s mind died down enough for him to hear hear again. When his attention had fully returned, she gave one last courteous curtsy and departed with head down. 

    “-not encroaching on the citadel! So why keep all your remaining knights here?” 

    Sir Leon had perhaps never raised his voice as loud as he was doing then. He’d come of age during Uther’s reign, when outspokenness was rewarded with a stern look if you were lucky, or the edge of a blade if you weren’t. He’d grown older, however, under Arthur; and after years of adjustment, he’d learned that fearful obedience was not the way of a good knight. 

    “Oh, gods,” Mithian sighed once her eyes landed on the King of Camelot. She put a hand to her forehead as if to block the sight of him. With thinly concealed disdain, she called out to her own knight, “Sir Wren, excellent job keeping tabs on the King. You’re dismissed.” 

    As the Nemethian knight left in mortification, Camelot’s most seasoned knight stepped forward. “My Lord!” Sir Leon bowed deeply. “I wanted to speak with you immediately, but I was delayed.” He stepped closer, a look of regret crossing his face. “My men and I, we tried to keep order, but it was too much for us alone. Some crazed man thought he saw Merlin and his children with a dragon, spread the word, and all chaos broke loose.” 

    “And Merlin? The children, where are they?” 

    “I didn’t see it myself, but one of our knights- well, it’s going to sound strange, but this is Merlin after all- he said they just disappeared all of a sudden. Like they were never there at all.” Leon shook his head wearily, not quite able to look Arthur in the eye. “I wanted to stay, to keep looking for them, to make sure they weren’t… But the men and I can't control the riots by ourselves. We need reinforcements if there’s any hope of returning the peace.” 

    “What’s the issue, then?” Arthur turned to Mithian, who begrudgingly met his gaze. “We’ll send reinforcements.”

    “The majority of which are mine, may I remind you.” The Queen turned back to them, beginning a slow pace. “King Arthur, those people are restless. You think being approached by men with swords on horseback will calm them down?” 

    Though the Queen had a point, the panic growing within his chest made their conversation seem agonizingly long. “Then what do you suggest?” 

    “Let them get it out of their systems. We’ll ensure they don’t reach the main citadel, that the riots stay in the camp.” 

    Arthur felt his fists tighten at his sides, decorum be damned. “You mean you’ll let them tear each other apart, and see what’s left.”

    “I do not wish to, no. As I did not wish for a dragon to be on my lands without my permission.”

    The icy silence was answer enough for the unspoken question in Mithian’s voice. As Arthur dropped his chin, Leon’s eyes darted back and forth between the two rulers. “So it’s true then?” the knight asked, speaking with a quiet voice for the first time since entering that hall. 

    “You didn’t know?” Mithian asked with faint surprise. 

    The anger Arthur had felt just a moment ago morphed into something else, some feeling he was far less accustomed to. Is this how Merlin felt, all those years? 

    “I’d hoped you and Merlin had grown from your days of keeping secrets.” 

    Mithian’s voice called him away from any brooding he’d managed to get in the space of those few seconds, and though she did so indelicately, he couldn’t blame her. There was no time for shame. 

    “Old habits die hard,” Arthur said bitterly. “I didn’t like it either, but we had our reasons. Merlin assumed something like this might happen if word got out.” 

    “And he did so wonderfully at preventing that!” Mithian scoffed. 

    “I can’t change any of that now. Just as we can’t sit back and do nothing about these riots.” 

    “We?” the Queen repeated dubiously

    Arthur shook his head in disbelief, gesturing with one arm to the arching windows beyond which all manners of chaos may be unfolding. “They’re not just my people out there, Mithian! They’re your people, too! And they’re scared. And part of that’s my fault, I know that- but you haven’t exactly been transparent with them either.” Mithian gave him a hard look, but did not interrupt. Most of what Arthur had heard had been from whispered conversations in the halls and quick comments from the knights visiting from the refugee camp, all hints at a storm on the horizon that Arthur hadn’t paid mind to until it was too late. “The strict rations, the way the locals of the citadel look at the refugees… They just want to be reassured, and to be addressed as people.” 

    A dawning realization came upon the King as he spoke. His people and he had been in hard, hopeless spots before, and Arthur down in the dirt with them. Usually, Merlin had been there to snap Arthur out of it with an encouraging word or a conveniently placed sword; he wasn’t now, but the King hadn’t forgotten what he’d learned from his servant in those times. “They won’t get that kind of recognition from swords and threats, you’re right about that,” he said, quietly and calmly. “But they can get it from us.” 

    “Us? You don’t mean to say… ”

    “That we go into the crowd. Talk to them. They want to be heard, so- we’ll hear them.” 

    Nemeth’s Queen looked at Arthur as though he’d grown a second head. “The main way they’ve been talking to each other is with fists and fire.” 

    “I’m not saying we go in completely alone, we can have the knights around us for protection, but if we go in together-” He stopped in his tracks, seeing that she’d turned away from him once more. “Queen Mithian. Please.” The last word caught in his throat slightly; he wasn’t one to beg, but his faith in being able to resolve the situation was waning. 

    And then Mithian was silent, and silent for longer still; so long, that Arthur was beginning to think she’d come to her senses and seen the hope in his plan. These were her people, too, after all; and though Arthur hadn’t always agreed with every decision Mithian made, he had seen her make tough calls for the good of her people before. He had to believe she could do so again. 

    “No.” 

    The word was little more than a whisper. “What?” 

    Mithian cleared her throat and raised her chin. “I’m needed here.” 

    “There are no riots here, my lady,” Leon said, his voice once more a careful blend of respect and unease. 

    “My daughter’s here, and she worsens by the hour. Rinette said she only…” A shaky breath was drawn inward, as if the air around her had suddenly grown thinner. “If I left, and tonight was her last, I couldn’t bear it.”

    When neither the King nor knight before her found words, she walked to the wall of windows and said no more. Arthur and Leon shared several uncertain glances before making a slow traverse to the great double doors. 

    With one hand on the wood, a step away from the precipice, Arthur paused. He did not turn, as he prepared to speak without expecting an answer. “Mithian, your daughter is dying. That can’t be changed. But our people don’t have to.” 

    The room carried her words, small and dull. “Just leave.”

    And so they did. They walked in silence past the harsh and snuck gazes of the Nemethian knights around them till a window overlooking one side of the citadel was reached. The last rays of the sun lay dying on the horizon, and with them, the faintest dots of an earthly flame as well. 

    Leon spoke first. “It won’t be safe.” 

    “Nothing really ever is,” Arthur sighed. Even with the heaviness of the task before him, he felt just a little lighter with a plan in mind, no matter how half-baked it was. 

    “Still,” Leon said, a smile quirking at his mouth. “Never stopped Merlin before, did it?” 

    They shared a laugh, one last brief respite, and Arthur clapped the knight on the shoulder. “Let’s go find our sorcerer, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Anselm

    Anselm couldn’t recall the first time his father had departed from his side for battle or peacemaking. He must have been just a babe. But he did remember the first time his heart had ached from the separation. It had been the morning just after his sixth birthday; he’d been showered with pastries and presents the previous night. He was so giddy with glee that he’d forgotten his father’s impending departure, and had been momentarily confused when his mother woke him up early the next day to say good-bye. How could such a fun day be followed by a grim affair? 

    Eloise, who’d only just perfected the art of crawling, had screamed and screamed in the Queen’s arms as if she could sense the tension in the air even without comprehending its source. The tears had rolled down Anselm’s cheeks silently, carefully restraining himself from verbal protest as a last desperate attempt to appear princely. As his father approached, he’d tried to swipe the tears away quickly. Arthur wasn’t quite as strict as Anselm’s teachers, but he still demanded his son sit still and try to keep a straight back when many knights or diplomats were nearby. 

    To Anselm’s relief, Arthur made no comment on his outward display of emotion then. Instead, he knelt down and gently tilted the boy’s chin up so that they were eye to eye. “I’m going to come back. And until then, you are going to be okay.” A small smile. “Promise.” 

    And just like that, Anselm felt his woe fade away. He knew the weight that promises could carry; they bound knights to honor and sealed the fates of kingdoms. A promise from a king- and not just any king, but Anselm’s father- was not to be doubted. The young prince went to bed that night without tears, and slept easily all the nights thereafter until his father returned. 

    There was no promise this time, and there was no good-bye. Anselm had a sinking feeling their father would not be returning soon. As his hope dwindled, his sister’s curiosity rose. 

    “Shouldn’t he be back by now?” she asked, settling down from another spate of jumping between the beds. 

    Anselm shrugged; Eloise found little satisfaction in that answer. 

    “Do you think he’ll bring us some food?” 

    “I just gave you food.” 

    “Well yeah, but that was only a slice! Maybe I could-” 

    “No.” 

    “You didn’t even let me-!” 

    “You were going to ask for another slice,” Anselm sighed, lying back on his bed and rubbing his temples. “I told you, Ava’s going to be mad enough we tried a bit of it. Best leave the rest for her to do with it what she wants.” 

    “I don’t understand. It’s just fruit.”

    “She thinks it could be something more.” 

    “That’s silly,” said the girl who’d just spent the better part of an hour jumping up and down for lack of any other activity. She laid down on her own bed, and for a moment, there was silence. 

    Like most good things in Anselm’s recent memory, the silence didn’t last long. “Anselm.” He turned his head to his sister’s voice reluctantly. “I’m not sneezing anymore.” 

    “Okay?” 

    “You don’t think…?” Her eyes drifted towards Anselm’s pockets, at the tip of which the purple fruit peeked out. 

    “No.” Anselm shook his head dismissively. “It’s like you said. It’s just a fruit.” 

    “Maybe. But maybe if you try another slice, your freckles will go away.” 

    “Why would they? Freckles aren’t an illness.” 

    “No?” Eloise propped herself on her elbows and tilted her head at him quizzically. “Then why do you look so strange?” 

    “Very funny,” Anselm said, sticking out his tongue. 

    “Very mature!” Eloise retorted, doing the same. 

    They fell into silence again. In the lull, Eloise wrapped herself deeper in a shawl supplied to them when they’d first arrived in Nemeth. The clothes they’d escaped with from Camelot had been dirtied and torn beyond salvation, and so they’d had to seek out more Nemethian attire, the majority of which proved too thin for the still cool spring nights.

    He thought that maybe Eloise would break the silence with a complaint of the growing chill; she did not. Anselm almost wished his sister would speak of anything, of nothing. At that moment, any sound seemed better than none at all. Sounds distracted and hid the worries away. 

    Maybe that’s why Thean liked us. 

    When Merlin’s son had first arrived at the castle and was little more than thin bones and wide eyes, Camelot’s prince sought him out between each dreary lesson and muddy sword practice. Thean had only looked surprised the first few times Anselm called his name from down the hall; soon enough, he became more surprised when he didn’t hear his name shouted each time he left his room. 

    For a while, Anselm had thought that perhaps Merlin’s son only stayed close to he and Eloise out of a sense of obligation, or perhaps simply a lack of better options. In those early days, Thean had rarely spoken, and smiled even less. Such silence confused Anselm. When his father told stories of Merlin, it was of a servant with a sharp wit and a curiosity that often got the better of him. The world-weary boy who traipsed Camelot’s halls like a shadow displayed neither of those characteristics at first. 

    It was only one summer morning, about a month after they’d discovered the death of Thean’s mother, that Anselm began to feel less unsure of their newfound friendship. He’d wriggled his way out of one of his morning lessons through an onslaught of inquisitive questions his tutor had no answers to and no energy for. Striding across the outermost fields, keen to get his hands on one of the more heavyweight practice swords and bash in a new shield, Anselm had spotted his friend on the horizon. Thean had been sat on one of the least used benches overlooking the forest, too far from the main grounds to be much good for any spectating knights and servants. 

    Surprised to see the other boy out of the castle, least of all out of his room, Anselm had cried out his name loud enough to send a few nearby birds into the air. He regretted the outburst when his eyes had time to catch up with his mouth. He took in the stiff set in Thean’s shoulders, the way he seemed completely still even as the air moved around him- the look of someone, Anselm assumed, who did not wish to be bothered by exuberant princes that knew nothing of their troubles. 

    But then Thean had turned around, and after a moment of confusion, he spotted the prince and broke into a wide grin, all vestiges of whatever somber thoughts had been plaguing him having disappeared. And it was then Anselm knew he need not worry about bothering Thean, for they both sought out one another not out of a sense of obligation, but of relief- relief of letting go of their pressing realities for a little while. 

    Those days, and that sense of certainty, seemed so long ago now. Thean’s friendship, Anselm was still certain of; Thean’s life, however…

    I’m not like him. He gripped the edges of the bed, curling the sheets in his fingers. I’m not brave enough for this. 

    He was alone. 

    Not alone- a knock. 

    “Dinner?” Eloise asked aloud. She got to her feet, but soon stopped in her tracks when the door opened. 

    There stood a knight Anselm knew he’d seen before, one whose presence made him feel uneasy before he could even place a name to their face. It was Sir Enthus, the same knight who’d concocted the plan to have Thean spy in the invaded Camelot. Fear gripped Anselm; to have such a knight visiting he and Eloise at a time like this did not bode well. He sought reassurance from his own father’s knight, Sir Layrin, only to find him focused solely on the Nemethian. 

    Sir Enthus cleared his throat, seeming to look past Anselm even as he addressed him. “Princess Nietta wishes to see you in her chambers.” 

    That wasn’t quite what Anselm had imagined, and his confusion only grew. “Now?” he asked, all lessons of propriety and grace out of mind. His tutors would be ashamed to hear of it if they still lived.

    “Now is when she wishes,” Sir Enthus replied shortly. 

    “Very well,” Anselm murmured. “But my sister comes with me.” 

    Both Eloise and the two knights in the room looked surprised. “The princess only requested your presence,” Sir Enthus said, impatience growing more evident in his tone. 

    “Anselm, it’s alright.” Eloise stood with hands clasped at her back, a worried frown mismatching her words. 

    Their circumstances were far from alright; Anselm knew that, and could tell his little sister was starting to feel the gravity of the situation settle on her shoulders, too. He hated seeing her try to appear brave. She so rarely tried to appear as more than she was. 

    “Either we go see Princess Nietta together, or not at all.” He straightened his back, looking Enthus in the eye; he hadn’t truly ignored all his lessons. 

    The knight’s eyes turned to slits. “I do not take orders from a prince of no land.” 

    “Then don’t expect one to listen to you!”

    A tense silence followed. In the doorway, Anselm saw Sir Layrin flash him a small, proud smile. He knew the knight would have stepped in to defend him had he not done so himself. Layrin and Gwaine had both taught him that respect was earned by action, not by titles. 

    In the meantime, Sir Enthus curled and uncurled his fists in quick succession. He was used to being challenged by enemies or disagreeable knights of his own rank- not by a boy who’d only just received his first steel sword. And so, it was a great effort that he finally gritted out, “Follow me.”

    As they walked, Sir Enthus taking the lead and Sir Layrin at the rear, Eloise kept close to her brother. Her hand even slipped into his, a habit she’d not fallen back into for years. He gave it a reassuring squeeze, though he found himself longing for reassurance himself. His unease only grew as they kept walking in the absence of his sister’s sarcasm or Sir Layrin’s quips. This was not a night for levity.

    The princess’ door was slightly ajar with several guards at interspersed distances from the threshold, though none inside. Through the gap, Anselm could only spot Mithian leaning forward from where she sat beside the bed, obscuring the ailing princess from view. 

    Sir Enthus bowed deeply in the direction of his nobles. “I brought the prince as you requested, my ladies.” He paused to clear his throat, though his voice had not sounded scratchy in the least. “And Princess Eloise.” 

    Once introduced, the two children entered as quietly as possible, bowing and curtsying respectfully. Anselm stifled a gasp when he finally caught sight of Nietta; though he’d only gone a few days without visiting her, the illness had clearly taken a turn for worse. She’d been reduced to little more than a pale sliver with a halo of thinning hair. 

    “Thank you, Sir Enthus,” Mithian murmurs. She turned back to her daughter, taking little heed for the others in the room. 

    Once more, Sir Enthus cleared his throat, though this time with a more respectful edge to his phlegm. “My Queen, I’m sorry to disturb you and the princess, but there are some matters we must discuss.” 

    The queen did not immediately respond, lips pursing as she grappled with the proposition. After a moment, she looked to her daughter with an unspoken question. Nietta gave the slightest of nods from where her head rested. “Rinette should be back soon,” Mithian said, scarcely loud enough for Anselm to hear. “And I will be as well.”

    As the Queen Mithian left, Anselm caught a glimpse of her complexion as well- pale, like her daughter’s, but dark beneath the eyes. She left the door even more open as she and Sir Enthus exited, but the other knights- including Sir Layrin- still remained in the halls. For privacy, Anselm suspected, but perhaps out of their own preference, too. Even battle-seasoned warriors may not wish to watch the slow death of a young girl. Anselm himself certainly didn’t feel up to the task, and thus he was grateful that Eloise spoke first. 

    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Nietta.” Eloise curtsied once more, an excessive gesture in Anselm’s opinion- the only indication that his sister was nervous at the encounter.

    “You as well, Princess Eloise,” Nietta said, dipping her chin. Her voice was gritty, like a roughened stone. “Sorry it took this long.”

    Eloise fiddled with the edge of her shawl, taking in the sick pans and empty medicine bottles scattered about the room. In a subdued voice, she said, “Nothing to be sorry for.” 

    Turning her eyes to Anselm, Nietta began, “I…” She swallowed something back several times. “I wanted to say good-bye.” 

    “But we’ve only just met,” Eloise said, frowning. 

    Anselm was about to summon a look of warning for his sister when Nietta laughed. That, too, was an unpleasant sound- but the smile that followed was close to beauty. 

    “You’re right about that,” Nietta conceded, chuckling still. “But I wanted to make sure I got a chance to. I think my time is… ephemeral.”

    “Ephemeral?” the other princess repeated. 

    “It’s a nice word, isn’t it?” The girl took a few moments to breathe. “Ephemeral. I read it in a book. I’ve been reading a lot lately, to distract me from- from everything, I suppose.”

    After trying and failing to think of something uplifting to say or ask her in what was likely their final night together, Anselm gave up. There was nothing both truthful and optimistic that could be said of their situation, so he settled for just truth. “Are you scared?” he asked of her. 

    Nietta paused to think, looking past the two children before her. “A little.”

    “Only a little?” Eloise asked curiously. 

    “Elly,” Anselm muttered under his breath. 

    Nietta’s illness had clearly not detracted from her hearing, however,  as she rasped, “No, it’s okay. Everyone’s thinking about it, but no one wants to ask. Especially my mother.” In a smaller voice, she continued, “I think I’m scared for her the most.” 

    Taking a deep breath, Anselm went to the edge of the bed and sat down gingerly where the Queen had been moments before. “I’ll look out for her,” he said solemnly, holding her gaze for a moment before glancing towards his sister. “ We will look out for her.” 

    A part of him felt guilty for making that promise, one which he was next to powerless to keep- but he could certainly try, to the best of his limited abilities. 

    Eloise nodded emphatically at her brother’s promise. “We will! At least, until we get Camelot back. But I’ll make sure she smiles every day until then!”

    Nietta laughed once more, even raising her head from the pillow a bit to smile at them. “Thank you.” She looked at Anselm for a long moment and then extended her hand. He grasped it hesitantly, fearful it might be as cold as death. But he found her hand still warm- a hopeful sign or wishful thinking, he knew not. 

    And then Princess Nietta was leaning forward, and for a moment he thought she may be reaching for a hug. But instead of extending her other hand, she withdrew them both, clutching her stomach and moaning. Nausea, he suspected- but that didn’t make sense with the odd hitch to her breathing. And the increase in her pallor. And… 

    Anselm leapt from the bed, stumbling a little as he dashed for the threshold. “Help!” he cried. “Get Rinette!” 

    The knights were ready for the task, two bolting from either end of the hall. As Sir Layrin and several of the Nemethian knights headed for the room itself, Anselm’s shaking hand wandered subconsciously to his pocket, wishing desperately that the girl who’d given him the strange fruit was there then. 

    But there was no fruit. 

    Dresses don’t have pockets. 

    A shawl might, though. 

    He thought he knew then why the knights who were just making it to the doorway looked confused, and why the sound of Nietta’s pain and lurching breaths had halted. As he turned around, his eyes only confirmed what he’d already figured out. Eloise, sitting on the edge of the bed, a mostly eaten purple fruit in the palm of her extended hand; and Nietta, sitting up straight, cheeks rosy and eyes blinking quickly as though she’d just stepped out into the sun. 

    A force made Anselm stumble to the side, and two figures sprinted before him; one with a basket of herbs and bottled liquids tucked at her side, the other with a crown askew on her head. 

    Mithian fell to Nietta’s side, scouring her daughter’s face for any glimpse of pain. “Nietta- darling, how do you feel?” 

    And the girl took the time to consider the question before replying with a smile, “Magical.” 

*****

    She came at his last call. 

    The moon had been steadfast in its arc across the night sky. Merlin’s children sat by the grave marker of their mother, casting their gazes between their father and the stars. What had started out as commanding but gentle orders for Aithusa to return morphed into pleas as Merlin’s calls went unanswered. He didn’t want to be in this place anymore, stuck with these old memories and fresh wounds, nor did he wish to leave it without assuring the dragon’s safety. In a way, Aithusa was much like a fourth child to him, one whom he had let down countless times. Again. I’ve done it again, Merlin thought to himself in despair, not ready to face the disappointment of the two children sitting behind him. 

    Clo was the first to spot her. He let out a whoop of joy, jumping up and down as he forgot for a moment the ground he stood upon. Merlin watched with relief as Aithusa appeared above the treetops, flying low but evenly. With a landing that trembled the ground, she was before them, and the three sorcerers rushed forward to greet her. 

    Both Ava and Merlin scoured her for injuries quickly, the latter murmuring words of comfort in dragontongue as he did so. The cuts the archer had imparted with his arrows were superficial, as Merlin had suspected; not even the sharpest arrows could truly pierce a dragon’s scales. The most damage had been done to Aithusa’s spirit. Despite Merlin’s continued stream of affirmations and Clo’s slow stroking of her snout, she continued to whimper. Though she’d grown significantly in size, in many ways, she was still much like a child in her experience of the world, uncomprehending and afraid. 

    “She’s trembling,” Clo remarked remorsefully. Speaking to Aithusa, he murmured, “Were you scared, girl? We were scared for you too.” 

    When she had calmed down somewhat, as evident by her less frequent but still persistent whimpers, Merlin and his children began to lead her towards the mountain. The process recalled eerie memories to Merlin’s mind of when he had first led Aithusa into a cave many years ago, not knowing then that it would be so long till he saw her again. Strangely enough, Aithusa didn’t seem to fear the prospect of entering this cavern as much as she had the other one. When last she’d been confined to earth instead of sky, she’d had a long and peaceful sleep; in comparison to the earlier events of the day, that seemed a much more preferable prospect. 

    “This doesn’t feel right,” Ava sighed once Aithusa began to settle into the cave where they had once slept. 

    Clo paused in pointing out his new dragon drawings to Aithusa. Turning to their father, he proposed, “Maybe Ava and I should stay back, watch over her.” 

    “Not a good idea,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “I’ll set up some protection runes to make sure she's as safe as possible, but after that, we go back to the citadel together.” 

    “But every time we leave her, something goes wrong!” Ava protested, her frustration from earlier that evening rising up once more. 

    “We know magic now,” Clo said, more gently and self-assured than his sister. “We’ll be fine, Pa.” 

    “I’m not leaving either of you here, and that’s final!” Merlin shouted, loud enough to startle him and his children. Shame bit at him; he so rarely raised his voice at them. 

    Lea had always been better at discipline than he, never shying away from letting their children know when they’d done wrong or pushed their parents too much. Nor had she been afraid to point out when Merlin’s parenting decisions left something to be desired. Once, when Thean had been running close to the cavern’s edge one summer evening, Lea had yelled at the boy so suddenly that tears sprung to his eyes; though Merlin had been there during the frightening affair, he’d said nothing. As soon as the children fell asleep that night, Lea had confronted him about it. “I need you to be with me on this,” she’d murmured. “They’ll listen more if it’s the two of us.” 

    “I know. I am with you,” Merlin had said across the soft breaths of their three children. Glancing down at them, he sighed. “I just don’t want them to hate us.” 

    “Merlin,” Lea said in a tone that meant she was even more serious than usual. “They don’t have to like us. They don’t even have to love us. They just need to stay alive.” 

    But staring at the two frightened children before him, as well as the wounded dragon they worried for, he couldn’t help but ease up on his harsh words. “We won’t leave her for as long this time,” he promised, approaching Aithusa to make the same assertion in dragontongue. 

    Though Ava and Clo did not appear terribly comforted by his words, Aithusa seemed reassured now that she was back in shelter. “Edcierr. Brirnnessen,” he said. I’ll return. You’ll be safe. He couldn’t be quite sure how much of what he said Aithusa understood- but she seemed to appreciate the sentiment nonetheless, nudging him affectionately. 

    Once the children had said their subdued good-byes to the dragon as well, they headed for the tree line. Several times, they paused, with Merlin using sharp rocks to scratch runes upon the bark of the sturdiest of trees. Last time he’d done this, he’d been outside another slave camp with runes still on his own body; he’d had to do so quickly when the handlers’ gaze had been averted by another lagging slave. Each mark had left him more exhausted than the last, and he hadn’t known them to be effective until sores began to sprout like a disgusting harvest on the faces of the handlers. 

    His children watched with wary interest as their father applied some of the last runes upon the farther trees. Each glowed for a moment in gold upon completion, before fading into the bark itself, rendering them practically invisible to the unobservant eye. 

    “How exactly will they protect her?” Ava asked, still lingering in resentment regarding their departure. 

    Merlin stepped back from his handiwork, giving a satisfied nod to himself before turning to them with a slight smirk. “Well, anyone who comes near will be overcome by a sudden urge to turn back and relieve their bowels in the forest.” For good measure, he added, “Repeatedly.” 

    This revelation landed with Merlin’s intended effect- uncontrolled giggles from Clo, and a slow smile from Ava. With a bit more levity in their step, the family continued on deeper into the forest. 

    As the adrenaline of the day faded away, tiredness started to grip them at the prospect of the journey ahead. By Merlin’s estimate, they likely would not reach the citadel until the wee hours of the morning. Such may prove a blessing, as even protesters had to sleep at some point. 

    It wasn’t long before Clo succumbed to his wish to be carried on Merlin’s shoulders, as he had the first night they’d been reunited. Without her brother beside her to keep her entertained with pointing out the curious scents of the evening, Ava began to sing. The sorrowful tune was one Merlin knew well; Lea had often sung it to calm the children at night. He’d first heard it before they’d been born, on the same night he’d used magic while serving supper to the handlers for the first and last time. Through the fogginess of a clobbered head, he’d latched onto the words that told the tale of a woman who stood every night on a forgotten shore, searching for signs of a lover lost at sea. Many of the songs Lea favored had similar somber tones; to their children, there had been a comfort in their sadness, a sign that beauty could come from tragedy- perhaps even their own. 

    On top of his shoulders, Clo hummed with his eyes closed. He was so out of tune with his sister that Ava stumbled on her words, chuckling. 

    Pa?

    His footsteps stuttered to a halt fast enough that Clo’s hands scrabbled on Merlin’s face for balance. “Whoa, what?” the boy protested. 

    “Thean,” Merlin breathed aloud, still startled enough to not properly focus. 

    Thean? 

    A pause, during which he was only dimly aware of Ava running up to him, of Clo scrambling down his back so that he could look his father in the eye once more. 

    Yeah, it’s me. His son’s voice sounded clear, as if Merlin might turn around to find him standing behind them this whole time, all alert eyes and somber stance. If only. 

    Thank the gods. And there was so much more he wanted to say, to pour forth, to clarify and comfort- but so did, apparently, Thean’s siblings. 

    “It’s Thean?” 

    “He’s speaking to you?” 

    “He’s alright?”

    Merlin nodded at them, still somewhat in a daze as he beckoned the two present children to sit with him against the nearest tree. Though he did so with the pretense of being better able to focus on the conversation at hand, his knees were also shaky from shock and relief. He sat down slowly, but Clo and Ava remained standing, the latter of whom grabbed his sister’s hands and jumped up and down in delight. The girl was in good enough spirits then to laugh with him. 

    It’s good to hear your voice, Merlin said. Or, your thoughts. Or- whatever. He could almost hear Thean chuckling at his stumbling words, and he took a moment to smile to himself before pressing on. What happened? Did you make it to Camelot?  

    Yes, yes. Sorry it took me so long. I just wanted to make sure they believed my story well enough, and I think they have. I’ve gotten some information that might be useful, but…  

    What followed was a heavy pause- so heavy, in fact, that Merlin began to fear their connection had broken. Just as Ava and Clo caught sight of his troubled expression, a timid voice reached his mind once more. 

    I did a bad thing, Pa. 

    Merlin felt his breath still at the catch in Thean’s voice. He waited. And when his son mustered up the courage to speak once more, he listened. Several times, he withheld the urge to interrupt. Judging from the rushed, frantic way in which Thean described the events he’d just endured, Merlin doubted he’d be willing to speak again if disrupted. 

    When the tale had concluded, it left a new kind of silence in its place, like an icy layer atop a winter lake that begged to not be disturbed. Merlin broke the surface anyway. 

    You did what you had to do. They’ll understand. Empty words, he knew. Logic did little to lessen fresh guilt. 

    Are you going to tell them? There was a bite of shame in Thean’s voice. 

    Merlin hesitated. His attempts at secrecy rarely resulted in anything but absolute failure. Most of those secrets, though, had been to protect himself. And he’d do anything to protect his children, so- 

    Please don’t. The clarity of their communication spell was uncanny; Merlin could hear the desperate nature of the plea. Except… maybe Arthur. Arthur should know. 

    Yeah. Alright. Of course, Thean. The faintest echo of a sniffle, one which was likely not meant to be transmitted by the boy. Scrambling for something else to say, Merlin settled on hopeful practicality. When we find a way to free Camelot, this can be fixed. You know that, right? Few things are irreversible. Even when he’d made dire mistakes himself, there had often been a way out; he only suffered the worst of consequences when he repeated the same ones. 

    Okay. A long pause. With a shift in tone akin to a gust of wind, Thean asked, How’s Ava and Clo? What’s Nemeth been like? 

    Well, they’re… Merlin glanced at the two children who now sat before him, the two who’d had their eyes trained on him as well the entire time, anxious and hopeful. He looked at the mark on Ava’s forehead from where a villager had pelted his anger at her, at the arm that Clo still held carefully at a bent angle in memory of when he’d fallen on it. 

    They’re great! Everything’s great here. 

    Great? Thean echoed dubiously. That wasn’t a word Merlin had often used to describe their lives. 

    Yes. Great. But never mind that, now; it’s been days, Thean. Tell me more about Camelot. A part of him felt guilty for not revealing more about their uncertain situation in Nemeth, but he surmised his eldest son had enough to deal with without that added worry. A desperate part of him also just wanted to keep hearing Thean’s voice, not his own. 

    And so he listened once more; grimly, to Thean’s description of the war-torn streets he’d wandered through once more, and with relief at the news of reconciling with those under the castle- Gwen and Gwaine and Gaius. Thean’s telling stumbled and stuttered to a halt when he talked of them. 

    Is there anything else? Merlin asked, knowing there must be from the lapsing silence. More gently, he asked, Is something wrong?

    No. Everything’s ‘great.’  Before Merlin could construct a response to that bit of bitter sarcasm, Thean continued. I have to go. Lessons start early tomorrow.  

    Alright. Merlin stifled the urge to protest. Be careful, Thean.  

   You too, Pa. 

    There is no sound to signal a break in their spell, no wave of hand, nor blowing out of a candle. Just absence. 

    “Well? How is he?” Ava leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She’d known of her brother’s vacancy as soon as weariness entered her father’s expression once more. 

    “He’s alive,” Merlin said distantly. 

    “And ?” Clo pressed. “Anything else?” 

    “Quite.” With a grunt that showed his age, he rose to his feet, his children following suit. “But we’ll have to be moving if we want to get back before first light. I’ll tell you on the way.”

    And he did tell them, though not everything. He kept his word to Thean and left out the most unpleasant part, the part which Merlin preferred not to think about anyway, least of all speak about. 

    “So they’re teaching children to be handlers,” Ava murmured once Merlin’s retelling had reached its conclusion. 

    “And mages,” Clo added. “That’s where all the fire came from, then.”

    Catching the confused look Merlin gave his son, Ava elaborated. “On the night of the attack on Camelot, fire came from the sky; they’d lit huge chunks of earth and let them rain down on the citadel.”

    “Ever heard of a spell for that, Pa?” Clo asked softly. 

    “No. Never.” And that frightened him more than he cared to admit. Camelot had been brought to the brink of ruin before, but no matter how gruesome the cause, Merlin could eventually identify it. Fire from the sky . Somehow, these Departed Lands mages had gotten as close to mimicking a dragon as possible without, as far as they knew, having any dragon to speak of. 

    “Mages trained from childhood,” Ava said, shaking her head. “Camelot’s mages didn’t stand a chance.” 

    “They took us by surprise. Next time, we’ll get them,” Clo said, though he looked troubled as he spoke. 

    The three of them continued their trek between trees and over streams. Merlin periodically extended his sight on the path ahead, scanning for any peasants or knights alike that may be seeking them out. Clo did his own form of scouting, tilting his head skyward each time he thought he detected a scent not belonging to the forest flora and fauna. 

    Once they neared the citadel, the plan was to enter at the farthest gate from the refugee camp so as to avoid any lingering turmoil. Ava would then lead them through the quietest of backstreets she’d learned from her days of delivering Halberg’s pottery. 

    That was the plan, anyway. Plans had a way of not working out for Merlin and his family. 

    At the darkest hour of the night, they crested the same hill that had first brought them to the citadel, back before it had shunned them. Merlin began to beckon for his children to slowly move back into the thicker treeline dotting the slope. Clo, as would be expected, did not listen. He stood still, eyes darting back and forth across the scene that had just opened out before them. Merlin followed his gaze reluctantly, expecting to be greeted with the sight of the refugee camp ruined by the earlier protests they’d accidentally incited. 

    Where there should have been chaos, there was order. Echoes of the protest could still be glimpsed- a torn Camelot flag here, a dismantled tent there. But the people who’d been at each other’s throats now stood close without the threat of an imminent fight breaking out. Torches illuminated the center of their focus. Something, no, someone…

    “By the gods,” Merlin murmured. “And he calls me the idiot?” 

    “Is that… Arthur?” Ava asked, sounding equally confused as her father.

    “Oh, yes!” Clo cried jubilantly, pumping his fists. “He’s going to put all those stupid dragon haters in their place!” 

    “If they let him,” his sister countered. 

    Merlin bit his lip in deliberation. He had to get Ava and Clo to the safety he hoped Nemeth’s castle would provide; Mithian made harsh and at times questionable decisions, but she would not turn her back on them as quickly as her people had. On the other hand, Arthur’s involvement made matters all the more complicated. Ava was right in her assessment; though the crowd looked peaceful for the time being, he and his children knew from experience that their temperament was as changeable as spring weather. 

    “Listen,” he said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “You two go on ahead. I’ll-”

    “Oh no,” Ava said, brushing off his hand. “Uh-uh. You said it yourself, Pa, back at Medora. We stay together.” 

    Merlin withdrew slightly. Clo cast a smile in his sister’s direction before turning back to their father, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding succinctly. 

    He stared at the two of them for a moment longer, seeing his own stubbornness reflected- and, to their surprise, he laughed. They were growing up far faster than he could keep up with. Lea, give me strength. 

    “Alright. Alright!” Merlin said to them, holding his hands up in defeat. “But you stay close, both of you. Or so help me, I’ll make sure you don’t see almond cakes for a week!” Though Ava snorted with laughter at that comment, Clo gulped nervously, the gravity of the warning clearly reaching him.

    “We’ll need to keep our heads down. I doubt they’ve forgotten us,” Ava said, turning her focus back to the camp. Though it was the darkest hour of the night, there were enough torches that they could reasonably expect to be recognized. Thankfully, most sources of light were held by knights both Nemethian and of Camelot, and thus unlikely to be subject to the whims of the people. 

    “I have a better idea.” Merlin put his hands on Ava’s shoulder and, in the next moment, was tugging a hood over her head that had not been there before. 

    “Nice spell, Pa!” Clo said as his father did the same for him. They wouldn’t have to worry about his shade of hair marking him as an outsider any more that night. 

    “I messed up quite a few of Arthur’s tunics throughout the years,” Merlin explained as he put up his own hood, surveying its edges proudly. “Had to learn how to mend them if I didn’t want to be fired.” 

    With hoods up, they quickly traversed the descent, eyes always forward to ensure the calmness of the camp didn’t unsettle itself. Few guards marked the entrance, and they only gave Merlin and his children a cursory glance; their gazes were elsewhere, as were those of the rest of the refugees. At the perimeter of the crowd, shorter folk stood on the tips of their toes to strain for a view, and parents held their young ones on their shoulders. 

    “I see him, I see him!” one perched girl cried. “It’s the King!” 

    “Never mind what you see, what is he saying?” asked an older boy. 

    Merlin could make out the sound of Arthur’s voice, but not his words yet. He didn’t think it worth the risk to try and extend his hearing with sorcery; they’d already suffered the consequences of one open display of magic that day. Still, bits and pieces of the content of the King’s words made their way to the backs of the crowd through whispers. 

    “That Nemethian was right. The dragon’s real; the king’s not denying that.”

    “Thank the gods he’s alive. There’s hope for us yet.”

    “Ugh, it’s disgusting! These Camelot folk are practically drooling at his feet.” 

    At last, they began to make out the sight of Arthur themselves. He’d not come without support; several knights stood behind him, of whom Merlin recognized only by their insignia. They maintained their distance, however, swords sheathed and hands at their side. Nemethian knights were interspersed throughout the crowd as well, looking unsure of the protocol for such an event. 

    As they got closer, the content of the speech became clearer. “...and I haven’t been honest with you. I’ve been quiet when I should have spoken, untrusting when I should have been more transparent. For that, I must ask your forgiveness.” 

    Merlin’s steps shuffled to a near halt, his children shifting beneath where his hands lay on each of their shoulders. He really has grown. Arthur had been a king to be proud of long before they’d been severed from another, but this- standing before a crowd of his people and another’s, a crowd who had earlier bristled with anger and violence, and asking for their forgiveness? It wasn’t something Merlin would have been capable of, nor would he have thought-

    A hand grabbed him roughly by one arm, yanking him off to the side. He let go of his children, pushing them away slightly and bracing himself to face his attacker, only to find them wearing a familiar face. 

    “My gods, Merlin, are you alright?” Sir Leon asked, beckoning for Clo and Ava to come closer. He stared stonily at the few refugees who had stopped to observe the ruckus, and they quickly turned their attention elsewhere. 

    “Better for seeing you,” Merlin said with a breathy laugh. 

    “Same to you.” Leon shook his head in shock. “You all gave us quite a fright.” 

    “Sorry,” Ava said softly to the knight. “Wasn’t our intention.” 

    “I know that, I know. But stay here with me; I don’t think Arthur would forgive it if I lost track of you three again.” 

    They had no intention of leaving the knight’s side, and from where they stood they could see the king well for the first time. He wore his crown, an identifier which had purposefully not donned his head on their initial visit to the camp. Despite his regal appearance, the spontaneous nature of his visit was evident from the crate he stood upon to address the people. 

    “I can’t promise what happens next, but I can tell you that no decision made so far has been meant to harm any of you. The dragon that you’ve heard of and fought over was not deemed to be an immediate threat by…” The king stumbled on his words as his gaze drifted to where Leon stood. Arthur kept his eyes moving to avoid lingering too long on that spot, but Merlin’s presence had not gone unnoted, as he continued, “By a very wise and trusted advisor of mine.”

    Clo elbowed his father at that, grinning up at him. 

    “As for the rations, those, too, are not meant to harm you, though I realize it may not feel as such. How could it, if those who dictate the law do not listen to you? I hope to break that pattern tonight. You’ve all given me your attention thus far, and now I wish to return that good fortune.” He stood a little taller, spreading his hands at his side. “As my people, and as our allies, speak to me; ask of me what I’ve not given you.”

    Scarcely a man or woman moved for a moment. Arthur had spoken with Camelot’s civilians many times before, but often from the comfort of his own throne, not atop a crate in a makeshift camp just torn asunder by passing rage. Those from Camelot found themselves not wanting to speak lest they break the tranquility of the moment with their uneven words. As for those of Nemeth, it was far easier to curse a King they’d never seen than one who stood before them. 

    Finally, one man mustered up the will to speak, hat held timidly between his hands. “With all due respect sir- er, my Lord… Why should we believe what you say about that dragon, and what you say about magic? You say no decision was made to do us harm, but whenever magic has crept its way into our city, harm has always followed.”

    Murmurs of assent followed, as did a rise in Merlin’s heartbeat. No one looked quite intent on rioting once more, but the tide could turn quickly. 

    “I understand,” Arthur said once he’d had time to consider. “I used to think of sorcery the same way, as did most of Camelot. But fear like that only serves to cloud one’s judgement. Magic isn’t evil, just as swords and arrows aren’t by themselves evil. Magic is…” 

    And there, the King struggled to form the right words to explain what he had once feared. It’s everything and everywhere, Merlin wanted to shout. It’s in the trees you build fires from, in the rivers that give you water. It’s in every creature’s first breath and their last. It’s-

    “At the will of those who wield it.”

    Gasps arose, confusing Merlin. Several of the most forefront spectators bowed deeply, and only then Merlin was able to connect the oddly familiar voice to its face. Queen Mithian had departed from the shadows, ensconced by several of her own knights that merged into the edge of the King of Camelot’s circle at her command. Dragging another crate from a nearby tent, she placed it beside Arthur’s, flashing a pleased smile at his expression of open surprise. Arthur still had enough clarity of mind to dip his head deeply, careful not to bow lest he ruin his tenuous balance atop his crate. 

    Arthur was not the only one surprised by her appearance. From what he’d garnered in his short time at Nemeth’s court, Merlin had heard the Queen rarely left her castle. Partly due to her daughter taking ill, but also, Merlin suspected, from a general distrust of the outside world. She’d not had the most pleasant trip last she went outside of her realm. 

    “And Nemeth is lucky to be allied with those who use magic to aid those without it,” Mithian proclaimed, voice raised to ensure as many citizens as possible could hear her. Nods, shuffling of feet, and gazes cast downwards in shame. But Mithian seemed to take in little of this, her words traveling elsewhere. “This evening, the Princess- my daughter… was going to die. I was so sure of it. But as I speak to you right now, she is alive, and better than she has been in years. A miracle, you might want to say, or the result of a mastery of medicine. It was neither of those things. It was a sorceress that saved her.”

    And the tide rose again, but towards joy this time, not fury. “Rinette!” Ava whispered fiercely, tugging on her father’s arm in excitement. “It must have been Rinette!” 

    A wide smile came to Mithian’s face at the joyous response from the crowd, and she let herself bask in their shared relief before continuing. “For too long, Nemeth has failed to make a firm decision on how we treat those with skillsets beyond our comprehension. The laws bid you to neither shun them, nor stand up for them.” 

    “So much for the not shunning part,” Clo muttered, quickly silenced with a “shh!” from his sister. 

    “But if we do not stand up for them now, then in the coming days, we will not be able to stand at all.” Merlin leaned forward from the shadows, forgetting his fear in expectation of her next words. “Nemeth needs magic. And it’s high time that we should wish for magic.”

    By this point, the shifting movement spurred by Mithian’s arrival and revelations had settled into stillness. In the ensuing silence, she turned her attention to Arthur, who’d graciously let her take the reins. “King Arthur and I will have much to discuss in the coming days,” she said in a quieter voice. Looking back to the crowd, she continued, “Much to discuss amongst ourselves, and much to discuss with you. Henceforth, open council sessions will be held, and the input of any who can fight or aid in the defense effort in any way shall be heard. For now, the hour is late. Take rest in the knowledge that two kingdoms stand behind every one of you.” 

    Bows and curtsies to the King and Queen. Arthur and Mithian stood on their crates without speaking, taking in the crowd’s respects. Perhaps they simply wished to let their people see them a moment more after long being hidden from view. 

    When the two royals stepped down carefully onto solid ground, knights began to obscure them from Merlin’s line of sight. The unrest of the earlier day had been partially forgiven, but not forgotten. “This way,” Leon murmured, leading Merlin and his family farther into the dispersing crowd. Beneath their hoods, they caught glimpses of weary faces upon which remnants of anger lay. There’s still work to do, Merlin thought, sensing his own expression fall as well. 

    Yes, there would be work. But there would be rest, too, and a bed for his children. For that, he could be grateful. 

    They came upon the largest cluster of knights and horses at the edge of the refugee camp, just where grass gave way to cobblestones. Forgetting himself amidst the familiar cloaks of red, Clo shook off his hood to reveal his unmistakable red hair. Seeing little point in hiding their identities after that, Merlin and Ava did the same. 

    Queen Mithian caught sight of them first just as they began to grasp their new surroundings. “My, my,” she sighed dramatically as she approached, a smile on her face. “Will you and your children ever learn to go into my citadel without making a mess?”

    “Unlikely. Though we may have an easier time after that speech,” Merlin said, returning her smile for what might have been the first time since he’d arrived in Nemeth. 

    Mithian nodded slowly, looking off to the side. “It was long past due,” she murmured. “Arthur’s right to listen to his people, but on this matter, I fear I may have listened to mine for too long.”

    Merlin moved his mouth to speak, but to his surprise, Ava interjected. “Is Nietta really alright?” she asked in a rush, having been bursting with the question while the adults talked. 

    Mithian’s initial reaction to the sudden turn in conversation was silence, and Merlin found himself instinctively reaching for his daughter lest she had spoken too much out of turn. But then, the Queen’s expression softened, and she moved towards Ava in an unthreatening way. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around the girl, causing Ava to stiffen and glance at her father and brother in alarm. 

    “She is alright now, darling,” Mithian murmured as she pulled away, still holding Ava gently by the hands. “Thank you. Truly, thank you.” 

    “Erm… forgive me, my Lady, but what are you thanking me for?” 

    “For saving Nietta.” She frowned in confusion, mirroring Ava’s expression. “With that fruit you grew from the Athrangi tree? Princess Eloise said-”

    “Eloise?” Merlin watched as his daughter’s eyes moved back and forth, connecting dots that no one could see. “Oh. Anselm.”

    “Yes, he was there too.” When Ava made no indication of speaking further, Mithian turned to Merlin. “I’m not sure what I would have done if it weren’t for her. You have quite the talented children.” 

    “I know,” Merlin said fondly, squeezing Clo’s shoulder as the boy began to nod off beside him. He wasn’t entirely sure what strange events that night had led to the curing of Princess Nietta, but based on Ava’s shocked silence, he could guess she’d not been in full control of the situation. His questions could be left till the morning, when he’d have enough energy to ask and she to answer. 

    “Merlin!”

    Arthur strode quickly towards them, two knights leading several horses behind him. “Thought I spotted three shifty looking individuals in the crowd,” he said once he stood before them, grinning wide. His eyes gave way to jest, but they softened at the muted response he received; a quirk of the lips from Clo, a slow blink from Ava. “Are you all alright, then?” Arthur asked, drawing in closer to survey them. 

    Merlin glanced down at their poor state, a trio of dirtied boots, torn clothes, and slouched shoulders. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced or resolved with a bit of rest though, though. “Our feet are a bit sore, but, yeah,” he said, mustering up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “We will be.”

    That was all Arthur needed to hear to resume his more kingly mannerisms. “Good,” he said shortly, beckoning the knights to bring the horses to Merlin and his children, evidently eager to get them back to the safety of the castle. “You can tell me all about it on the way back.” 

    “Wait Arthur, there’s something you should know,” Merlin said in a rush. When Arthur’s hands fell to his sides, reluctantly pausing in his orders, Merlin turned to Queen Mithian as well, who’d been watching their reunion with fond amusement. “Both of you, actually. Thean contacted me while we were, um, away. He got to Camelot safely, and the invaders believed his cover.” He took a deep breath, feeling Ava and Clo draw closer to him as he shared the news. “And he made contact with Gwen and those who managed to escape beneath the castle. They’re safe, too.”

    Arthur stared at him for a moment more before looking off to the side, running a hand through his hair in agitation. A step in one direction and another, and then a great, whooping laugh of relief. Beside him, Clo giggled at the sudden display of un-kingly emotion, and Merlin found himself laughing too. He’d scarcely had the chance to process all that had transpired that day, and the chance that maybe, just maybe, he might get to see all those he’d missed in Camelot was just starting to settle. 

    Still overwhelmed but able to talk once more, Arthur said thickly, “That… that is good news.” 

    “Good news, indeed,” Mithian agreed. “I see we’ve much to discuss and celebrate, then. Perhaps even a feast is in order.”

    Clo’s eyes widened. “A feast?” he murmured in awe. He’d heard of such affairs from Thean’s recount of his first few seasons in Camelot, but Clo had yet to experience one himself. 

    The Queen nodded.“But first, rest. There’ll be time for all that tomorrow.” Her tone was softer than when she’d last spoken to the boy following his brother’s departure, and she curtsied deeply thereafter, taking leave to join her own knights. Only when the last trail of her dress was out of view did Merlin suspect the gesture of respect had not been strictly meant for Arthur. 

    Once he’d helped Ava and Clo onto their own horse, they set off into the citadel streets, with he, Arthur, and the children riding alongside each other and knights flanking behind and ahead. They only had to turn the first corner before Clo fell asleep, his sister wrapping her arms more tightly around him to keep him from falling. Above the boy’s head, Ava shared an amused look with their father, having herself been calmed by the promise of their return journey. 

    “So, what did you think of my speech?”

    Merlin pulled his gaze away from the peaceful sight of his children and towards Arthur’s voice. The King’s head was held high, a confidence in his posture the likes of which Merlin had not seen in a long time. So naturally, he felt it was his duty as a former servant to humble the man. 

    Feigning indifference, Merlin shrugged. “Eh, it could have been better. Perhaps if the speech had been written by your very wise and trusted advisor-”

    “Knew I shouldn’t have said that. Knew that would go to your head.” Arthur glanced over at Merlin, and when he caught sight of the other man grinning, he chuckled and shook his head. 

    Before them, the spires of Nemeth’s castle began to come into view. Though Merlin did not find their structure quite as admirable as Camelot’s, he found himself unable to deny the impressive sight of them standing against the night sky. Their beauty was not lost on Arthur, either. Whilst looking up at them and thinking of the two children sheltered there, unknowing of the good news their father was about to deliver, Arthur murmured, “I think things are starting to look up, Merlin.”

    Merlin was glad the King’s attention was trained elsewhere, as otherwise he would have to nod, would have to agree and express the same optimism. Instead, he remained silent as they trekked on towards sanctuary, a sickening pit awakening in his stomach at the thought of the child that wasn’t with them and what he might be enduring.

Chapter Text

Thean

    “Runes again? Really?” 

    They sat on the cobblestones of the courtyard, parchment splayed across their laps and smudged black clay tools in their hands. Such Thean and the youngest of the mage children had done for the three days since he’d been assigned to learn among them, and such they would do again that morning. 

    “Runes again,” confirmed the older child who was overseeing their lesson that day. He swiped the parchment out of Konneth’s hands and made a look of disgust, tossing it back to him carelessly. “And again and again until they begin to resemble something other than a turd.”

    The group behind Thean snickered; he guessed them to be a year older than Konneth and the others. They would usually spend only the initial part of morning lessons among them, and between stolen glances, Thean had deduced the runes they were learning were much more complex. 

    Konneth balled up his fists around the parchment indignantly. “Well of course they look like turds! How are we supposed to draw them properly if you don’t even give us the real rune charcoal? Huh, Taz?”

    Taz frowned sternly. “That’s Tazuth to you, Kon,” he said pointedly to the younger boy. “Quit complaining, or I’ll write home to mother that you’ve been naughty.”

    At that, Konneth turned scarlet. Even Etho and Clara, who’d both been studiously scribbling until then, began to chuckle. Thean glanced back and forth between Tazuth and Konneth in confusion; from what he gathered, the Departed Lands children rarely had contact with their own family members during their years of training, so he doubted they’d be able to send messages to another family. Unless… 

    Oh. They’re brothers. 

    He didn’t know why he was so surprised to realize that bit of information. Looking then at the dark brown hair and round faces of the two boys, it should have been more obvious. But Thean hadn’t wanted to see it, hadn’t wanted to come to terms with the fact that entire families were among these people. Plotting to sabotage their presence in Camelot was easier when he didn’t have to imagine that mothers and fathers stood behind all these children, waiting for them to return as Thean’s father and siblings waited for him. 

    “Oi, you there!” 

    Tazuth was in his face, clapping his hands raucously. Thean startled, tearing his gaze from where he had been staring absently the training spot for the older children.

    “He has a name,” Konneth said beside Thean, who wished he hadn’t. 

    “More importantly, he has runes to draw.” 

    Gripping the clay between his fingers more tightly, Thean mumbled, “Sorry.” 

    Tazuth nodded curtly, either satisfied by the apology or no longer interested enough to care. As he left to help out the more experienced rune makers of the bunch, Konneth muttered under his breath, “Arse.” 

    Thean stared down at his parchment as the arse had demanded. The same intricate rune lay written by him over and over again, each time a little more neatly than the last. The first day of lessons, they’d been taught the simplest of runes: ‘Survive.’ A rune which granted slaves the ability to be stretched to the very edge of their physical limits, through hunger, cold, and sickness, until their bodies succumbed after maximum work. Many of the older slaves Thean had known had that one imprinted on their skin, including his parents. But Thean and his siblings had been devoid of the 'survive' rune, for reasons which became obvious when he learned the next rune during his second lesson. 

    ‘Sterilize.’ 

    “This rune I designed myself,” Zezumo had proclaimed proudly. “Some workers make the mistake of having offspring. For many years, our handlers had to tolerate this unfortunate occurrence and allow for the depletion of resources it incurred. But with this rune, you will be able to prevent adult workers from burdening their handlers with more mouths to feed.” 

    Thean remembered when Zezumo’s invention had been put in place in the mines. He and Ava had been eight years old, Clo five years old and bawling at the absence of their mother. All the women had been rounded up that night and taken out into the forest. When they returned, they each bore the same new marks on their lower bellies, showing the children and men. 

    “How do you feel?” Merlin had asked, surveying the new mark but unable to decipher it. Whenever they were given runes, they were never told what their purpose was. Most of these runes, Thean’s father had never studied while leafing through old books in Camelot; they’d either not been documented, or too cruel for Merlin to ever think he’d have a use for them. 

    “I’m not sure,” Lea had said, clutching Clo close to her. “But… different. Definitely different.” 

    Clo was always the youngest child in the mines thereafter.

    On his second day of lessons, Thean had wanted to scream. Instead, he drew. 

    The third day’s lesson: ‘Obey.’

    A yelp sounded across the courtyard. A boy had fallen to his knees, clutching at his forehead where several trails of blood had emerged. Another child stood before him with rocks hovering over one hand, marveling at the feat of magic he’d just produced. 

    “Too slow,” Zezumo sighed, dragging the injured boy up by the arm. “You’ll be spending your whole life in the medic’s den at this rate.” He passed the boy off to another child, waving them away before returning to survey the next sparring match. 

    “I can do that,” Konneth said, though this time only loud enough for Thean and the closest children to hear. Raising one palm and whispering, “Aheddan,” he made the a few pebbles float and swirl just beneath his hand.

    “Well, aren’t you special,” Etho remarked drily. 

    Without looking up, Clara grabbed Konneth’s hand and forced it back to the ground, eliciting a hiss of pain from him. She paid the boy no mind, instead raising her own hand and calling out, “Tazuth! I have a question.” 

    “Go ahead, Clara.” The older boy dipped his head respectfully. 

    “Some of these runes were created for the workers, I understand that. But they could be useful for us, as well. Like the ‘survive’ one- wouldn’t that be good for when we go on patrols and may not have a steady food supply?” 

    “Hmm, yes, I could see why’d you think that. The survive rune doesn’t take away the sensation of hunger or weakness that comes with those conditions though, it only lets us keep the workers alive for longer. And simply put, we aren’t  workers; if we look like them and bore the same runes as them, that would show weakness.” 

    Clara nodded slowly, seeming satisfied with the answer. Tazuth turned his gaze to the matches on the other side of the courtyard with a pensive look. Slowly, he murmured, “There are… some runes which you may one day receive. But only if you do not uphold your duties to the Balancer.” Eyes darting back to Konneth, he continued, “Which is why you should all do as you’re told .” 

    Konneth, for his part, did not vocalize any disagreement to that. 

    They scribbled on throughout the morning, and when the sun was at its peak, a shadow fell across them. “How are the runts doing today?” Zezumo asked as he surveyed the children, a smirk on his face. 

    “They’ve been maddeningly mediocre.” 

    Zezumo let out a deep, throaty laugh. “One could say the same of you, Tazuth!” he said, clapping the older boy on the shoulder, who gave a tight smile that melted into a grimace as his mentor turned to the other children. 

    One by one, Zezumo surveyed their parchments, a task which he had performed at the end of each day’s morning lessons. For the eldest of them, he made some comments, at times taking the child’s clay and correcting the runes himself. As for those closer to Thean’s age, the short sorcerer usually only gave a cursory look or a “hmm” of dissatisfaction. 

    That day though, he lingered on Thean’s parchment longer than before. “Better now, Raven,” he said to him, though only after the boy’s eyes had become as wide as saucers. “Good enough, actually. You and Clara, follow me; I have a task for you.” Speaking to the rest of the children then, he continued, “You’ve all wasted enough parchment for today. Lessons dismissed.” 

    Most of the children departed quickly, save for the two youngest boys. Etho looked on as Clara and Thean waited by Zezumo for further orders, clenching his fists and heavily frowning. He likely would have spoken his frustration aloud had Konneth not grabbed him by the arm and led him away. 

    With Clara at his side, Thean dutifully followed Zezumo throughout the halls. Past the training grounds where Anselm and he had first practiced sword-fighting together, past the armory where the Knights of the Round Table had laughed together as they closed another day, and on deeper and deeper beneath the earth, towards the dungeons where Merlin had once thought his life might end should his secrets see the light of day. 

    Clara moved closer to Thean as they neared the end of a long hall. Torches were few and far in between, and the cold had buried itself down there many years ago and never left, unaware and uncaring for the turn of seasons. From the depths of his robes, Zezumo withdrew two slick, black pieces of charcoal with a blue hue to them. They were similar to the tools Rinette had handed Thean back in Nemeth when he and his father had first attempted the communication spell- similar, as well, to the piece of charcoal which lay hidden beneath a floorboard in Thean’s chambers. 

    “Today, you are going to put what little skills you’ve learned to use. Two new prisoners were just brought here, and I believe the ‘obey’ runes would suit them well. You are not to converse with them, even if they try to provoke you; they speak only rubbish.” Zezumo leaned forward, eyeing the two children more intensely. “If you wish to brag to the other mage children about what you do here, then so be it; perhaps it will inspire them to pursue their studies with greater ferocity. But if either of you breathe a word of this to another mentor’s children, I will personally and publicly flog you. Understood?” 

    Their heads nearly fell off from how vigorously they nodded. 

    Zezumo opened the door, and the sounds of suffering followed. 

    Gods, Thean thought as they passed various prisoners, hunched over in corners or watching the newcomers with blank stares. Or Ma, or Pa, or anyone. Help me get through this. 

    How foolish he’d been to not contact his father before, for fear of not having enough significant information to share with Nemeth. How naive he’d been to think he was courageous enough to endure the ways of the invaders without the strength of his father’s voice fresh in his mind. 

    He must be going mad. He must be going mad, for he thought he knew some of those faces, thought he’d heard some of those voices rise in laughter that now twisted as they cried out for mercy, for healing, for even just a drop of water. 

    They stopped, each of Zezumo’s hands on either of the children. “Clara, yours is over there,” he murmured, jutting his chin to a cell just off to one side. “Go now. I’ll open that cell in a moment.” 

    As Clara strode off with a feigned confidence Thean could not fathom, Zezumo turned him towards a cell on the other side. “And this, Raven,” he said, voice crackling with excitement as though revealing a gift. “This one is yours.” 

    The prisoner and the boy gazed at one another. 

    “If I keep practicing, I’ll be as strong as him one day!” Anselm had exclaimed proudly, waving his wooden sword. 

    “What do you even do all day, eh?” Gwaine had taunted him. “Lift tree trunks?” 

    “We’re glad to meet you,” the prisoner had once told Thean. “Your father was a good man.” 

    This time, neither appeared glad of the meeting. Thean saw his own horror reflected on Percival’s face, who looked up at him from where he sat with his back against the wall, his still ridiculously thick arms hugging his knees to his chest in a way that made him look more like a child than a knight. He’s not a knight, Thean thought numbly through his mounting panic. Not here. Not to these people. 

    “Don’t be afraid, Raven,” Zezumo said, giving him a nudge forward. “No one will hurt you while I’m here.” With that, he unlocked Percival’s cell door, leaving Thean no more excuses to not enter. 

    Merlin’s son stood still as the door closed behind him, waiting for the sorcerer’s footsteps to recede as he went to unlock the other cell door for Clara. When the jangling of keys grew fainter for a moment, Thean walked forward quickly, kneeling before Percival. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a rush. “So sorry.” 

    The knight nodded, even granting him a small smile. “Don’t be. Do what you have to do.” 

    Percival rolled up his sleeve to the shoulder, revealing a multitude of runes Thean had never seen before. Experimenting. They’re experimenting on them. 

    “Get on with it. And don’t forget the binding spell!” Zezumo called, and Thean realized with a start that the man had returned to his post outside Percival’s door. With a shaking hand, he began the ‘Obey’ rune. Harsh lines at first, rigid and unyielding like the relentless orders handlers would give their slaves. And then, swirls, dipping past the edges and curling in between. 

    It wasn’t fair. How could something with such an ugly origin look so beautiful?

    One last stroke, and then Thean placed his hand tentatively above his work. “Beclemman,” and the lines blazed blue before returning to harsh blackness. With that, he no longer had an excuse to remain with the prisoner. Yet he had so much more he wanted to say. 

    Like, “You don’t deserve this.” 

    And, “I’ll get you out of here.” 

    And, “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.” 

    “All done?” Zezumo asked, twirling his ring of keys. 

    “Done.” 

*****

    The afternoon was a blur. 

    Zezumo had been pleased with their work, and allowed Thean and Clara to keep their charcoal pieces in case he needed their assistance in the future. He told this to them as though they should feel honored. The sorcerer had even given them extra meal tickets for that night before sending them on their way to chores, as they’d missed lunch. 

    Thean was assigned one of the lighter tasks of sorting through clothes. There were two piles the clothes were to be sorted into: those too burnt to be worn, and those deemed salvageable. Most of the other children there were serving girls, and they twirled around laughing as they clutched the prettiest of dresses. He recognized a few of Ava’s. 

    As scores of burnt tatters passed through his hands, the rage he’d felt in the dungeons sputtered out into something more pathetic. Who was he to think himself capable of turning the tide in Camelot’s favor? There was nothing special about him, save for his magic- and that paled in comparison to what his father could do. 

    His father. He had to talk to him, and soon. More than ever, he needed to hear his voice. 

   Reluctantly, he followed the servants to the dining hall once the afternoon sun began to fade. The smells were divine, better than they had been since Thean first arrived among the invaders. The patrols that went out into the forests surrounding Camelot had begun to adjust to the terrain, bringing back with them larger and more plentiful prey. Thean had little appetite for their catches, even less so as the conversation among the other mage children turned towards the morning. 

    “So, what did the prisoners look like?” Konneth pressed, shoveling spoonfuls of hare stew. “Did they have big teeth, and glowing red eyes?”

    “How old are you?” Etho scoffed. But he, too, watched Clara and Thean’s faces carefully for their reactions.

    “We really aren’t supposed to talk about it too much,” Clara said, somewhat apologetically. She nodded her head towards the multitude of tables behind them. “Not while other children are around.”

    “Aw, c’mon, you must be able to tell us something. Did they look-”

    “Normal!” Thean burst out. Konneth startled, dropping his spoon with a clink!  The older children further down the table looked towards them with disdain. Thean shrank into himself, reddening as he said, “They just looked... normal. That’s all.” 

    “Oh,” Konneth murmured, looking anywhere else except at him. 

    A beat of silence passed. 

    “They sure did stink though,” Clara said. Laughter rippled between the other children, and Thean forced himself to join in. 

    He did not stay with them much longer thereafter, becoming one of the first in the dining hall to deposit his half-empty dishes in the buckets laid out by the servants. He passed Gemma on the way out as she divvied stew for any late comers, and he thought she might have glanced up in his direction curiously. He kept walking. 

    As he passed through the empty halls, he let one hand trail on the walls, fingertips just barely making contact. Once, he had never strayed too close to the middle. Only when he had grown accustomed to bounding through them with the prince and princess had he stopped fearing the repercussions of being at the center, letting carpet soften their pounding footsteps instead of the edges of stone. 

    In his room, he sat down on the edge of his bed before slowly letting himself fall into it completely, and lay like that for a long time. He pondered on what exactly he was feeling, whether it was too much or too little. Strange, he finally decided upon. He felt strange. 

    Thean assumed that if he lay there long enough, he would start to hear children returning to their shared chambers, signaling the end of the dreadful day. Instead, the first sign he received that the dinner affairs had ended was from the growing orange glow at his window and the smell of smoke. Another book burning. He should go out there, he knew, should try to act as though he were like all the other children and felt joy at the sight and sound and smell of destruction. 

    He stayed in his room, keeping still until the light of fire faded and the smell of smoke turned to ash. When the cheers of the children faded too, and their laughter died within the halls, his thoughts turned to his father and the charcoal beneath the floorboards. The charcoal stick Zezumo had given him earlier still sat heavy within his pockets, but he refused to use it. He didn’t need any reminders of what he’d done. 

    Back in Nemeth, he’d promised to put the runes on in the safety of the hidden chapel found through the servant hallways. Now that he was here though, the idea seemed impractical; his tunic sleeves were long enough to prevent anyone entering the room from immediately seeing them, and the risk of not being found anywhere within the castle seemed far greater.

    And besides, he was so tired. If someone came, let them come. 

    The communication runes he drew onto his arms hastily, not focusing on them any longer than he had to. Then, he reached out. 

    Thean? 

    He could have laughed, danced, and screamed right then. Yeah, Pa. It’s me. 

    The conversation that followed, though it started with joy, quickly turned too soon into depths Thean did not feel ready for. He wasn’t even fully aware of precisely what he said regarding his time in the dungeons, only that his recount tumbled out of mind and spun out of his control like a river breaching a beaver’s dam. And his father’s words- nothing is irreversible - did little to comfort him. Because Thean knew that even though runes could be taken off, the mark they left went far beyond their physical presence. Worse still were the lies they shared- his father’s remarks that everything was ‘great’ in Nemeth, and Thean’s refusal to tell Merlin that Gaius was ailing once he recounted his visit to Guinevere and the refugees beneath the castle. He felt a shred of guilt as he abruptly broke the communication spell with his father, fumbling with some lie about having early lessons the next day.

    Mostly, though, he felt anger. Anger at his father for not telling him the full truth, and anger at himself for doing the same. 

    You’re a lot like your father. That was what Thean had heard many times, and the words used to make him beam with pride. Now, though, he was beginning to think he’d misinterpreted their meaning entirely. Perhaps they’d meant that he was like his father in all the ways he shouldn’t be. 

    Secretive, when he should be trusting. Brave to a point, and then deathly afraid beyond that. Powerful, at times- but powerless in the ways that mattered most. 

    Without fully contemplating the decision, Thean rose to his feet and left the room. Most of the torches had gone out, save for those dotting the ends of each hallway. He heard the occasional murmur of other children who’d been given the task of patrolling the halls, but avoided them easily enough, stepping into passageways as yet unused by the invaders. Twice, his feet almost turned towards the royal chambers, instinctively seeking the comfort they had once provided, until he remembered where he was and who he was supposed to be. 

    “Raven?” 

    He’d come upon the great dining hall. Gemma leaned against a wall beside the entrance, distant torchlight from within illuminating her figure. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked in a hushed voice. 

    Thean shook his head as he approached, leaning beside her. Though he did not know the reason for her quiet words, he kept his voice low as well. “You?” 

    “No, I definitely could sleep if I wanted to,” Gemma murmured, and indeed, he could see the shadows under her eyes now that they were closer. “But then I would miss the show.” 

    “The show?” 

    “Shh.” She pressed a finger to her lips, smiling. “Any moment now.” 

    Her prediction proved accurate. A single note of music pierced the air then, wavering and high. Thean recognized the sound as being from one of the string instruments played at the feast several nights earlier. This instrumentalist was playing on their own to a tune less bouncy and rhythmic as that which Robin had danced to, but it was a joyous tune all the same, and Thean felt his arms break out in goosebumps. 

    “It’s Luther,” Gemma explained after a minute. Once he’d placed the name of the boy who’d unabashedly taken his first meal ticket, she grinned. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Every time I hear him play, I still can’t believe that such a prat could create something this beautiful.” 

    They laughed together, stifling their chuckles lest the boy inside hear. As the melody picked up in speed, Thean murmured with awe, “It certainly is that. Beautiful.” 

    Gemma eyed him curiously, weighing something in her mind. Coming to a decision, she pushed herself off the wall and extended her hand towards him. “Dance with me?”

    Thean remained as he was, arms behind his back. “I, um.”

    “You have danced before, haven’t you, Raven?”

    “Yes,” he said quickly, not wanting to appear unordinary. “But it’s been a while.”

    Not since the end of summer, on Eloise’s birthday. They’d been just in there, in the great hall. 

    “Well, let’s change that tonight.” Gemma wiggled her fingers in emphasis. With a smile coming to his face, Thean accepted her offer. 

    They started slowly at first, careful to avoid the entrance as they rocked on their heels and turned circles. Thean found himself suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms had become. Perhaps sensing his unease, Gemma let his hands go, and did a twirl where she stood. When she’d stilled, she gestured for him to do the same. Thean could almost hear how the prince and princess would laugh had they seen him then. 

    The music quickened, and so did their movements. There was little rhyme or reason to their dance. At times they would grasp each other’s hands, other times drift apart- but always, they came back together. During what was likely the climax of the song, they clung to each other with one hand and were spinning in a dizzyingly fast circle. The speed they reached became too much for Thean’s tenuous balance, and he tripped over his own feet, rolling several times as he hit the ground. 

    When he came to a halt with his stomach to the ground and his hair all askew, he met eyes with Gemma, and they both burst into loud, unabashed laughter. 

    The music stuttered and stopped. “Who's there?” 

    Skittering across the floor in her haste, Gemma pulled Thean up by the arm and made a mad dash for the closest end of the hall. They turned the corner and pressed their backs to the wall just as Luther must have poked his head through the entrance. After a moment of silence, he muttered something indecipherable, and his footsteps could be heard retreating back into the great hall. The success of their escape clear, they looked at each other once more, and Thean had to suppress a giddy laugh from bubbling up. 

    Their breaths were just returning to normal when a new melody began, one much slower and far more somber in tone. 

    “I haven’t heard this one before,” Gemma said beside him. 

    Neither had Thean- he couldn’t have. And yet, those tired, mournful notes slipped through the air in such a way that he felt as though he must have heard them before. As though they were the sounds of the long, drawn-out wail he’d lived beside his whole life. 

    This land, these people, it was all too much. Everything had always been too much. 

    She noticed the tears before he did. “Oh, no, Raven,” he heard her say as he sunk to the ground. She stood uncertainly for a moment more before coming to kneel beside him. He did not look up at her, he couldn’t, but he felt her hands lightly on his shoulders. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let’s get you to bed.” 

    He nodded (at least he could still do that) and let himself be pulled to his feet, still avoiding her gaze. With shame, he noted the shaking of his legs; she kept a firm grasp on his arm to keep him steady as they traversed the halls. Thean hoped that as the music grew more distant, he’d return to his senses enough to tell Gemma that he was fine, that she didn’t have to worry about him. He never did. 

    When they reached his room, she opened the door for him, watching carefully as he laid down on his bed. He remained on top of the blankets, too tired and wracked by the heaving of his chest to try to get beneath them. Surely she’d leave soon, leave him alone to navigate his way through this. 

    She stayed. 

    He did not know how long he lay there, emotions and thoughts twisting and tripping as they ran amuck through his head. Sometimes his eyes closed, other times he stared at the ceiling. Her breaths could have been confirmation enough that he was not alone, but to reaffirm her presence, she kept one hand wrapped in his own.

    As her fingers unraveled from his, loosening the clasp she had on his hand from where she sat on the floor, he realized he’d fallen asleep. Her look of surprise at his opening eyes was enough to deduce that. 

    “I have to go now,” she whispered, an apology in her voice. 

    He squeezed her hand just before it slipped completely away. Though he spoke no words then, his message was clear. 

    “Thank you,” he whispered as the door closed. 

*****

    Bare feet on stone, a feeling Thean once loathed but had come to find comforting when he first began to acclimate to life in a city. In the mines, his feet had served as a second pair of eyes, warning him amidst the darkness when the ground was too slippery or too steep. Even on the brightest of days, such as this one, he cherished the moments when he could slip off his boots and walk as he had the first ten years of his life. He didn’t think he’d ever quite understand the widespread obsession with shoes among city folk. 

    A stream ran at his side, glinting in the sunlight. Not a cloud blemished the sky. The sound of children playing in the water somewhere up ahead reached his ears, and he smiled, thinking back to when he had done the same with his siblings and friends. 

    The only visible occupant of the land before him was a woman. So bright was it that he could not make out her face until he was closer. And when he did reach her, he felt like a fool. 

    He should have known that red hair from anywhere. 

    “Ma?” he heard himself say in a strangled voice, heart galloping. His first thought was that this might be another one of his recurring nightmares, the one where she’d not be able to hear him no matter how many times he called for her. 

    But he’d never had a nightmare with so much sunlight before, and this time, she heard him. “Thean,” she sighed happily- happy, she looked happy- and patted the sand and pebbles beside her, beckoning him closer. 

    He moved slowly, afraid that if he walked too fast, all this would fade away. Taking a seat still several paces away from her, he scarcely allowed himself to blink. She was wearing a dress he remembered well, one of the few articles of clothing that had a spot of color on it. The collar held images of blue flowers that livened up the otherwise drab, gray fabric. Lea had told Ava that she’d keep it clean for her so that she could have it when she got bigger. 

    “Is this real?” Thean asked, finding his words coming out hoarse. “Are you real?” 

    “What do you think?” his mother said, and she smiled, again taking him by surprise. He’d never thought he’d see that again, convinced that the last image he’d have of her in his mind is how he’d seen her on that black day on the mountain slope. Dead and decayed. 

    “I don’t know.” Helplessness clutched him once more. “I don’t think I know anything anymore. Everything’s all wrong, Ma. Pa and Ava and Clo, they’re alive, but they’re not the same, none of us will be, and even after all this they’re still not safe. And the people that took me in, that saved me, I’m trying to help them now, but…” He hugged his knees to his chest, feeling hot tears sting his eyes. “I’m not sure I can do this anymore.” 

    Lea studied him, growing concern evident in her furrowing brow. She stood up and crossed the distance between them, settling close enough that Thean could see the freckles dotting her face, each just where he remembered they’d been.

    “You can, Thean,” she said, leaning forward solemnly. “You and your siblings, you’ve all endured so much already- more than your fair share. And you’ve each become stronger than I could have ever dreamed, every one of you.” She smiled again, but more sadly this time, her eyes lost in a memory. “Your father always had faith that you’d live past your time in the mines, and I- I didn’t let myself believe him at first. But the older you got, the more I saw it. You three grew like weeds through the cracks.” She paused, laughing. “I guess you inherited his stubbornness, huh?” 

    Thean laughed wetly with her, crying even more profusely when her hands went to rest on his shoulders, warm and calloused. “So when I tell you this, Thean, you must believe me. You can survive this.” 

    He nodded, trying to commit her words to memory so that they would give him strength when he once more found himself in despair. Desperation started to grip him as they sat in silence. Whatever this was that had brought him to her, it could slip away at any moment- and he still had so much he wanted to say. 

    “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, the first words he could come up with. He spoke without thinking, the veil between his mind and mouth having thinned to nothing. “I would always get so angry at you in the mines, even over the most stupid, little things because- because I wanted, I needed someone to blame. But that wasn’t fair, it wasn’t your fault, and I…” He was sobbing once more and had to force himself to choke out the last few words. “I never got to tell you.” 

    “It’s okay,” his mother told him, in the same hushed voice she’d use to sing them songs at night. “You didn’t have to tell me, Thean, I knew. I know.”

    He threw his arms around her and she laughed, beginning to rock him slightly. “My baby,” she whispered, and Thean hugged her more tightly. 

    This- just this. This was all he had wanted since that day on the mountains, since he first saw Gwen kiss Anselm and Eloise good night. Since Ava had started to cry herself to sleep, and Clo began to lapse into rare moments of silence he’d never had before. Since Thean had begun to note the way his father’s face would fall when he thought his children weren’t looking. 

    He could feel her breath on his ear and hear her heartbeat through the fabric of her favorite dress. They were close now, closer than the worlds that separated them. 

    And then he woke up.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    They slept the day away, rising with the sounds of the castle stirring into life at night. Queen Mithian had kept her word; a feast was to be held the evening immediately following her daughter’s recovery. Even Princess Nietta was going to attend, though she would likely refrain from the more strenuous aspects of the celebration. 

    While their children readied themselves in the room across the hall, Merlin and Arthur prepared for the first feast they’d attend together in many years. Though they’d not discussed it beforehand, they slipped back into their old roles of king and servant with the same ease as one might put on their favorite pair of boots. As Merlin fastened the belt around his waist, Arthur watched him curiously. The man’s attention kept wandering to the window, where a steady stream of noblemen and women could be seen heading for the castle gates. They were dressed in the colors of the two kingdoms: red and gold, or silver and blue. No strict dress code was being enforced, but attendants were encouraged to wear the colors of the opposite kingdom to symbolize the strengthened bond between them. 

    Merlin’s gaze wandered to the window once more, his hands tangling up in the belt as he lost focus. The garment whistled through the belt loops and sank to the floor. With a frustrated sigh, Merlin summoned it back to his grasp with a flash of his eyes. 

    “Don’t worry, Merlin,” Arthur said jovially. “If I fired you for something like that, you wouldn’t have lasted an hour.” He’d hoped the jest would call the man back from his restlessness, but his friend only glanced up at that. “What is it?” he pressed. 

    “The guests,” Merlin sighed. “I’m not sure Mithian was wise to invite as many as she has. It’s not safe.” 

    “Not safe?” He pondered for a moment before understanding the meaning. “You think something might go wrong at the feast.” 

    “Doesn’t something always go wrong?”

    “No!” A dubious look prompted him to reconsider. “Well. Perhaps about a quarter of the time. That still keeps the odds in our favor, though.” 

    Merlin let out a huff, the closest he’d come to laughing since waking. 

    He’s nervous. 

    That, in itself, wasn’t surprising. Arthur had once thought Merlin’s skittishness stemmed from being thrust into city life following his village upbringing. Only later had he realized that undercurrent of anxiety came from constantly being alert for dangers Arthur himself could not see nor be made aware about. As King, Arthur had gotten a taste of that himself; the paranoia, the restless nights, the conviction that even a day’s worth of peace was never promised. That relentless sense of foreboding reached even higher heights once Merlin had disappeared. Every shadow became a threat, every venture beyond the castle an opportunity to lose yet another friend. 

    And even now that they were reunited, there was still much to worry about. As soon as they’d been far away enough from their children to not be overheard, Merlin had divulged the full extent of Thean’s recount. Arthur had listened to the grim tale, wincing at the revelation that Thean had been forced to put some of the same runes he used to wear on Sir Percival. What was even more gruesome was that the boy may need to perform the same task again on still more captured knights of Camelot. 

    In the time immediately following Merlin’s retelling, Arthur had to suppress the urge to call a council meeting despite the impending feast. Percival and his comrades had separated from the rest of Camelot’s forces in order to search for a missing group of knights prior to the liberation mission in which Merlin had been found. In the chaos that ensued following the attacks by the Departed Lands, Sir Percival and his comrades had never reunited with Arthur, and now he knew why. 

    The mystery remained of how and where exactly those knights had been captured. In his younger days, Arthur might have followed his impulsiveness and delved back into the forest immediately to search for clues. As he was, though, he knew the best decision would be to wait. He sensed they were on the edge of something vast, and they likely wouldn’t understand the full extent of their enemy until they learned more from he who stood at the epicenter: Thean. 

    Merlin had moved on to fastening a cape provided by the Nemethians around the King’s shoulders. Sapphires lined the crest and silver thread bordered its edges. It was a beautiful thing, and Merlin seemed well aware of that, handling the garment more carefully than he had the belt. 

    “I’m surprised you remember how to do this,” Arthur said, hoping to distract the both of them from dismal thoughts. 

    Merlin was standing behind him then, but a smile could be heard in his voice. “A good servant never forgets.”

    “As I said. I’m surprised you remember how to do this.”

    A snort of laughter in reply. Though they still weren’t facing each other, Arthur grinned anyway. Victory. 

    They lapsed into a companionable silence for a while. Merlin was the first to break it. “Feels strange,” he murmured. “Having a feast when there’s still so much to accomplish.”

    “Hm, yes. But as Mithian said, there’s much to celebrate.”

    The sorcerer nodded, stepping back to appreciate the symmetry of the chainmail. As he leaned in to straighten the part underneath the belt, he said thoughtfully, “True. Anselm’s birthday, Thean reaching Camelot, Nietta no longer ill. I think Clo’s pretending that the feast is for his birthday, too.” 

    “He really did inherit that big head of yours, didn’t he?” Merlin flashed him a grin, spurring Arthur to continue. “Though those things are great, they weren’t what I meant.” 

    “How’s that?” the seasoned servant asked absently, fixated on a stubborn button. “What else is there to celebrate?” 

    “You, you idiot.”

    That gave Merlin pause. “Me? What about me?” 

    “Well,” Arthur said slowly, as though speaking to a child. “To start with, you survived all those shenanigans in the citadel.”

    “They weren’t shenanigans, we were just trying to-”

    “Right, right,” the King said dismissively, mocking the indignant man with a roll of his eyes. He hesitated before continuing, “What I mean is, the fact that you’re alive at all, after everything- that on its own is worth celebrating.”

    Merlin’s hands dropped in surprise at the sudden sentiment. He quickly averted his eyes, his reaction in line with what Arthur had suspected. They’d never been too good at these kinds of conversations, a fact which years of separation hadn’t helped. Kilgharrah and the druids had described them as ‘two sides of the same coin,’ or so Arthur had been told; but to him, even that didn’t do justice for what existed between him and Merlin. Their bond went beyond the constraints of words.

    Still, Arthur had to try, or he’d wind up with regret, of which he already had plenty of. 

    “Listen…”

    “Oh, no,” Merlin said, a worry of a different kind returning to his brow. “I know that look. Arthur, we already talked about this.”

    “We didn’t, though. Not really.” The events following their reunion had been a string of misfortune, each demanding more attention than the joy they felt at each other’s renewed companionship. “You didn’t want to. You said that I shouldn’t feel guilty, and I didn’t want to push you at the time. But if it had been you in my place, and you couldn’t find me, how would you feel?”

    Merlin pretended to consider for a moment. “I’d be ecstatic.” 

    “Merlin.”

    “Right. Sorry,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “I’d be…” His face fell, and a quietness gripped him. “Well…” 

    “Precisely,” Arthur sighed. “So just, please, let me say this. Gods know I’ve been waiting long enough to get the chance.” 

    Merlin nodded, looking at him with an expectant crease to his brow. Arthur took a deep breath before hesitation could still his tongue.

    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t reach you fast enough the day you were captured, and I’m sorry it took me so long to find you after that. I’m sorry you lost Lea, that I couldn’t protect you or your children from that pain. Because, because that’s what I was supposed to do, right? As King, as your friend, I was supposed to protect you, but I didn’t. Even now. Even here.” He had to stop himself from babbling on, because Merlin was starting to look a little frightened, and he didn’t want that. “So I guess what I’m saying is,” he continued, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry you’ve lost so much, and that I can’t give it back to you.”

    Merlin nodded slowly. His gaze strayed from Arthur’s but in thought, not with intent. “I thought that too, once,” he murmured. “That I’d… lost. But I’m not so sure about that anymore.” He smiled, looking at his king once more. “If it hadn’t been for that day, I wouldn’t have met Lea. And Ava, Clo, and Thean, they wouldn’t exist. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”  

    Arthur stared at him for a moment, and then laughed wetly, a sound that surprised both he and Merlin. “Never ceases to amaze me,” he said, shaking his head and still chuckling. “How is it that the clumsy oaf who fought me in that marketplace, all those years ago, became the strongest man I know?” 

    “Learned from the best.” Merlin dipped his head in what would usually be a mockery of formality, but this time brimmed with endearment. As he raised his head, he caught the odd expression in the King’s eye and smiled. “Aw, are we going to-” 

    Arthur wrapped his arms around him before he could get the last word out. “It’s good to have you back,” he said before another joke could interrupt, voice muffled by the other man’s tunic. 

    Merlin stayed still for a moment before wrapping his arms in return. “Good to be back.” 

    He knew he’d take slack for this, that it may serve as fuel for future taunting between the two of them. But at that moment, he didn’t care. He remembered what Eloise had said back in the field where he and Merlin had reunited with their children, after Arthur had commented on his daughter’s clipped hair. 

    It doesn’t matter, she’d said before gesturing back to where Merlin and his children stood. They matter. 

    How right you are, little one, Arthur thought to himself as he lingered in the hug a moment longer. 

    “Sire?” 

    “Yes?” 

    “You’re getting soft in your old age.” 

    “Shut up, Merlin.” 

***** 

    Sights and sounds surrounded him, vividly reminding Merlin of why he had always loathed feasts. The feasts he’d attended as a servant had rarely been kind to him, whether the incidents involved yet another attempt on Arthur’s life, or the less taxing but equally annoying occasions of disgruntled visiting noblemen demanding he pour more wine for them than the stores of Camelot would allow. When he had to manage the tasks of both known servant and unknown protector, one of his jobs faltered, usually the former. 

    Even now in Nemeth, where both of his roles were known, he found himself overwhelmed. Noblemen and women, as well as a select peasantry obvious by their best but well-worn attire, continued to enter the hall in an unending river. The unofficial dress code made matters all the more complicated; no longer could a person’s loyalties be determined by their preferred colors and insignia. If he wished, he could extend his hearing to pick out what unsavory bits the attendants whispered to one another when they believed no naysayers stood near them. But doing that would require using his magic which, though allowed, would only spark further suspicion. 

    The looks they cast in his direction confirmed their fear of him. He need not let them know he felt the same in return. 

    Merlin wasn’t alone in his senses being overwhelmed by the affair. Beside him, Clo had his nose turned towards the ceiling, eyes closed and a smile on his lips as he tried to take in the scents of the delectable dishes being prepared. 

    “Don’t do that, Clo,” Ava chided warmly. “Everyone’s going to see your nose hairs.” 

   “I don’t have nose hairs.”

   “Yes, you do.” 

   “No, I don’t. Tell her, Eloise.” 

    They sat close to but separate from the long table for those of the highest status. Mithian had offered Merlin a seat closer to her prior to letting the attendants in, one which he had nearly accepted for want of being near Arthur. Just before he began to murmur his assent, he’d spotted a blind spot at the other end of the room from his potential seat- one of the entrances was blocked by the tables set up to bear the brunt of the dishes. Should an intruder enter from there, he would not be able to see them immediately. 

    And so he found himself once more at the outer edges of a social affair, though this time by choice. Even when magic had been liberated in Camelot, he’d felt uncomfortable sitting at the forefront of the few feasts he’d been able to attend before his capture. He’d chosen to dance and circulate among the crowd rather than sit at the seat which, though Arthur insisted he deserved, never felt quite right. 

    Maybe he would have come to feel at home at those celebrations had he been given the chance. For so long he’d hoped to live in Camelot without fear of his sorcery being known. That whisper of a wish had bloomed into reality, but only for a season. 

    “Eloise? Why aren’t you saying anything? Tell Ava I don’t have nose hairs.” 

    “I can’t. My dad says it’s not good to lie.” 

    “Huh?!” 

    Ava and Eloise’s laughter pulled him from his ruminations. Camelot's princess had insisted she would sit with Merlin and his children, though the more traditional place would be at her father and brother’s side. Anselm, meanwhile, had remained next to the still recovering Princess Nietta without protest. Through the tension clouding his mind, Merlin felt a glimmer of pride; not just for his own children, but for Arthur’s as well. He and Gwen had raised them well, as evident by the strength they continued to show during these strange days. 

    The children were pulled to the center of his attention further when servants began to tap silver spoons against chalices to signal the start of dinner, spurring Clo to leap from his chair and towards the commotion. The two girls followed behind him, with Merlin fast at their heels. He fought down the urge to call for his son to slow down, not wanting to attract any more unfavorable looks than they were already receiving. 

    It was all he could do to keep track of their flashing steps and avoid too much eye contact with those thronging beside him while also not letting himself be distracted for even a moment and gods, did she invite the whole city? 

    Some of their faces, he thought he recognized from the prior day. That one might have cursed him, that one could have thrown the stone at Ava, that one-

    The whole ghastly charade only took a matter of seconds, but he was breathless by the end of it. When they’d at last made their way to the feast tables, his gaze darted back to where the majority of the royalty were being waited upon by servants. The rush to the feast was only deemed fit for lower nobility, save for one stubborn princess who insisted on sitting with her friends. 

    Above a steaming plate set before him, Arthur met his eyes. The faintest nod was cast his way.

    The message was clear: he needed to calm down. Anxiety could sharpen his awareness to an extent, but beyond that, only served to hinder him. His magic, too, could become unpredictable in such instances, and the last thing any of them needed was a reason for Nemethians to turn their backs on magic again. 

    Still, he was relieved when he managed to corral the children back to their small table. There, he could at least maintain the illusion of being able to keep them safe. His plate was heaped with a myriad of foods he’d grabbed haphazardly in his struggle to not panic during the few moments Clo had been out of his sight farther down in the line. Some of the dishes, he realized then, looked quite tasty. He tried to focus on that. 

    Halfway through his plate, a flutter of noise at the edge of the crowd turned his head. A group of proud looking minstrels had set up camp, some wielding instruments Merlin vaguely recalled from his days in Camelot. Their pride was not unfounded; the first song that flowed forth was sweet and soft, cushioning any conversation with comforting undertones. He watched with a warmth spreading through his chest as Ava and Clo leaned forward in their seats with widening eyes. 

    When most attendants were finishing off the last of their sumptuous dinners, the pace of the music began to pick up. Several groups migrated to the small clearing at the center of the room, the purpose of which had escaped Merlin until then. Back in Camelot, dancing had been reserved only for the tail end of festivities, when all who were present had consumed enough wine to let their strictest mannerisms fade away with the dying light.

    He didn’t know what it was that seized him in that moment. Maybe it was the way Ava and Clo gazed at the musicians with a wonder he feared the past year had stolen from them. Maybe, it was how the King of Camelot and Queen of Nemeth were deep in conversation with one another, easy smiles upon the both of them, or how Leon was close to them as well, able to spring forward should the (granted, unlikely) need arise. 

    Whatever it was, Ava, too, seemed befuddled by the way he suddenly rose to his feet and extended his hand towards her. “Pa?” she asked uncertainly. 

    “Care to dance?” He couldn’t remember the last time he asked someone that, and found himself grinning. 

    “But- I don’t know how.” 

    “Neither do I,” Merlin laughed. He leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, “No one really does.” 

    Slowly, Ava returned his grin, her hand slipping into his. Clo had listened to the conversation quietly enough, but sprung into action immediately following its conclusion, extending his hand to Eloise. In a voice rippling with mock solemnity, he said, “Princess Eloise, would you do me the honor of-” 

    “Yes!” the girl cried jubilantly, grabbing his hand and rushing into the crowd with him. 

    Ava and her father merged into the dance with a little more grace. She was of the age, Merlin knew, where she was starting to become more self-aware, and so he took care to follow her lead, not moving any faster than her feet would allow. In a dark blue dress, with her hair threaded with silver butterfly clips placed there by Eloise, she looked older than Merlin remembered. 

    She’ll be a woman soon enough. He had to swallow that thought down, though, or else the warmth behind his eyes would come to the forefront. 

    Beside them, Eloise and Clo began to spin faster than even the quick tempo of the song could justify. Their movements could hardly be called a dance, as they were simply holding hands and going in circles, but they didn’t seem to care. 

    “Faster!” Eloise shouted at one point, and Clo obliged. 

    Ava raised one eyebrow at Merlin, not to be outdone. Her light fingers became more tightly laced in his as they began to rival the two younger children. As their feet quickened, so did the tempo; when Merlin glanced over, he saw the musicians were looking at them with amusement- one of them even nodded at him in reassurance. Keep going. 

    Other dancers picked up the cue as well, their steps loosening, albeit with more grace than that of the two children who’d started the movement. Through the tilting, giddy motion, he saw that Arthur was smiling at them. In front of him, Ava laughed, a sound which he echoed. 

    And at the corner of his vision, he thought he saw her red hair. Ribbons replaced the dirt. Another turn, and she was gone. 

*****

    “They were spinning like tops,” Nietta laughed as they walked back to her chambers. 

    Mithian had noticed Nietta yawning and told her to go rest in a tone that meant no nonsense. Anselm, remembering his lessons on courtly manners, had offered to accompany her, receiving a look of approval from his father. 

    “Just like this!” the princess continued, opening a bedside drawer to reveal a multitude of dusty toys. Pushing medicine bottles aside, she set two spinning tops along the table. Anselm watched, intrigued, as they bounced against each other in flight, departing and returning. 

    “Eloise always gets ahead of herself when she dances,” he said, not wanting his silence to be misconstrued for disinterest. 

    Nietta sighed in contentment, kicking off her shoes and sitting down at the edge of her bed. She patted the space beside her, gesturing for him to join her. “And what about you, Prince Anselm? How’s your dancing?” 

    He felt a self-consciousness overtake him at the question, the strength of which he’d not felt since when they’d first begun to talk. Their prior conversations had been taken up by books and fiction, never straying close to the parts of life they didn’t think they’d be able to share. In just a day, that had changed. There was an intensity to her gaze and questions which had not been there before. There was life in her eyes. 

    “My dancing?” he said, resisting the urge to kick his legs with nervousness. “It’s alright, I suppose. I’ve only really danced with Eloise before.” 

    “You didn’t dance with her tonight though.” Her gaze flickered across him, mirroring a nervousness he thought he had been alone in. “Nor with Ava.” 

    Hot flames licked at his cheeks. He knew he should try to stammer out some sort of explanation or apology, but he couldn’t find the words. 

    “Don’t look so frightened, Anselm,” Nietta said, moving to lay a hand on his shoulder and then thinking the better of it. “I’m not criticizing. It’s just that… I see the way you look at her.” 

    I look at her? 

    He hadn’t thought much of his habitual glances in Ava’s direction that night, had tried very hard not to see the way her dress had curved around her, or how her laughter had sung through the air, the sound soft beneath the instruments. He had tried to focus on Nietta’s comments, on her  laughter, but always his eyes betrayed him.

    “I do care for her,” Anselm said, the admission as much for himself as for Nietta. Gentle and honest Nietta, who had smiled during their visits even when she so clearly wanted to rest. “But... I care for you too.” He shifted where he sat, looking down at where his hands lay uselessly on his knees. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not much of an answer.” 

    “No,” Nietta murmured. “No, don’t apologize. It’s okay.” Seeing the uncertainty still etching lines in the prince’s face, she reached for one of his open palms and clasped it in her own. “Really, Anselm. Because- we’re still children, right? We have time to figure it all out now.” 

    There was in a hitch in her voice that gave him the courage to look up at her once more. Her eyes were brown, much like Ava’s, but lighter in tone. And filling with water.

    Hoarsely, the princess whispered, “She gave us time.” 

    He reached for her other hand, and they sat together in silence. Maybe, Anselm would go back to the feast and bring her back dessert. Or maybe, he’d stay there until the pillows called for her. 

    Either would be fine. They had time.

Chapter Text

Thean

    He found himself on his back for the third time that morning, the leather and cotton-padded helmet around his head doing little to soften the blow. 

    “C’mon, Raven!” Clara shouted, already stalking over to him. “You can do better than that!” 

    Thean let out a deep sigh, taking a moment to appreciate the clear blue sky above before sitting up. Once she reached him, Clara extended her hand down impatiently- a demand, not an offer. He struggled to his feet, attempting to not look pitiful. 

    Whether he looked deserving of it or not, the girl before him gave no pity. “Stop holding back,” she said, using the hand that hadn’t helped him up to shake his shoulder in emphasis. 

    “I’m not!” Thean protested, but his claim only served to further agitate Clara.

    “You knocked Etho down twice as many times yesterday, and he’s no lighter than I.” She gestured to the other side of the courtyard, where Konneth and Etho were practicing the same staggering spell with greater fervor. With a jubilant cry of victory, Etho managed to unbalance Konneth for the first time that morning, leaping onto the other boy to keep him down. The two of them rolled on the courtyard stones in laughter until Tazuth halted his own practice to pull them apart. 

    But Etho hadn’t been laughing when Thean knocked him down yesterday. The last time, he’d lain still on the ground, and for one horrible moment Thean had thought he’d killed the boy. Only when Roo had come out into the courtyard and revived Etho with some herbs and a few gentle rubs to his chest was Merlin’s son able to breathe again. 

    “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, shivering at the memory. 

    “That’s my problem, not yours,” Clara said, but her expression softened a little at his words. 

    “Clara, Raven!” 

    The two children jumped. 

    “Why don’t you two quit yammering and show us what you’ve learned?” Zezumo grinned down at them, having approached after observing the older children for a time. 

    The question, Thean and Clara knew, was a rhetorical one. They nodded, for that was their only option. 

    The rest of the mage students abandoned their matches easily enough at Zezumo’s word, chests still heaving with the rush of the morning. The youngest discarded their helmets in a pile, while the oldest sat down easily without the same necessity. Helmets were only for the inexperienced, Zezumo had told Thean and the others before their first match. Soon enough, magic would be their only protection. 

    “Don’t muck this up,” Clara whispered beside him as the last of the children formed a semi-circle across the courtyard. Her eyes were brimming with fear, so he dipped his chin in a gesture of reassurance that went unanswered. At a wave from Zezumo, they took their places several paces from one another. 

    “When you’re ready,” their teacher said, with as much indifference as though deciding between two similar dishes. 

    Thean barely had time to register the words before a wave of force knocked him down. He kept some shred of dignity in that he landed on his rear end instead of his full backside, getting to his feet quickly before the last of the laughter died out. Clara was still in the same spot, one foot in front of the other to maintain balance should he try the same maneuver. He had no intention to, bouncing on the balls of his feet in aimless circles. That strategy he had learned from Anselm in the earliest days of their shared sparring matches. 

    “What if I panic?” Thean had asked. “What if they’re stronger than me, or I can’t think of any good spells?” 

    “Then confuse them,” Anselm had said. “Make them annoyed, frustrated, to the point they can’t think straight. That way you’ll be even.” The prince had then darted around Thean to demonstrate, dizzying the other boy with his quick movements. 

    Clara didn’t look quite dizzy yet by her partner’s antics, but her annoyance was starting to show, as was that of the onlookers. “Knock him down already!” cried one of the older boys. 

    “Yeah, Clara, get him!” yelled a voice Thean knew. He risked a glance to see it was Konneth, chuckling to himself as Etho tried to shush him. He swallowed down a stab of betrayal; to Konneth, this was just a game, as was everything else. 

    Another gust of air brushed past his shoulder, one not nearly strong enough to make him fall down again. That only spurred him to leap from place to place faster; his tactic was working. If he kept breaking her focus, he might be able to avoid breaking bones. 

    Clara was having none of that. Without warning, she darted forward, her eyes settling back into calmer colors as she quit her attempts at the spell. She fell into step with Thean, mimicking his sporadic movements and growing ever closer to matching his pace. It was not all too different from when he had danced with Gemma, though at that time they had been united in their goal of not landing on their rear ends. 

    Another force knocked him back, and this time, he was barely able to maintain his balance. Clara seized the opportunity, charging forward on foot to get close enough to-

    “Stop! ” 

    The courtyard echoed. Clara’s arms pinwheeled, one hand brushing the cobblestones sloppily as her legs remained rooted to the ground. Frowning deeply, she tried to lift one foot by placing both hands under her knee, but to no avail. 

    Thean’s hand was still splayed in front of him, his throat raw from channeling magic into that single word. Some of the children were snickering at Clara’s predicament; the oldest, however, were casting wary looks in Thean’s direction. 

    Zezumo, for his part, was doing neither. He clapped his hands slowly until he reached Clara’s side; with one palm on her shoulder, he released her limbs from their partially frozen state. 

    “Interesting strategy, Raven, if it can be called that,” the man said, cool eyes only glancing in Thean’s direction. “An unusual path to victory, but a victory nonetheless.” He turned his attention to the crowd of children. “Any comments?” 

    Had he not feared further judgment, Thean would have sighed from weariness. Zezumo always ended with comments and questions after each sparring spectacle, some of which required the participants to demonstrate their moves in detail once more for the benefit of the other children. Thean wasn’t sure if he could repeat any of what had just transpired, his instincts being as changeable as spring weather. 

    “Yes, Tazuth?” 

    The older boy stood, nodding his head deeply towards his mentor. “I am not so sure Raven earned the victory. Clara used the feallan spell several times as taught, while he didn’t even try.” 

    Zezumo nodded slowly. “Should you find yourself facing a barbarian one day, Tazuth, what will you do if you’re defeated? Revive yourself from the dead to tell them it wasn’t a fair fight? If you know the spell for that, then please share with the class.” 

    Thean laughed, and knew the sound to immediately have been a mistake. Zezumo’s gaze flickered towards him for just a moment, but long enough to make the sweat on his back ice over. 

    “Though you are right to point out Raven’s lack of heed for instructions. We cannot let an unfair victory go to the young pupil’s head, so one more fight before lunch it shall be. Tazuth, come forward.” 

    Thean’s mouth went dry. During the past few days, he’d only glimpsed a few matches held between mages of different experience, and never in front of the entire class. Even then, only a year seemed to separate the participants of those matches. Tazuth, meanwhile, appeared to be at least three years older than Thean. 

    He was not alone in his confusion. Clara cast him a worried look as she departed to sit beside Konneth, who eyed the new development with much less jubilance than he usually displayed. 

    “What spell would you have us focus on?” Tazuth’s voice cut through the darting thoughts in his head. 

    “Forbaernan.” 

    “But-!” Thean stopped himself, his voice too loud. Taking a deep breath, he continued more softly, “We haven’t learned that spell yet.” 

    “Nor did you learn the spell you used on Clara,” Zezumo replied levelly. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Raven.” He began to walk away from the pair of boys, then turned back as an afterthought. “Oh, and take off your helmet. It’ll only slow you down.” 

    With shaking hands, Thean did as he was told, rolling the helmet so that it landed where Konneth and the others sat. He did his best to not look at them. 

    Slow me down?  That was a hint, whether Zezumo had meant for him to catch it or not. He wanted to humble Merlin’s son by making him look like a dancing fool in front of the others. So long as he walked away from the fight without burns, that was fine by Thean. 

    The first flash of fire caught him by surprise; Tazuth had sprung into action far faster than he’d expected. As he dodged to the side, the tips of his hair becoming even blacker from the close call, he scrambled for any useful memory of the few times he’d glimpsed the older boy in practice. Nothing of worth came to mind, and he was far too focused on not being turned to ash to delve any further into the past. 

    As Thean leapt from foot to foot and stone to stone, Tazuth remained where he’d first taken position. A mutter, the turn of a shoulder, and a flick of his wrist was all he needed to call fire to life. 

    At this rate, I’ll grow tired long before he does. His heart had only been just calming from the prior fight, and was once again beating against his chest too forcefully to be healthy. Still, the circumstances could have been worse; though the flames brushed close to him, they never came near enough to burn, and Thean knew better than to assume that was from luck alone. 

    Tazuth didn’t want to hurt him; he had wanted to partake in this fight no more than Thean had. Such was the reason that when Thean did retaliate, he did so gently. He did not wish to attract any more attention to his unusual penchant for unspoken magic than necessary, and so he used Tazuth’s own fire against him, willing the flames to return to their master at half their original speed. 

    Tazuth’s surprise was enough that he stumbled back inelegantly, only just turning the fire to smoke before it could maim him. The fight turned to more even ground thereafter, neither standing still for long as they circled one another, both equipped with the same weapon passed back and forth. The spectating children who were closest to the fight began to back away, fearful of the tortuous flames and agitated by the smoke that had come to blanket the courtyard. 

    Call it off!  Thean wanted to cry as he caught Zezumo’s eye. Why won’t you call it off?  Their mentor looked on silently, refusing to back away from the growing inferno as his other students had. His gaze looked strange. Cold. 

    The insidious rush of new heat called Thean’s attention back to the prolonged predicament he faced. Lashing out in anger-driven instinct, he sent back the flames with greater force. Their destination cried out in shock, ducking down on all fours with his hands over his head as the fire passed above him. 

    “Stiemen! ” Thean whispered, low enough that he hoped none of the other students heard. Heat became smoke, but Tazuth still remained huddled on the ground. Panicking that the worst had already come to pass, Thean rushed forward- 

    Only to be shoved back by Zezumo. 

    Merlin’s son watched, hands stinging from where they’d broken his fall, as the man pulled Tazuth up roughly by the arms. Thankfully, there were no visible burns on the parts of the older boy not covered in clothing- and yet, his face still remained twisted with fear, which only increased when he caught sight of the man who’d brought him back to standing. 

    “How long? ” Zezumo growled, shaking the boy where he still held him. “How long have you been a student here?” 

    “I…” Tazuth stammered, limp in the grip. “Three years, sir.” 

    Zezumo held on for a moment longer before releasing him, but his eyes remained thin slits in Tazuth’s directions. “Three years,” he repeated lowly. “And yet you were just defeated by a student of two weeks.” 

    As quietly as he could, Thean got to his feet. He chanced a glance at the children behind them; all were silent. Konneth shook like a leaf in a storm. 

    “Raven. Come here,” Zezumo said, and though his voice was still low, it echoed through the courtyard. From the folds of his jacket, he withdrew a black tool Thean had become regrettably familiar with in recent weeks. Waving the charcoal like it had the worth of gold, Zezumo added loudly, “We need to make sure this is not a defeat Tazuth soon forgets.” 

    Thean hadn’t moved, but his mind was still running fast enough. No good would come from that charcoal, nor from the mischievous glint that had arisen in Zezumo’s eyes. 

    He wants me to- in front of all these- 

    Even the handlers had never been so cruel. So Thean said what he should have said much sooner, back in the dungeons of the castle, before he’d marred the body of a man who’d saved countless innocents. 

    “No.” 

    He could see the stiffness setting in the man’s shoulders. “What?” Zezumo turned to him. “What did you say?” 

    Thean tilted his chin up. They both knew perfectly well what he had said; the lesser of them just refused to accept it. “I will not.” 

    Lips twisted upon the face of a man unaccustomed to being denied any request. Though several paces had kept them apart until then, Zezumo crossed them quickly. Thean steeled himself for whatever might come, willing his magic to not lash out. He would take the punishment if it meant another did not have to suffer in his steed. 

    Yet someone else’s magic had a different outcome in mind. “Feallan! ” a voice cried as Zezumo came within arm’s reach of Thean. Had Konneth not cried out the spell with such force, no one might have noticed he’d attempted anything at all. Only a whisper of wind tickled the hairs on Zezumo’s head, the faintest indication that the otherwise still air had been tampered with. 

    Zezumo stopped in his tracks, the cold fury fading from his expression like a flame extinguished. He laughed. It was an ugly sound. 

    “Well, Tazuth!” he said cheerfully. “I guess failure runs in the family, huh?” 

    The older boy said nothing, his face pale beneath smoke-stained cheeks. Thean followed his gaze across the courtyard to Konneth, whose hand was still splayed in front of him from the futile spell he’d cast. 

    Zezumo’s eyes darted between them in amusement. “Konneth, Raven. Take your talents to the stables.” Addressing the still seated students, he said, “As for the rest of you, lunch. Fear not, though; we may have further entertainment tonight.” 

    The other children filed off, and none glanced at the two forsaken boys save for Clara, who carried their helmets with her. She gave them the slightest nod. Thean would have to thank her, if he managed to remember. His feet seemed to be the only part of him functioning right then. 

    Konneth was silent as they grabbed shovels outside the stables. Whilst he trudged to the opposite end of the hay-strewn space, Thean tried to focus on the horses before him, having not been there since the first day he’d become Zezumo’s pupil. Chores given to mages tended to involve less hard labor, though apparently that didn’t apply to disobedient students. Not much time had transpired since Thean's last visit, but the horses looked worse for wear; despite the best efforts of the children assigned to care for them, excrement still lined their hooves. Hair was matted and muscles were wasting on the creatures who stood still for longer than they had ever before. Patrols utilized some of the horses, but with many horses from the citadel and outer villages being cramped into one space, there weren’t nearly enough opportunities for them all to be exercised.

    The muffled cries of children in the courtyard alerted them that lunch had come and gone, but none of the shadows flitting between the cracks of the stable doors came to join them. This, Thean knew, was no accident. 

    When the sounds of other nearby children faded away, Konneth began to weep. Thean thought that perhaps he wasn’t hearing right at first, that the sniffling was really just hay being shuffled about, and the sobs only forceful exhales from the horses. Wishful thinking. Torn between wanting to comfort and not knowing how, he waited until the worst of the other boy’s crying had abated. 

    “Konneth,” Thean said at last, figuring his name was a good place to start. 

    But his friend continued his task without looking up, steadfast in his shoveling. Just when Thean had become convinced that he did not wish to speak at all, Konneth murmured, “He didn’t say anything.” 

    “Who?” 

    “Tazuth,” the other boy said, letting go of the name like a sigh. “He didn’t say anything.” 

    The hurt in his words was palpable, for Thean had felt the same many times before he’d come to Camelot. His mother’s silence when the handlers brought down their contempt on him had stung worse than any punishment they could inflict. 

    “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. 

    Konneth paused in his shoveling, casting the briefest glance the other boy’s way before continuing. “Not your fault,” he murmured, shrugging dismissively. 

    Thean didn’t have anything to say to that, but he had many thoughts, with oh, you have no idea being the foremost. 

    They continued to shovel wordlessly for some time more. As the hours dragged by, Konneth began to take more and more frequent breaks, until at last he took his final one. “Raven,” he said, abandoning the corner he’d been futilely working at. “What do you say we get out of here?” 

    Thean glanced at the stable doors, hoping he’d lost track of time, but the sun shone with the same stubborn brightness as it had the last time he’d checked. “The sun’s still out,” he said, shaking his head in confusion. “We’re not supposed to go into the castle before then. And-” he gestured across the reeking room that had changed little since they started. “We’ve still got work to do.” 

    “These horses will be shitting till the end of days.” Konneth tossed his shovel aside, leaning against a wood post sullenly. “And I wasn’t talking about the castle. Let’s go into the citadel.”

    “The citadel?” Thean repeated in alarm. He’d not left since he’d first arrived at the castle, save for his brief excursion to seek out Gemma at the old blacksmith’s shop. 

    “I doubt Zezumo will pick either of us for patrols after today. Why not see the sights one last time?” Seeing the lingering unease on the other boy’s brow, Konneth leaned forward, opening his arms amicably. “And besides, what’s the worst that can happen? We get a few more lashes?”

    “Yes!” Neither of them had chosen to see the lashing on Thean’s first night there. Their chances of being unwilling participants in one tonight seemed likely after the events of the morning. 

    “Well, I don’t care,” Konneth said, though a flicker of uncertainty betrayed his statement. “I’m going anyway. Are you coming or not?”

    He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be lashed, and he didn’t want to see the ruins of the first place he’d ever felt safe in. But there was a desperate look in Konneth’s eyes that frightened Thean, and so he didn’t hesitate for long before he sighed, “Alright. Let’s go.”

    For the first time since morning practice, Konneth smiled. It was a small thing, one Thean couldn’t help but return. His smile only faltered when he saw the other boy was making his way out of the stables on foot. 

    “Wait!” Thean called. “We should take horses.”

    Konneth studied the sorrowful looking animals, frowning dubiously. “They’ll make it harder to sneak out.”

    “Yeah, but…” Thean’s eyes strayed to Arrow’s disheveled form, and he gestured vaguely. “Don’t you think they might want to get out too?”

    At that, Konneth’s wary gaze softened. He nodded and gave no further argument. 

    They made haste of saddling up the horses, with Thean taking Arrow and Konneth grabbing the reins of a tan horse Eloise used to favor. Exiting through the stable doors not facing the courtyard, they led their horses quietly to the edges of the shadows around them. The courtyard was relatively empty, save for two boys posted at the main gates and a pair of girls bringing in barrels of cherries. All was annoyingly peaceful and not conducive to their escape, until one of barrels fell mid-transit, spilling the red fruit all across the steps. 

    At the cries of frustration from the serving girls, the boys on guard duty quickened across the courtyard to aid them. Thean turned to his friend, catching the sight of amber fading from his eyes. “You’re not the only one with a few tricks up his sleeves,” Konneth murmured, looking quite pleased with himself. 

    They led their horses by the reins until they were two streets from the castle, armed with the false pretense of using them to fetch water buckets in case they were halted by any patrols. Once they had scanned the surrounding area, they mounted their steeds, the quiet clipping of hooves against stone the only sound between them and the citadel. 

    Any relief Thean might have felt at being rid of the scrutiny within the castle was dampened by their surroundings. He thought that maybe he’d be better prepared this time to see the destruction, now that more time had passed since his arrival. He was wrong. The citadel stood like a creature robbed of all but its bones. Such was plain to see in the corners cut by the attack, in the cats who watched them as if they knew the two boys did not belong there. 

    “There’s a place up ahead. We stopped there on my last patrol,” Konneth said several streets later. 

    Thean bit down the urge to question him. He was not meant to know the layout of the citadel as well as he did. 

    When Konneth signaled them to stop, there seemed to be nothing of particular interest. They’d reached the western gates, where the walls of the houses had been so thin one could hear the elderly snoring in the morning- that Thean hadn’t discovered himself, but had been told by Clo and Ava after one of their early explorations of Camelot. He wondered if the snoring occupants had managed to escape, before- 

    “Want some?” 

    Whilst he’d been ensconced in his reverie, Konneth had used the nearby well to retrieve them water. Thean took it gratefully, parched from the morning practice and their time in the stables. After Konneth had taken another swig and passed it back, Thean began to wash down the horses with it as best he could. In between sloppily patting their hair, he snuck glances back at the other boy, half-hoping he’d make some snarky remark about how the horses were treated better than them, about the weather, about anything. 

    Instead, Konneth remained silent as he absentmindedly cast pebbles into the well. Something stirred in Thean’s chest at that, the memory of a blond-headed boy kingdoms away once doing the same. “Making a wish?” he joked. 

    Konneth looked up in surprised, eyebrows drawn to one another. “What do you mean?” 

    Thean could have kicked himself for his foolishness then. Since his time with the invaders began, he’d been careful to avoid speaking of any traditions that might not transcend borders. “Oh, nothing. It’s just- something my Ma used to say, is all,” he stammered, face reddening. “That if you throw something in a well and make a wish, it’ll come true.” 

    Konneth nodded as he absorbed that bit of information. “Things would be a lot easier if that was true.” Tossing one last pebble into the well, he turned to Thean with a small smile. “And the water, a lot dirtier.” 

    Thean returned the smile, hastening in his efforts to clean the horses so that they could be rid of the area and his conversation slip-up. That tactic seemed to work, as neither spoke of wishes in wells once more. 

    “It’s just up there,” Konneth said soon after, pointing skyward. Thean followed his line of sight to where the walls had crumpled. A burst of green lay where splintered trees had caved in on the closest houses. 

    They left the horses tied to the posts of the well, with Thean murmuring a promise to return to Arrow when he was sure Konneth was out of earshot. As they neared the breach, their path upward became more obvious- a set of stones were staggered enough to create a makeshift stairway up to the walkways. Either that was the result of convenience, or the work of a curious group of children tasked with exploring the remains of Camelot. 

    The ascent was easy enough with Konneth taking the lead in bounds and Thean treading behind more carefully. When he reached the top, the other boy stood surveying the city with his hands wrapped behind his head, a perturbed expression upon his face. “It seemed bigger the last time I was here,” he said by way of explanation. 

    “Maybe you’ve grown since then,” Thean offered, settling for levity to mask his true mood.

    Konneth snorted derisively. “With what they’re feeding us? Unlikely.” 

    Not forgetting his earlier slip-up, Thean let the conversation fade into silence. The food of the Departed Lands people was not quite up to par with that of Camelot’s original inhabitants, but it was leagues better in quality and quantity than what Thean survived on for most of his life. 

    The quietness continued between them as they came to sit at the edge of the wall, Konneth staring out ahead and Thean preferring to study the tips of his own boots instead. Say something, he told himself, but his mind felt sluggish beneath the weight of the day. Not for the first time, he wondered if his silence was in and of itself a cause for suspicion. Some of the other children amongst the invaders tended towards quiet as well, but they were usually several years older. 

    In the mines, his self-imposed silence had been a survival mechanism, and here with the Departed Lands people his reason was the same. Yet in the mines, he hadn’t known what it was like to speak without fear, to see someone who wasn’t his immediate family laugh at something he said, or ask a question to which only he could know the answer. He had learned to expect such simple pleasures when he’d first arrived in Camelot. Now that he was back in the shell of a city, he found himself breathless with all the words he couldn’t say. 

    “I wonder what they were like, the people who lived here,” Konneth murmured thoughtfully. “They must’ve been awful for the gods to punish them so.”

    Thean stiffened, keeping his eyes trained on his boots and hoping that his silence then would be interpreted as a personality trait rather than discomfort. 

    But Konneth was more perceptive than others might give him credit for. He cast a bland smile towards Merlin’s son. “That was sarcasm. I don’t really believe in that shite.”

    “You don’t?” Thean asked, genuinely surprised. He still had a very thin grasp on the religion the Departed Lands people seemed to follow, but he had assumed the majority of them believed in it earnestly. Faith, or the fear of it, had laid destruction to many kingdoms before Camelot. “Why not?” 

    It was Konneth’s turn to try and hide his discomfort, shifting where he sat. “I used to, when I was little, but… Velion.” 

    Thean felt it flash across his face then, the uncertainty of one who thinks themselves caught in a lie. The name had been said with soft reverence, as one might utter the name of a person of great importance. He couldn’t admit his ignorance. 

    Konneth wasn’t even looking at him, instead staring out at the highest towers of the distant castle. “My cousin,” he explained after some time, in no hurry to rush into the tale on his tongue. When he spoke again, he was slower still. “Our village didn’t have many children, aside from my family’s. By the time he came of age, we’d not been visited by Inoth’s people for a long time, so Vel thought that maybe he’d be able to convince them to just… leave us alone, and let him stay. He didn’t have magic, was my aunt and uncle’s only child, and said that our village needed him more than the Balancer. Made a big show of telling them off in front of everyone, and it worked, or so we thought.”

    He smiled briefly, though his lips twisted against the movement. “My family threw a feast that night for the whole village, thinking they would never come back after that. But the next morning, my brother found him in the forest. Hanging from the tree branches. And that just doesn’t make sense, does it? Because he did nothing wrong, so why would-”

    Konneth stopped suddenly. His voice had risen, his fists had curled where they had been resting upon the stone, and he’d been leaning towards Thean intensely. All at once, the fight went out of his eyes. His gaze fell to his own boots, and in one last show of diminished emotion, he kicked the wall with a heel. “That’s why I don’t believe in it all. There’s no Balance, no Balancer. Just us and… us.”

    With that, Thean looked back out onto the citadel. Over a break in the walls on the other side, he thought he saw a flock of birds take flight. When the sun crept out from under the clouds, the shapes were revealed to only have been ash shifting with the wind. 

    “I’m not sure the people who lived here did anything wrong, either.”  

    Konneth did not respond immediately, absorbing the words before nodding. “Yeah. Maybe not.” 

    They could run if they wished; the thought had crossed both their minds. The forest lay behind them, humiliation before them. The choice should have been simple. 

    They stayed looking out over the wall a little longer before returning. 

*****

    He had hoped the courtyard would be nearing emptiness by the time they came back. There was little sound to be heard as they approached, agreeing with his conclusion that most had already retreated for supper. Golden light of the dying sun greeted them; the children posted at the entrance did not. Their faces gave away nothing, gliding over Thean and Konneth as though they weren’t there at all. Somehow that was worse than any glares they might have received. 

    Thean’s wish for an unremarkable return was granted- almost. Zezumo was sat upon the courtyard steps, leaning back as though he’d inhabited the castle for years. He stood up in no hurry as they walked towards him. There was contempt in his gaze, but hidden beneath a sheen of something else Thean couldn’t identify. 

    What’s he hiding?  The handlers had laughed and gloated whenever punishment had been decided upon. From what he’d seen thus far, Thean would have expected Zezumo to take on a similar demeanor, not this subdued emotion that was so unlike the version of him they’d become acquainted with earlier that day. 

    “Konneth,” the man spoke, glancing at the boy in question with veiled distaste. “You are free to go.” 

    Konneth’s mouth dropped open, his jaw swaying as his gaze swiveled from Thean to Zezumo. “But!” he said. “But it was my idea, to go into the citadel. Not Raven’s.” 

    The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure it was,” he drawled. “And as I said, you’re free to go.” 

    Konneth remained wavering where he stood, turning a pleading gaze to Thean, who shook his head. Go, go, he thought towards the other boy. A message or a fear must have reached Konneth, for he left reluctantly then, giving Zezumo a wide berth as he plodded up the steps. When his despondent figure was out of sight, the sorcerer returned his gaze to Thean with an intensity that made the boy’s heart pick up. What was said next did little to quell his sense of doom. 

    “The Balancer will see you now.”

Chapter Text

Thean

    He could have run. That was what was eating him up inside, even more than the fear he felt as he followed Zezumo higher and higher up the easternmost tower of the castle. 

    It would have been so easy when they’d been by the ruined walls, the whole rest of the world at their backs. After what had been revealed, Konneth might have joined him, or at least not tried to stop him; even if he had, Thean was sure he could have outpaced him. He’d always known how to run. 

    He had allowed himself to grow too attached to the idea of who he wanted to be, of who he was in the eyes of his loved ones back in Nemeth. If he failed, his father might never see Camelot again; Eloise and Anselm might never inherit their kingdom. 

    He’d been unwise, too, to let himself cling to the identity he’d built amongst the invaders. If he left, the tenuous bonds he’d made here- Konneth, Gemma, even Robin- would be broken instantly. The thought of them kept his shaking legs moving. 

    And yet, even as Thean walked up the spiraling staircase behind Zezumo, his mind raced through the few escape options before him. He could turn back and run, but the man’s legs were longer than his, and he, too, was equipped with magic of a strength Thean did not know. That left the windows, but his chances of surviving a fall dwindled with each step they climbed. He might survive if he used magic to soften his landing. At least he’d have a chance of keeping his head, which was more than he could be sure of once he met with the Balancer. 

    But no. No. Escaping would mean abandoning any contact with Gwen and the rest of the survivors beneath the castle, and losing what little hope there was of freeing Percival and those who dwelled in the dungeons. 

     Try as he might to resist, he had to see this through. This was his task. So just as his father had done for so many years, he would remain a relentless traveler on the path set before him. 

    The round room they entered lay in a tower seldom visited by Thean and the royal children. When he’d asked Anselm what was in it during one of the prince’s escapes from lessons, he’d received a shrug of disinterest. “Dust, and not much else,” Anselm had said before launching into details of what sparring tactics they should practice later. His assessment had not been off the mark, considering the state of the room Zezumo had led him to. Chairs stood pushed haphazardly along the perimeter, leaving more than enough space for a large mahogany desk. The most vibrant part of the room was the red carpet that lay splayed before them, its sole occupant a golden trinket Thean might have paused to study more had he not been trying to swallow back bile. 

    Leaning over the desk was the same man Thean had seen his first night in the dining hall. His expression had been bored then, but held an intensity to it now as he studied several parchment rolls spread before him. The Balancer, they had called him. Such a weighty name for an ordinary looking man. 

    Konneth had called him something else, though. Inoth. 

    Yes, Thean thought in a daze. That seems more fitting. 

    “This was the boy we spoke of.” 

    Inoth took one last look at his maps before glancing up. “That will be all, Zezumo.” 

    A fresh spike of worry pierced the fog of Thean’s mind as Zezumo left, closing the door behind him. At least he could somewhat predict the patterns of rage the mage teacher went through. As for the man before him, he only knew that he should fear him. 

    “Rainier, is it?”

    He startled at being addressed as such, nodding quickly to hide his surprise. He’d nearly forgotten the original name of his identity, and was scrambling to remember who he’d told, who Inoth must have spoken to to obtain that information.

    “That is what your parents named you, is it not?” 

    He wondered when his tongue had gotten so thick. “Yes, but- everyone calls me Raven.” 

    “And what do you want to be called?”

    Thean dared to look up at the man. Now that a much smaller room separated them, he was able to see the likenesses of Robin; same brown hair, pale features, and the faintest flickers of amusement that seemed to never leave his daughter.

    “Raven suits me just fine.” He almost added ‘my lord’ at the end, only just catching himself. 

    Inoth considered him for a moment. 

    His eyes look- almost- 

    Warm. But no, Thean must have imagined it. Wishful thinking, a habit he should drop soon. He was getting too old for that. 

    “Come then, Raven. Sit.” 

    His tone made that seem more of a suggestion than an order. Unsure of which of the haphazardly placed seats he was referring to, Thean wavered where he stood, fidgeting with his fingers in anticipation of rebuke. 

    None came. Inoth sat down on the red carpet, folding his legs in a way Thean had only seen children mimic. When he sat down as well, he realized how tired he was. He’d hardly gotten the chance to rest since waking, and between the morning lessons, afternoon chores, and the tension still coursing through him, his muscles cried out in relief as he let them relax. 

    He didn’t want to look at the man before him, so he looked instead at the only object between them- a golden conglomeration of rings large enough to require two palms to be held. A silver sphere occupied one of the rings, just a hair’s breadth from being at the center. 

    “That’s a Glislunir,” Inoth said. “Sold by the merchants of Athrengor. Many men have spent hours trying to get the centerpiece aligned to no avail.” A nod in Thean’s direction. “Go on. Give it a try.”

    A suggestion, an order; it didn’t matter. Thean obeyed, getting on his hands and knees for a moment in order to quickly cross the distance between him and the fascinating object. Once in his palms, some of his anxiety began to abate amidst his changing focus. The silver sphere whistled along the ring it had been laying on to cross over to another. Small juts in the rings that had not been visible before became apparent as Thean tried to move the sphere to the center.  Each time he tried a new ring, he was certain that this would be the time he’d succeed; the right path always seemed just a turn away, only for a new, previously unseen barrier to appear. 

    After a series of attempts, Thean lowered the puzzling thing back to the carpet regretfully. 

    “Giving up?”

    He nodded, searching Inoth’s face for reproach. “For now.”

    And then, the man before him smiled, and it looked far too kind for Thean’s liking. Inoth reached out for the Glislunir and began to fiddle idly with the rings. “In Athrengor, you’d be told that to buy a Glislunir is a waste of good coin. That it’s a puzzle without any answer to be found by honest means. And they’d be right- there are no honest means. Which is why sometimes, we must tip the scales in our favor to make things right again.” 

    Where Inoth’s fingers had been skimming over the rings, now they seized them with pincer-like intention. His eyes turned the same shade of gold, and with a whistling sigh the sphere settled into the center as though it had never wandered.

    “That is your first lesson.” 

    The anxiety that had grown fainter reawakened. Once again, Thean found himself feeling as though he were missing a key piece of information, one whose absence would leave him vulnerable to having his false identity brought to light. 

    Inoth smiled again, mistaking the look on the boy’s face for innocent confusion. “If you have a question, speak it,” he said easily. “Zezumo isn’t here.”

    Was that a joke?  Perhaps he should laugh, but he couldn’t. “I don’t understand,” Thean admitted. “What do you mean, my first lesson?”

    Inoth picked absentmindedly at stray bits of fuzz on the carpet, his gaze drifting across the room, staring at nothing in particular. “Zezumo tells me you’re one of the newer recruits, yet you’ve managed to make quite the stir.” Thean lowered his head with a shame he did not truly feel. “You’re lucky that my daughter’s words of you preceded your exploits today.”

    The steady floor beneath him started to make sense, as did the blood still contained within his veins. Robin. Of course. The first of the invaders he’d met who still greeted him whenever he passed by the training grounds, waving an unsung arrow in his direction. 

    When Inoth said no more, Thean took a deep breath and chose his next words carefully. “Robin is… very kind.”

    “And a great deal more than that,” Inoth said fondly, rising to his feet to stand by one of the tall windows. “Above all else, she is happy. And as long as I am alive, I have faith that will continue to be the case. But I am no god. I know one day I’ll have to leave her. When that time comes, I’ll rest easier knowing someone is looking after her, and the people.” 

    Silence seemed to be the best option, as it had so often been in Thean’s life. He gazed down at his palms, not glancing up again until two boot-clad feet came into his line of sight. Inoth stood before him, one hand offered. From this vantage, two silvery scars could be seen just above each ear, disappearing beneath his hair. 

    Even when Thean had gotten fully to his own feet, Inoth kept one hand clasped tightly around his. Had the boy been taller, they would have been standing eye to eye. “I cannot be sure yet if you will become that person,” Inoth murmured. “But in your short time here, you’ve proven you just might be capable. From now on, you will take lessons with me in the afternoon. There will be no more chores.” He released Thean’s hand, a quirk appearing at the edge of his lips. “I’m sure you’ll recover from your disappointment.”

    Thean sprung into action, nodding his head deeply as he’d seen the patrol do on one of his first nights there. “Thank you, truly,” he said quickly. “I’ll do my best to- to prove myself.” His voice shook from the relief of not having been struck down where he stood. 

    Inoth appraised him for a moment longer before making his way back behind the desk. “You’re free to go now,” he murmured, not glancing up as he shuffled through the parchment rolls before him. As though the conversation he just had with Thean had been entirely routine. 

    Thean crossed the room slowly, careful on his unsteady legs. He knew he’d been dismissed, but their talk felt unfinished. He was still brimming with questions, primarily concerning his own fate, but also that of others. 

    His unrest conquered his fear, and he turned around before he could lose his nerve. “As your apprentice, can I make a request?” 

    The words sounded too loud and rushed, stubbornly hanging in the air. Inoth looked up with faint surprise, nodding. 

   One deep breath to steady himself, and then, “Tazuth and Konneth. Don’t punish them.” 

   Inoth was silent for a moment, and then chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Zezumo detests having disappointing students almost as much as he hates his disobedient ones. You’re fortunate that he brought you to my attention. I cannot very well make all his students my apprentice.” The humor abated from his expression as he considered Thean carefully. “What troubles you?” 

    So many things. But he couldn’t let that show. He still didn’t know much about these people, but doling out punishment and making a spectacle of it in the process seemed common amongst them. Showing too much aversion to those traditions could easily cast suspicion on him. 

    He knew, too, that the Departed Lands people were resourceful. Though they burned the art and literature of the lands they invaded, they weren’t against using the materials and animals left behind. Nor did they seem against training and using their own children.

    “They are not good mages yet,” Thean said. “But one day, they might be.” 

    Inoth nodded thoughtfully. “And should that day ever come, you will have their loyalty to call on.” A smile of approval. “Very well, Raven. They will not be punished tonight.” 

    Just barely, he could breathe again. Thean cast another deep nod in Inoth’s direction before making his exit, not wanting to linger lest his boldness get the best of him. Unsettled couldn’t begin to describe how he felt as he made his way down the winding staircase of the tower. That last look from Inoth when he had made his request had been so familiar. It was the same look Arthur would cast his way when he’d begun to make friends in the castle, the same way his father would look at him when he’d perform a spell. 

    The leader of the people who’d enslaved his family, who’d killed and imprisoned the people of Camelot, had just looked at him with approval. 

    Amidst his brimming horror, he knew that this new development, however terrifying it would be, might just help him. There were few better ways to learn about the Departed Lands people than under the guidance of the leader himself. There were also few better ways to find an opportunity to say one wrong thing and get himself killed. 

    He needed to talk to his father- to strategize, and to hear his voice. Though only a few days had passed since their last communication, it felt like eons. And he needed to-

    Talk to Gemma, apparently, who was standing outside his bedroom door, one hand having just pushed it open and another holding a forgotten basket of fine dresses and jewelry to her side. When she heard his footsteps and looked up, she looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

    “Raven,” she said, eyes widening. “You weren’t at lunch. What happened?” 

    “That’s… quite a long story.” He gestured towards the basket she held. 

    “The short version, then,” she said decidedly, turning to face him. 

    “The Balancer wishes to make me his apprentice.” The sinking feeling in his chest mirrored the tightening of her brow. Somehow saying that aloud made his predicament feel all the more real. 

    “Oh gods,” Gemma said softly. “That’s even worse than I thought.” 

    “What do you mean?” He held back from asking what she thought had happened, as perhaps that was supposed to be obvious. 

    The usually forthcoming girl hesitated, fiddling with the basket in her hands and the hem of her dress. Her evasiveness uneased Thean even further. If she was scared of something, then he certainly should be. 

    “Gemma…”

    “Did he show you that thingamajig- the Glislunir?” Gemma said suddenly. “And give a speech about ‘making things right?” Her voice shifted to mock seriousness. 

    “Yes.” Thean shook his head in confusion. “How did you…?”

    Grimacing, she said, “That’s what he tells all his new apprentices.”

    “There have been ones before me?”

    “Two.” 

    Again with the short responses and evasiveness. “Well, what happened to them?” Thean pressed impatiently. 

    “The first one didn’t last a week before he came down with a sudden, incurable illness. The second one made it a month and then… well, he went out on a patrol one day and never came back. No one’s mentioned his name since.”

    “Oh.” There was nothing else he could think to say. 

    “Quite.”

    A moment of silence passed between them, during which Thean retreated into himself. A week. A month. That might be all the time he had left. 

    “I’m bringing these clothes up to Robin,” Gemma murmured, thrusting him back into the present. “Come with me. She’ll at least be happy to hear the news.”

    Refusing the offer was tempting. At that moment, he wanted to be alone more than anything else. But he hadn’t forgotten what Inoth had said, the implication that he might be in much more dire straits had Robin not spoken well of Thean’s- Raven’s - existence. He still didn’t fully understand why the girl took a particular interest in him, but he had his life to thank for it. 

    They headed towards Robin’s room together. Sparse groups of children were still trailing to the great hall for dinner. Whenever they were far enough out of earshot, Thean recounted to Gemma the events that had led him to his new apprenticeship. 

    Gemma’s distaste with his decisions weas evident from the beginning, but she waited until he had finished to comment. “You could have just put the runes on Tazuth.”

    “That might have taken away his magic- or at least part of it.” Zezumo hadn’t gotten the chance to clarify the exact nature of the rune he’d wanted Thean to place on Tazuth, but the mischievous and proud glint in the man’s eye harkened back to when he’d boasted of the sterilization rune he’d created. 

    “So what?” Gemma challenged. “It’s not the first time it would have happened. A few of our servants are some of Zezumo’s failed students. And like I’ve told you before, we’re not a bad lot.” 

    That’s what happened to him. On his first full day among the invaders, Thean had seen a large black rune across the chest of a serving boy as he’d changed in the laundry room. Even the Departed Lands own people were not immune to such cruelty.

    “No, you don’t understand.” How could she? If she did, she would have never suggested something so callous. “Taking away someone’s magic- it’s not just taking away a talent. When you have magic, it’s a part of you. Losing it would be…” 

    He stopped, for he feared he had strayed too close to recounting his own prior experiences with being barred from magic. During his explanation, his breaths had quickened, and the hands lying useless at his sides had begun to shake. 

    “Not nice?” Gemma suggested gently, finishing the sentence he hadn’t. 

    “No,” Thean murmured. “Not nice.” He hung his head as they passed the guards stationed at each end of the hallway leading up to Robin’s chambers. 

    “You know what’s also not nice, Raven?” Gemma said once they were far enough. “Being whipped in front of everyone. Or disappearing because of one mistake as the Balancer’s apprentice.”

    “What do you suggest I do?” Weariness had crept into his voice, and he let it. He had no reason to hide this from her. 

    Though the remark had been a rhetorical one, Gemma considered carefully. “Stay on Robin’s good side,” she said at last. “If that’s what’s kept you alive so far, keep doing that.” 

    “That shouldn’t be too hard.” 

    Gemma’s eyes softened, something entering them Thean couldn’t quite place. “Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s what the other boys thought, too.” 

    Before he could respond, she was knocking on Robin’s door. 

    “Is that you, Gems?”

    “Yes.” A mischievous smile crossed the girl’s face. “And a little birdie.”

    Thean frowned- both at the nickname, and at Gemma’s sudden change in behavior. How quickly she slipped from one demeanor to the next; a life of practice, he reckoned. 

    A muffled “Oh!” was heard through the door, along with the shuffling of objects over surfaces until Robin appeared before them, all smiles with her hair pulled hastily back. “Come in, come in!” she said eagerly. Once they’d crossed the threshold, she plucked a silver hairpiece from the basket in Gemma’s hands, turning to the mirror as she put it in. “Raven, it’s been too long, but I’m afraid I have to go to dinner soon. What brings you here?” 

    Thean’s mouth started to move, but no words came out. He had a slim grasp on what he was now to Inoth- but to Robin, he had no idea.

    Gemma must have caught his helpless look, for she supplied the answer he could not. “Your father’s just made Raven his new apprentice.”

    Robin stopped abruptly in tending to her hair, turning back to them. “Really?” she murmured. Not waiting for a reply, she rushed forth, grabbing Thean by both hands and spinning him around in a little circle. “That’s wonderful news!” she laughed. 

    He forced himself to laugh with her, hoping his grin looked genuine. Pretend she’s someone else, he told himself. But he still saw the girl he’d met on that fateful night of his escape from Camelot, when he’d scarcely been able to move in her presence. He hadn’t known who she was then; now that he did, he was all the more afraid. 

    Robin considered him for another moment, blissfully unaware of what was going on in his head. She let go of his hands to grab a light purple dress from the basket and, holding it up right next to him, made a ‘hmm’ of approval before going behind a partition to change.  

    “You’ll get to meet Jay at dinner, now!” she called out. “He has the best stories.”

    ‘Dinner?’ Thean mouthed to Gemma. A grim nod in his direction, and disappointment welled up within him. Taking meals with Robin and Inoth meant he would have to be even more on guard than he was in the dining hall. And though he hadn’t been amongst the invaders too long, he felt most comfortable with the other mage students- Clara, Etho, Konneth. Their patterns of conversation and bickering had become one of the few familiar aspects of his time with the Departed Lands people.

    As Robin came back out from behind the partition, smoothing out the ruffles in her dress, Thean plastered a smile back onto his face. “Tomorrow morning, you should come to my archery practice,” she said. “I’m sure my mentors won’t mind now that you’re an apprentice.”

    “Oh, that’s… I have lessons with Zezumo in the morning,” Thean stammered, realizing it was the first time he’d spoken since entering the room. He caught Gemma’s eye from where she stood behind Robin- the slightest shake of her head. “But!” he began again hastily. “I’m sure we can work something out. I’ll be there.” 

    Robin’s smile grew into a grin, and she came to stand beside him, looping her arm through his as easily as if she’d done it a thousand times. Thean wondered if she had looked at the other boys this way, if they had been as tempted as him to not fear her. 

    “I think we’re going to have lots of fun together, Raven.”

Chapter Text

    He searched for sleep like a sailor lost at sea might search for land. Hopeless mirages were all he found. 

    To dream was his only way of being with his son and love. These days, he craved little else. But his body remained restless from confinement, his mind much the same due to being occupied with naught but the past. Mealtime and the slight changes in the temperature became the only indicators that time was passing by him, and the visitor that had come twice before with his curiosities remained absent. 

    And so it was that in the cool air of early dawn Farlan found himself drawn out of his near constant stupor by the rattling of the door. Too early still for breakfast, so a visitor it must be- one to deliver death, or one to demand answers. 

    He did not expect the man that entered, noting quickly the lack of blonde hair. This man did not seem to be a knight, either; the clothes he wore were of fine enough quality to mark him as more than a commoner, but less than a noble. Whoever he was, he moved uncertainly, closing the door softly behind him. Farlan was sure he must have taken at least five breaths by the time the man turned to face him. 

    “Are you… Farlan?” 

    It was unsettling, to hear his name said by the stranger. From this man’s mouth, it did not hold the same cadence as when Lila said it, or when a comrade had clapped him on the shoulder while laughing over a shared joke. 

    From this man’s mouth, the sound carried an accusation. As though he might have stolen his own name. 

    “I am,” Farlan said at last. He stopped himself from asking, And who are you?  He’d learned since his time in Nemeth that knights were allowed to be curious; prisoners, not so much. 

    The man didn’t respond; not even a ‘hmm’ of acknowledgement. That unsettled Farlan even more, and he ducked his head reflexively, using the top of his vision to observe. He realized then that who he saw stood in front of him, he’d seen before; not so much in the same form, but with the same patterns. 

    The sunken cheeks. The hopeless set in the shoulders. The look in his eyes…

    “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” he asked, surprise making him forget his hesitancy. “One of the… former workers.” 

    “Former slave,” the man murmured. “How’d you know?” 

    “You’ve got that look about you.” 

    “What?” Bitterness entered his tone. “Starved?”

    “Lost.”

    A sudden chill overtook Farlan at the admission, and he shifted, hugging his knees to his chest. Perhaps he had succumbed to paranoia, but he thought the temperature had dropped faster than could be natural. 

    “Though…” Farlan began again, nervously smiling. “I suppose our roles have reversed now. Ironic, isn’t it?”

    The dark-haired man’s gaze grew even more stony, a feat which Farlan had not thought possible. “Not at all,” he said. “I think we’re both where we’re meant to be.”

    “A-Aye,” Farlan stammered, looking away. He’d looked away many times before when he had been with the workers- no, slaves. He would feel their eyes searching him out when another handler got too rough with them, could almost hear their silent plea for him to intercede. But he never did. He never even looked at them. 

    Farlan let out a sigh, chest-deep. “If you’re looking for an apology, I suppose I can give you that. Though I’m not sure it’ll do you much good.” 

    At this, the man seemed caught off guard for the first time. His head hung lower. “No, I- I’m looking for something, but… not that.” 

    Feeling as though they’d finally reached the heart of the matter, Farlan spread his arms amicably before him. “Well, what have you found, then?” 

    And the man considered him for a time. When the air between them had grown still, he whispered, “Not much.” 

*****

    Merlin left quickly thereafter, though not before he caught the look of surprised dismay on the prisoner’s face. He’d half-expected Farlan to call out after him, to be so desperate for human contact that even facing judgment was deemed a better way to pass the time. 

    Stupid, stupid, he told himself. He’d thought the same when Arthur had first visited- which made him a fool and a hypocrite. The meeting had only made him feel lesser than before he’d entered the cell. 

    He hadn’t been planning to do anything of the sort, had been just slipping into the start of a restless sleep before he’d heard what he’d longed to hear. 

    Pa? 

    His eyes had then remained open, the breaths of Clo and Ava sleeping beside him providing a pleasant backdrop to the turbulent tale Thean told. He’d stayed awake even when his son’s voice had faded, and before dawn he’d rose to put to rest the thoughts that plagued him. 

    You must be careful, Merlin had told Thean several times. We know almost nothing of this man. 

    I will be, but… it’s strange, Pa. He wasn’t what I thought he’d be. He seemed much less… not evil. 

    That had only served to alarm Merlin further. The worst of the treachery he’d ever faced in other people had often been surface-level, a slew of other powerful sorcerers asking for his hand in helping them reign in chaos for the sheer sake of it. If Thean couldn’t see malice in this man, then a misstep would be all the more likely. 

    Not evil. In that, Merlin knew, his son must have been deceived. The fate his children had suffered- the fate Lea had suffered- couldn’t have been orchestrated by a man lacking corruption. 

    He’d wandered the castle for some time in the predawn twilight, looking for something. A sign of life to shake some sense into him, or at least enough fear to turn back to his children. To be afraid of himself. 

    His search had been to no avail. He’d wound up right where he’d tried not to be, in front of the cell door he had promised himself he wouldn’t enter. And when he’d stepped over the threshold, he’d found… 

    “Merlin! How kind of you to join us.”

    Arthur’s voice boomed across the courtyard, sounding nearly as arrogant as the day they’d first met. In the gray light, his friendly wave could be made out, accompanied by a smile too wide to be genuine. Surrounding him were a multitude of dour looking Nemethian and only slightly more cheerful Camelot knights. 

    Merlin stifled a sigh as he approached them, squaring his shoulders and trying to avoid their gazes without making it too obvious. He took the reins handed to him by a servant and mounted the horse as easily as he could, muscles straining at the effort. He’d ridden a few times since arriving in Nemeth, but the motion of it all still felt strange after a decade of being without. 

    Once situated, he became keenly aware of the expectant stares- Arthur’s and the knights. “You’ve got it the wrong way round,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’re joining me. Which, need I remind you, you really don’t have to.” 

    “Nonsense! Wouldn’t dare miss out on the fun,” Arthur countered, but his strained smile gave away his true meaning. The peace Mithian had wrought between her people and magic users was more than tentative, and subject to change at the whims of her people- some of whom carried swords beside them that morning as they left the castle gates. Such was the reason why at dinner the prior night, Merlin had claimed it was better for him to go alone on the expedition. Such was the reason Arthur had vehemently refused that proposal. 

    Few citizens dotted the streets before them. They were to traverse the wealthier aspects of the citadel, where none had reason to rise before dawn. The refugee camp and all neighborhoods nearest were to be avoided entirely in the hopes of preventing another riot. 

    As the muted nature of the streets prevailed, the tight circle of knights surrounding Arthur and Merlin seemed to relax slightly. Taking notice of the change, Arthur edged his horse close enough to Merlin to talk without being overheard. 

    “Alright, out with it now,” Arthur murmured after a cursory glance about. “Why do you look so rattled?”

    Rats. He should have known better than to think he could hide his unease from the King. Arthur had gotten a good deal more perceptive since the days Merlin had been able to hover keys behind him without batting an eye. 

    “It’s nothing,” Merlin said, though he knew it to be a futile effort. 

    A weary sigh rose beside him. “What happened?” the King asked again, sounding tired from more than just the early morning hour. 

    After a moment longer of deliberation, Merlin gave in. “I went to see that man in the dungeons.”

    “Farlan?”

    “Yes. Him.”

    “And? ” Arthur pressed when it became clear Merlin would not elaborate more on his own. 

    “And…” He made the mistake of meeting the eyes of his friend. There beneath the frustration, he saw concern and compassion he wasn’t sure he deserved right then. Before he could lose any more nerve, he spoke again. 

    “And when I first walked in the room, Arthur, I- I wanted to kill him.”

    The clipping of hooves was achingly loud until Arthur’s voice rose above them. “But you didn’t.” It wasn’t a question. 

    “No,” Merlin breathed shakily. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

    “Would have given me a bit of a headache.”

    Merlin laughed in surprise, startling some of the knights to either side of them. No doubt some of them suspected his joy to be the prologue to an evil plot, but he cared little for their opinion right then, catching Arthur’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. 

    As he reluctantly returned to his more somber state of mind, he found himself back over the threshold of the cell door. He’d almost hoped to have known the man before him as a former handler, to have the cold fury he felt coursing through his veins be justified. To find the man unfamiliar yet be recognized in return, not for who he was, but by what he’d been through, had nearly sent him over the edge. Like he and his family’s ordeal could never truly be escaped, a sickness buried deeper than the marks once burned into their skin. 

    It would have been so easy to give in then. He knew what he was capable of. 

    “Still,” Merlin murmured, head thick with what could have been. “I can’t help thinking that a better man wouldn’t have felt that way.”

    “That would imply such men exist.” Arthur looked out with a long stare at the empty streets ahead of them, voice growing softer as he said, “You’ve every right to your anger, Merlin.”

    Even amidst his self-doubt, he felt a surge of gratitude. “I know, but… I guess I thought I’d moved past it, at least a little. After all that happened when you found me.”

    “What, after that little thunderstorm of yours?” At the sour look Merlin cast his way, Arthur grinned, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t know much about magic, or whatever that was. But as for anger… I don’t think it works that way, Merlin.” 

    Merlin nodded, taking in the King’s words. He thought, then, of the people who had turned their anger towards him, Clo, and Ava at the refugee camp, so convinced then that their hardships could be pinned on a few. How alike they’d been to Uther in that moment, and to a lesser extent, to Arthur. To Merlin, at the cell door. 

    “No,” he acquiesced at last. “Guess not.” 

    They carried on through the streets in silence. Just as the first of the citizens were beginning to rise, they departed into the forest. A strange sense of nostalgia fell upon Merlin then. So many journeys on horseback he’d shared with Arthur before, in lands both known and unknown to them, the fears that plagued them alleviated only by each other’s constant companionship. 

    Somehow, even though Camelot was far away, a part of him felt home again. 

    As the trees thickened around them, the knights of both kingdoms slowed their pace. With a start, Merlin realized the reason behind this and the more frequent glances they threw his way. They wanted him to lead. 

    It should not have been surprising; the Nemethians had been used to avoiding the Medora mountains, for though the existence of the slave camp had not always been known for certain, it had long been suspected. Some of the Camelot knights, meanwhile, had been part of the King’s fleet that had wished to nobly liberate it, only to find its people slaughtered. For them, this was not a happy land either. 

    Arthur kept pace with Merlin as he led his horse to the front, notably tensing with each hoofbeat that drew them closer to the mountains. This would be his first time there since he’d come with Thean in the hopes of reuniting Merlin and his children. The result of that journey had been far more grim than the King could have predicted. 

    “I’m glad you were with him,” Merlin murmured. “With Thean.” 

    Arthur glanced at him, eyes flicking away quickly. “I shouldn’t have let him come at all.” 

    “He would have anyway.” Thean’s stubbornness was not quite so obvious as Clo’s, but there all the same. 

    “Hmm, yes,” Arthur acquiesced, smiling slightly. “He did remind me of someone else in that regard.”

    They both chuckled, falling once more into a comfortable silence. The peace lasted until they neared the area where the tree line broke before the slopes of Medora. 

    “Merlin.” Alarm etched Arthur’s voice. “Something strange is afoot.” 

    He gestured to the surrounding knights, all of whom were falling into varying states of distress. At least half of them had become hunched over in their saddles, features pale beneath the rising sun. One of the youngest knights leapt from his horse and ran for the deeper parts of the forest, unbuckling his pants hastily as soon as he reached the shade. 

    “Ah. Yes,” Merlin said, clearing his throat. “That would be my runes.”

    “Your runes?”

    Merlin leapt from his saddle, grinning sheepishly. “I’ll fix it, don’t worry!”

    Arthur caught him by the shoulder before he could fully depart for the forest. “What the bloody hell am I supposed to tell them?” he whispered harshly.

    “I’m sure you’ll figure out something, sire!” Merlin said, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Tell them it’ll pass!” he added as he broke away. 

    Pass, it did, though not without further discomfort from the surrounding knights. By the time Merlin had undone his handiwork and returned to the main circle, many had abandoned their horses to lean against trees and wipe the sweat from their brow. Even if not for their sudden bouts of illness, Merlin doubted they would have gone much closer to the mountains without prompting. They knew why the grass refused to grow, nor flowers bloom. 

    At the edge of the horizon, he thought he could see a red cloth waving in the breeze. He turned away from it. 

    Arthur had been going amongst the knights of both kingdoms, soothing those who’d been the worst off. He approached Merlin with a grimace. 

    “They don’t seem to want to kill me after that,” Merlin remarked. He’d noticed few glares on his way back, and even some looks of relief had been cast his way. 

    Arthur hesitated. “I told them it was probably the remnants of some sorcery left by the handlers.” 

    “But lying is wrong, sire.” 

    “Don’t push it,” Arthur sighed. “My diplomacy only goes so far.” 

    Merlin wanted to laugh, but at the king’s tired look and the sickliness of the knights nearest, he was held back by a twinge of guilt. “I didn’t think they’d come,” he admitted. “I didn’t think anyone would come near here without wanting to hurt her.”

    “You don’t have to worry about that now,” Arthur murmured.

    Merlin shook his head, smiling sadly. “Oh, I always will. You know that, you’re a parent, too.”

    Arthur looked faintly surprised at the analogy, but did not question it. 

    In the end, they decided to have two knights from each kingdom approach the cave alongside Merlin and the king. Those who might have protested against not being the first to see the mythical beast did not voice such concerns. Instead, they seemed grateful for the respite after their ordeal. 

    As they ascended the slopes, Merlin braced himself for the onslaught of emotions he’d faced last time he’d been there several days ago. Perhaps it was that the wound was not as fresh now that he’d been there before, or that he knew Aithusa lurked within and not the handlers- but the dread he expected to feel was absent.

    “Why didn’t they affect me? Those runes of yours.”

    Merlin glanced up at Arthur in surprise. “Would you have preferred they did?”

    “No, but…” Arthur shrugged. “I’m just curious, is all.” 

     Merlin nodded uncertainly, sensing there was more to this conversation than he was grasping. He tried to shake off that feeling and think of an honest answer. His magic was a unique one, and Arthur was no sorcerer; he had enough reason to be curious. Though he’d not constructed the runes to specifically exclude the King, he wasn’t surprised they had. When he had used magic on Arthur before, it had always been for the end goal of his protection. Even when Morgana had enchanted him, all his attempts to attack the King had been miserable failures, and he’d long suspected that to be due to more than just his inherent clumsiness. 

    “I don’t think the runes could have affected you even if I wanted them to,” Merlin said earnestly. “I’ve told you, Arthur, my magic is for you. It can’t work against you.”

    “Did you ever want it to?”

    “What?” The question had been spoken so softly, he thought he must have misheard it.

    Arthur’s gaze was trained on the mountains, a far away look in his eyes. “Didn’t you ever want out?”

    “Oh,” Merlin said softly. “Perhaps in the very beginning.” 

    He’d had his fair share of doubts those first weeks following around a prince who hid his heart behind barbed doors. And then there had been Freya, and the prospect of having a normal, humble life with her had been so tantalizing he had considered abandoning the path he’d been following. Even if they had escaped Camelot, he had a feeling he would have returned at the first mention of another irritated noble or bitter sorcerer trying to kill the dollophead. 

    “And after that?” At last, Arthur looked at him. 

    Merlin didn’t hesitate to answer. “No. Never,” he said. “There are many things I regret, things I wish had gone differently. But that was never one of them.”

    The King nodded, satisfied. A little bit of the light that had left him returned. 

    The four knights who accompanied them stayed outside the cave entrances, with Merlin and Arthur being the only two to enter them. There had been some deliberation, especially with the Camelot knights, as to whether or not this was a safe endeavor for the King. 

    “I’ve faced a dragon before,” Arthur had reminded them, and that seemed to placate them enough. 

    As they entered the first of the caves, with one hand cupping a flame to light their path, Merlin raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “Did you happen to tell them who really  faced a dragon?” 

    “Quiet,” Arthur grumbled, but there was an edge to his expression that spoke of more than just annoyance. For once, Merlin wasn’t the more skittish one between them. 

    “Clo and I searched the tunnels. They were all empty.” 

    “Except for the fire-breathing dragon?” 

    “Right,” Merlin chuckled. “Except for that.” 

    They felt Aithusa before they saw her; her claws against the floor shook the earth, and Arthur reached for Merlin at the lurch beneath their feet- an old instinct that lingered from the days he thought he’d been the only thing standing between his servant and an early death. Yes it was not death that greeted them, but a white dragon bounding in anticipation of seeing her master again. 

    “Here, Aithusa!” Merlin laughed as she nudged him, her snout as big as his head. “Here, girl.” 

    “She’s not a puppy, Merlin,” Arthur said numbly, trying to muster up some levity. 

    “No, but she certainly acts like one, doesn’t she?” Merlin grinned for what felt like the first time in ages. He’d not seen Aithusa this happy since before- well, before he’d given her over to Kilgarrah. The few days she’d spent in the mines of Medora had done her good, her size being nearly what it once was before her deep, long sleep in his absence. 

    Arthur smiled despite himself at Merlin’s strange antics, though he kept his distance, treading instead to where the caves opened out onto the horizon. Aithusa nudged Merlin once more, demanding his attention like a child does their parents after a day away from home. “I’m here,” he murmured, and for that she was glad- but she searched for another, too. Three others, to be specific. Even when Clo and Ava had been near her several nights ago, still her eyes had searched for a dark-headed boy to appear beyond the trees, quiet and certain in his care for her. 

    “Ethren. Bebing se nun,” Merlin sighed into her ear. Away. But one day, soon. 

    When Aithusa had calmed down enough to curl into herself in the darker edges of the cave, Merlin inspected the area more carefully. Large claw marks against the floor showed she had not sat still for long, and a pile of birds of prey at the corner confirmed she’d made outings for food. She must have flown low and not gone far, however, as no panicked peasants had made reports of creatures soaring above their crops. 

    With a start, Merlin spotted where Arthur’s attention had strayed. He stood gazing at the spot where Merlin and his family had slept for years, where drawings to capture his children’s imaginations still remained. How strange it was, to see the King stood there- strange, but not unpleasant. 

    Merlin came to stand beside him, gesturing proudly to the drawings. “Those are ours.”

    “I guessed that,” Arthur said, pointing to one commonly repeated symbol that looked to be a confounding cross between a flame and a flower. “Eloise’s teachers found something like that scribbled all over her books. One of Thean’s works?”

    “Mmm. I never figured out what it was. I don’t think he knew, either.” 

    With the toe of his boot, Arthur indicated another drawing, one that nearly touched the cave floor. “Clo left his mark too, I see.”

    Merlin had to lean closer before he could make out the image of a faded clover. His throat tightened in recognition.

    “No,” he said thickly. “That was Lea’s. She drew it the day he was born.”

    With the twins, Lea had despaired that they would not last the winter. The moment they entered the world, she was convinced she’d have to watch them leave it. But Clo had been born at the height of spring and somehow survived a fall down half the cliff face on the day of his birth, earning him his namesake. The panic Lea had felt at the baby’s fall turned into a frantic kind of joy once she’d recovered him. 

    “This one, Merlin,” she had gasped, face streaked with sweat and tears. “This one will survive. I’m sure of it.”

    Merlin couldn’t understand her meaning, but in his relief, he’d not questioned her. “Of course he will,” he’d said, taking his second son in his arms. “He’s our child.”

    The caves were so empty now. He had to distract himself, or he’d fall too deep into the past.

    Clearing his throat, Merlin pointed to a new image, one much happier than the last. “Recognize this one?”

    There were many figures with swords and shields on the wall, but only one wore a crown.

    “Is that supposed to be… me?” Arthur grinned, shaking his head in amusement. “Which of the children drew it?”

    “None. I drew it.” He’d carved the drawing when he first told Thean and Ava of the sword in the stone. 

    Arthur’s mouth twisted in a failed attempt to suppress his laughter. “It’s a good thing you never tried to pick up art, Merlin.”

    “Oh, please,” was the indignant reply. “You should be flattered.”

    They stood there for a moment more in comfortable silence, until the only sound within the caves was of Aithusa shifting into a different resting position. Merlin watched her, a sense of melancholy coming over him at how peaceful she looked. 

    “The things they’re expecting of her…” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’m afraid it may be too much, Arthur. She is a dragon, yes, but the enemy may have weapons even she can be harmed by.”

    Arthur shifted, reluctantly turning his gaze towards the dragon. “She’s a little like you, isn’t she? Skittish.” 

    Merlin huffed, appreciative of the attempt at humor. But the smile did not rise to his eyes. “Yes,” he acquiesced. “She has good reason to be; she’s not had the easiest life, either. Even so, with my abilities, I could order her into battle, but… I will not.” 

    He waited- for the disappointment, and the righteous lecture on how sacrifices must be made for the good of the kingdom. Neither came. 

    “You’re not angry?”

    “No,” Arthur sighed. “I would not force any man into battle against his wishes, so the same should apply to a creature. And besides, the idea of a dragon flying over Camelot again is… not pleasant. Even if it is for our salvation.”

    Merlin nodded, drawing a weary hand across his face. “And yet, we’ve come up with no better options. Our only choice may be the worst one.” 

    “Now you talk like a king,” Arthur said, but the jest was half-hearted. 

    “A king of one,” Merlin said, smiling at Aithusa. The smile quickly faded as a new thought crossed his mind. “If she does go into battle willingly, I must prepare her. It’s no good for her to be cooped up in here for too long.”

    “What are you suggesting?”

    “That I, um… take her.” Merlin tugged at his neckerchief nervously. “Flying. With me.”

    Arthur stared at him, face expressionless. “You’re mad,” he said softly. 

    “You’re surprised?”

    “Not in the slightest. But the flaw in your otherwise perfect plan is that we’ve got dozens of knights outside with their knees knocking together in fright from this creature.” Arthur paused, reconsidering. “That goes for the Nemethian knights, at least.”

    “Perhaps you’re right,” Merlin sighed, prompting the King to nod sagely. “Go on and tell the knights to prepare to leave. I won’t be much longer.”

    Arthur shifted uncertainly where he stood. “You sure?”

    The King’s meaning was clear; his fears of the dragon had lessened, but of this place, not so much. There were still marks on Merlin’s knuckles from where he’d hit the cave walls in blind rage. Though he’d left that bit of his story out in his recount of that day, Arthur seemed to have an inkling on the effect returning to the caves had had on his friend. 

    But it did no good to dwell on such things then. “Positive,” Merlin said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. “We can take care of ourselves for a minute, Arthur, really.”

    Arthur lingered, sweeping his eyes across the cave one last time lest a handler jump from the shadows. At last, he departed, though not without casting his gaze behind him a few times. 

    When the King’s figure had disappeared, Merlin returned to Aithusa’s side, putting his forehead to hers. “Come, Aithusa,” he whispered. “One last thing before we part ways.”

*****

    Arthur was milling amongst his knights when it happened. They’d all nearly packed their things and sheathed their swords by the time he heard the first stirrings, a shift in the wind too strong to be from weather alone. 

    Before he had even turned to see the sight, he knew what he’d find.

    “Oh, for the love of…” Arthur groaned.

    Above, the white dragon soared through the sky like a racing cloud. On her shoulders sat a man with his arms spread out, whooping with delight.

    Arthur glanced about, ensuring himself that no one was going to cast weapons in their direction. Queen Mithian’s men clearly still remembered her words, though; no man raised his spear, nor notched his arrow.

    “My lord,” spoke a Camelot knight beside Arthur. “I think your sorcerer’s gone a bit mad.”

    As if to confirm the man’s words, Merlin let out another cry of joy. Aithusa echoed him, sounding for all the world like she was laughing.

    “No,” Arthur replied, unable to stop himself from smiling. “He’s always been like that.”

Chapter Text

Thean

    Whistle. 

    Thunk. 

    “Aw, yes! Did you see that, Raven? Huh, did you see it?” 

    Robin turned to him, the gleam of pride in her eyes as bright as when she’d cast the first arrow that morning. Thean, in turn, gave her the same tired smile for the fiftieth time. 

    “I saw it,” he confirmed. “Well done.” 

    He was beginning to run out of new ways to compliment her, but she did not seem to mind. His attention was enough to please her. She reminded him of Clo a little in that regard. As Robin turned to watch her servants collect the scattered arrows, Thean rubbed at the scar on the back of his hand. The mark still lay there from where Clo had sunk his teeth after their skirmish on that very field. Helena had told him the scar would fade with time, but he was glad to have it for now; a bittersweet reminder of who he truly was. 

    He tried to imagine what his family and friends were doing right then. Lunchtime was approaching; Clo might be hoarding pumpkin pasties in the dining hall, with Ava scolding him to not be so greedy. Maybe, Thean reckoned, Anselm and Eloise were returning from the library, their latest attempt to try and distract themselves from feeling homesick. And as for his father and Arthur? Likely reluctant occupants of a council meeting, one where much was said and nothing decided as they waited- and would continue to wait, until Thean discovered something worth telling them. 

    “Your turn, Raven.” 

    Robin’s quiver had been filled once more, and she held it out to him, the bow proffered in her other hand. 

    “My turn?” Thean repeated. 

    Robin chuckled softly at his confusion. “You’ve been watching me for days. You ought to be an expert by now.” 

    Considering Robin’s skills, that was unlikely. Despite practicing archery nearly every morning, only a small handful of her arrows would reach the center of the board set up twenty paces away. Though brutes and servants stood by watching, none offered any tips for her to improve; Thean suspected they were all wary of speaking up. Even the target had been stripped away from the board, replaced instead with a simple white sheet. 

    “Go on,” Robin insisted, shaking the objects with a smile. 

    Trying to hide his displeasure, he did as she bid, slinging the quiver over his shoulder and making his way to where she usually stood. Notching the arrow was a painfully long process; by the time he’d finally accomplished the feat, his cheeks were burning bright. The servants and brutes seemed to have no qualms about muttering or laughing at his expense, until Robin cast a glare their way to silence them. 

    Once the arrow was notched, he tried to focus on the board before him so as not to embarrass himself further. But his attention was caught by something else entirely- two figures on the horizon. The shorter one he recognized immediately by his quick and self-assured stride. Zezumo.

    Slowly enough to be imperceptible to anyone watching, Thean lined the arrow to the man’s path. A futile effort, he knew, but one that made his stomach crawl with anger.

    An unfortunate occurrence, Zezumo had said of slave children. A depletion of resources. More mouths to feed. 

    If not for the ‘sterilize’ rune Zezumo had so proudly explained the creation of, Clo might not be the youngest of Merlin’s children. Thean might have had a little sister, or perhaps another little brother. Maybe then, the handlers would have been so kind as to let one child stay behind with Lea, after the rest of her family had been picked apart piece by piece. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have died alone. 

    “Raven?” Robin asked, voice oddly timid. “Are- are you going to try now?” 

    He let it go then. Whistle, flick; into the ground it went. 

    “Hmm,” Robin said in consideration. “I suppose that’s a job well done- if you were aiming for a squirrel.” 

    As if you could do any better. 

    If he wanted to keep his head, he’d have to try for something less hostile. “Maybe I was,” he said instead. “It’s almost lunchtime, after all.” 

    Robin laughed, that same tinkling sound that had startled him the night they’d first met. “Don’t be silly! No one eats squirrels.” 

    His smile nearly slipped away. “Yeah,” Thean said quickly. “Guess you’re right.”  

    Though he couldn’t be certain, Thean suspected he and his family had eaten squirrels on multiple occasions during the harshest of winters when the handlers had been unwilling to spare anything else. The tough, chewy meat was not one Thean had missed upon liberation. 

    But none of that mattered, anyway; Robin was always right. 

    He moved to hand back the bow and quiver, but Robin did not reach out for them. “You don’t want to try again?” she asked, frowning.

    “No, I’m- I’m alright.” Shuffling on his feet as she equipped herself once more, he hesitated before asking, “You never tire of this, do you?” 

    “What do you mean?” 

    “Don’t you ever want to try another weapon? Like, I don’t know- daggers, maybe.”

    Eloise’s weapon of choice was the first one to spring to his mind. Though the princess favored daggers, even she had begun to practice with heftier swords prior to the Camelot invasion. Arthur had always wished for his children to be prepared to defend themselves in any situation, no matter the weapon at their side. 

    “I’ve got a bow and arrow,” Robin said, gesturing widely. “Why would I need a dagger?” 

    “A bow and arrow is only good at a certain distance. If your enemies get close to you, they won’t be of much use.”

     Robin was silent for a moment. “Enemies?” she repeated, thoroughly bewildered. 

    He’d said too much. Turning away from her, he murmured, “Never mind. It was just an idea- a silly one.” 

    “You are rather silly,” Robin agreed, but her voice sounded distant, as though deep in thought. She bounced the tip of an arrow lightly against her knee, weighing the decision to release it or not. Such a decision, however, was made for her with the arrival of a serving girl bidding she and Thean come to lunch. 

    As the two children made their way to what had once been the royal dining chambers, Robin’s hand slipped into Thean’s. The first time she’d done that had been two days ago as they walked to breakfast together, and Thean had nearly leapt out of his skin. Now, he accepted it easily, and his palms did not sweat at the contact. Presently, Robin’s attention seemed elsewhere, a fact which he was unsure if he should be nervous about. 

    Waiting for them in the dining chambers was Jay, and Thean felt himself relax slightly when he noticed the man’s presence. “Raven and Robin,” Jay greeted them amicably, leaning back in his seat. “How has the day treated you?” 

    “Quite splendidly,” Robin said, planting a kiss on his cheek. “We practiced archery all morning. Raven even got to try.”

    “Is that so?” 

    Thean took his own seat quickly, ducking his head. “I wasn’t much good at it.” 

    “Not everyone can be a natural,” Robin said sagely as she crossed the room to sit beside him. 

    Jay smiled sympathetically in Thean’s direction. “The gods already granted you with a great deal of magic. They can only give so much to one boy.” 

    It was then Inoth entered, and the servants that had lined the corners of the dining hall sprung into action with setting out that day’s dishes. This was the pattern Thean had lived with the past two days. Just as each mealtime before, Inoth carried several papers in hand, each of which he studied throughout the course of being served as though the fate of his people depended on it. And perhaps, Thean reflected, it did; he could not know, not yet. 

    Thean’s first afternoon lessons with Inoth had not lasted long. Inoth had begun to show him a map, littered with names and lands in that same confounding language that Thean had stumbled upon when amongst the handler students with Kerek. His eyes had dashed across the map as Inoth pointed from one name to the next, trying to seize onto some landmark he could identify. But he’d never had much interest in studying maps when he’d lived with the royal family; he thought he’d found his home amongst them, and would no longer need to wander. 

    His meetings with Inoth were his best chances at learning about the Departed Lands people and returning his friends and family to Camelot- and he had ruined that opportunity before it fully began. 

    “What troubles you, Raven?” Inoth had asked, when at last his dismay had become too great to be hidden. 

    Thean had hesitated, considering only briefly whether he should fib or not. The humiliation he’d felt in front of Kerek and the other children proved that not being able to read uncommon amongst Departed Lands children. And yet, Robin herself had admitted to Thean she did not know how to, either. 

    “I can’t read it- the map,” Thean had mumbled at last. “I can’t read any of it.” 

    Inoth had looked from the map and back to him again before setting it aside. “Your parents,” he murmured. “They never taught you how to read?”

    A shake of the head. 

    “Who were they?” 

    “No one,” Thean said, a little too quickly. “Just- just farmers. That’s all.” 

    Just a sorcerer, and the woman he loved. 

    He stared at down his boots in fear until a hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. There was no anger in Inoth’s expression when their eyes met. “Don’t worry, Raven,” he said earnestly. “I do not judge a child for their parent’s mistakes. It is not too late to learn; Jay can teach you.” 

    “Not you?” Thean had asked, perturbed. Though he was most anxious around Inoth, he was the best chance at learning more of the Departed Lands secrets. 

    Inoth had shaken his head, the scarcest bit of hesitancy peeking through before he said, “I was a slow reader as a child. You’ll be able to learn faster under him.”

    Learn fast, Thean did not. The symbols of the Departed Lands were entirely different, and after two days he hardly knew the alphabet, which proved to be much longer than that of Albion’s standard language. But despite his frustration with the lessons, he did not mind Jay’s company. Though the old man starkly resembled Inoth in features, he was a much more pleasant conversationalist, given to filling Thean’s afternoons with tales the likes of which he’d never heard before. 

    One such tale Jay began to describe at lunch that day- a story of a great king whom Thean had never heard of, committing deeds he doubted had truly come to pass. He scoured his mind for some faint recollection of Anselm’s various remarks about his droll history lessons, but found nothing. A part of him hoped that his disbelief in Jay’s stories was unfounded; he wanted to believe that the man before him would not tell lies. 

    “And just when the Tethrans thought they had broken the king’s will, a flash of light struck the air!” Jay said, arms poised dramatically wide, swinging his chalice for emphasis. 

    “What was it?” Robin asked giddily, the fish and fruit on her plate forgotten. 

    “Unbeknownst to the Tethrans, Olian had hidden a shard of his broken crown in his boots. When he fell to the floor after being struck, he reached for it, killing the emperor with one swift strike!” 

    Jay’s story wound on, detailing the valiant and improbable escape of Olian from captivity. Thean feigned interest for its remainder; though he did enjoy Jay’s stories, the food before him also captivated his attention. The fish was fresh, seasoned to perfection, and the berries tasted better than any Thean and his family had picked from the forests of Medora. He wondered if Gemma had made any of the lunch fare on his plate. He’d not had the chance to-

    “You forget yourself, father.” 

    The suddenness of the hush that fell over the dining hall sent Thean’s heart hammering. 

    Inoth cut carefully into his meal, not glancing up as he said, “It was not Olian who defeated the Tethrans; he merely set them back for a time. Ultimately, it was his son, Breno, who defeated them once and for all.”

    From the moment Inoth had spoken up, Jay had been frozen in his dramatic gesturing. When it was clear his son would not speak again, he set down his chalice and cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, of course.” He smiled apologetically towards Robin and Thean. “So many good men, so many terrible deeds. One loses track after a while.”

    Robin had been looking between her father and grandfather impatiently, unheeding of the strange silence that had fallen across the table. “Whatever became of Olian’s kingdom?” she pressed. 

    “Now that is one story lost to time. But likely the same fate that befell all the other kingdoms, Robin.”

    “Retribution,” Thean murmured. It was the first he’d spoken since Inoth’s arrival.

    Jay nodded, surprised but pleased at his input. “That’s right, Raven. When a kingdom’s people forget the sins of their past, they are forced to remember.” 

    Thean had heard the word at the conclusion of Jay’s tale during his first meal with the family. That story had put him on the edge of his seat as the old man described a kingdom filled with magic users, exceedingly talented healers, and the wildest of creatures for pets. He’d just started to think about how he would tell his friends and siblings about this story when they reunited, only to have Jay to sum up the fall of that kingdom with the same word- retribution. Thean hadn’t known what it meant at first, and he didn’t have Prince Anselm to seek the meaning from. With each meal and each story Jay shared, though, the definition became more clear: a justified misfortune that all parties, save for that of the Departed Lands, were doomed to succumb to. 

    That’s what they will tell of Camelot, Thean realized, a sickening ache overcoming the contentment he’d felt from the rich food. 

    These people- Robin, her family- seemed to believe that those who suffered deserved their fates. 

    Did Buckley deserve it? 

    The grinning image of Clo’s friend came to mind, the one Thean had found under a pile of rubble on the night of the invasion. He had never told his brother; he didn’t have the heart to.

    Inoth stood, and the others stood with him. Thean rose reflexively to his feet as well, shoulders drooping as he watched Inoth nod in Jay’s direction. Another afternoon of strange symbols floating before his eyes; another wasted opportunity that he could have spent at the leader’s side, had he hid his ineptitude better. 

    “Have fun,” Robin called in a sing-songy voice as they departed, a mischievous look in her eyes as she headed in the direction of her room. 

    Well. At least she doesn’t look like she wants to kill me, Thean thought dismally. Best to focus on small victories; they were all he’d had of late. 

    He truly tried to pay attention to Jay’s patient lesson that day. He even managed to learn a single word: ‘the.’ 

    But always his mind pulled him elsewhere: to the servant’s door in his bedroom, through which he could escape to a small green world, or reunite temporarily with those who dwelled in darkness. He’d been too fearful of being missed by the invaders to visit Camelot’s refugees for a while, but he could not delay for too long. He didn’t want Gwen and the others assuming the worst. 

    “Raven. What’s the matter? Got a rabbit in your ear?”

    “What?”

    He’d heard that expression once before. His mother had reached behind his ear when he was four years old, saying, There it is!

    Jay frowned at him, momentarily befuddled, before shaking his head with a smile. “Ack, I forget my age. It’s an old saying.” 

    Thean shifted in his seat, trading unease for a sigh. “Sorry, Jay. I didn’t mean to drift off.” 

    “I don’t blame you,” Jay said, taking the forgotten document from Thean’s hand. “Reading wasn’t made to be easy.” 

    Emboldened by the man’s agreement, Thean ventured, “How do you know so many stories, then?”

    “Well, not all stories are written. Surely your parents told you some as well.” 

    “They did,” Thean admitted. “But none like yours.” 

    That much was true. His father’s stories were mostly derived from his own experiences, and as he got older, Thean had picked up on inconsistencies from one recount of a tale to the next, details lost to time. The stories Jay told were never about his own experiences, and yet he described the people and places as though he’d stood amongst them. 

    “I hope that’s a compliment,” Jay chuckled. “Yes, some of my stories are from books. Bits and pieces. But that was before-” 

    It was then the old man broke into a cough, not for the first time during their lesson. Thean poured water from the nearby pitcher, handing it quickly to Jay. He was half of mind to leave the matter there as the old man caught his breath, but he had to find out whatever he could of these people. So as the coughs abated, he asked gently, “Before what?”

    There was something in Jay’s eyes- something Thean had seen before, in Arthur’s when he talked of his father, in his father’s when he talked of Camelot. But that emotion was gone and buried before he could name it. 

    “Before curious children like you and Robin took up all my days!” Setting another page before Thean, Jay moved one hand along the lines. “Now, look here- see if you can make this one out.”

    They studied on, mentor and mentee working together until the letters seemed to float off the page. When the sun had arced across three quarters of the sky, a knock sounded at the door. Though surprised, Thean was mostly relieved to have some respite. 

    A serving girl entered, nodding deeply to both of them. Whether he liked it or not, Thean had status amongst the Departed Lands people. Gone was the anonymity he could claim as a mage student, one of many. 

    “The Balancer requests his apprentice’s presence,” said the serving girl, voice just loud enough to be carried across the room. 

    “Go on, apprentice,” Jay said, patting the pile of parchment. “The letters aren’t going anywhere.” 

    Thean cast a smile back over his shoulder as he departed, following close behind the serving girl. She kept her eyes down and her hands behind her back, and the smile fell off his face as he felt a pang for her. Perhaps the children here were better fed than those they enslaved, but they did not seem much happier. 

    As they neared the tower Inoth was partial to, they passed by another unhappy child, one whom the sight of stirred familiarity in Thean. Purple shirt far too large for his skinny arms, legs moving fast despite his lack of height. It was the boy he’d seen leave with the patrol at his first dinner amongst the Departed Lands children. Where there had been fear in the boy’s eyes before, now there was only weariness. Dirt and shadows clung to him. 

    That was when alarm bells began to ring in Thean’s head. He had assumed that Inoth wanted to meet purely to check on how he was progressing, or for some other benign reason. Once again, his optimism had been founded on shaky ground. 

    When they reached Inoth’s tower, he stood at the window overlooking the other peaks of the castle, one hand at his side holding a scroll. The serving girl was quick to depart, for which Thean could not blame her. He didn’t want to be there, either.

    “Raven,” Inoth said. “What do you know about dragons?”

    His heart could have appeared before his boots, and he would not be fazed.

    “Not much. Only that there aren’t any left.” He kept his voice level, as though they were discussing the potential for rain the next day. 

    “I once thought the same, but it seems we were both wrong.” 

    Inoth began to walk towards him, unrolling the scroll enough for Thean to see the message scrawled across. Even with his minimal knowledge of the language, he could tell the words had been written hastily, ink smudged at some points and jagged at others.

    “The patrol just came back. On one of their first nights, they claim they saw a great white beast soaring across the sky, with wings the span of this tower.” He gave Thean a smile eerily similar to Jay’s. “I embellish, of course; their reports weren’t so eloquent.” 

    “And you think it was a dragon?”

    “It is possible. The king that once lived here was known to not be fearful of sorcerers, nor of dragonlords.”

    “Dragon… lords?”

    If he made it to adulthood, he could become a traveling actor at this rate. It was all he could do to not burst into hysterical laughter at the thought. 

    “Dragonlords, yes,” Inoth said, latching on to what he thought was curiosity. “Men and women with the power to command dragons, much like our handlers command workers. If there is such a dragonlord, we must be vigilant; a dragon on its own is a trifle, but if tied to another being…”

    Inoth paused, slowly turning to place the documents on the desk. He approached Thean and placed his hands on his shoulders, smiling apologetically. “I do not mean to frighten you. Whatever this is, we have more than enough strength to combat it. But you should know that I may need to ask more of you in the coming days- more lessons with Zezumo, more patrols.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “Less storytime with Jay.”

    Thean took the opportunity to draw in a deep breath. “Whatever I can do to help.” 

    Inoth’s smile grew. “Good lad.” 

    And then the Balancer did something Thean had to force himself to not cringe at- he reached over, and ruffled his hair. Only Arthur and his father had ever done that to him before. 

    But Inoth took no note of his hidden discomfort. “Take the rest of the afternoon off,” he called over his shoulder, already having turned back to his desk. “There are longer days ahead.”

    Thean nodded in case he was being watched (he always felt like he was being watched). When his hand was on the door, his luck ran out. 

    “Oh, and Raven?” 

    With a sigh he kept to himself, Thean turned back around. 

    “Keep this between you and I,” Inoth said solemnly. “There are some things Robin is happier not knowing.” 

    No longer did the words of this man seem like a shared joke. Thean knew a threat when he heard one. 

    “Of course,” he said, and nodded again. 

    Truly, Inoth had nothing to worry about; Robin was the last person he wanted to talk to then. In fact, he had only one person in mind. 

    He made his way back to his rooms hastily, staring at his feet all the while to avoid any chances of being halted by passersby. By the time he reached his door, his hands were shaking- not with fear, as had often been the case in his meetings with Inoth, but with anger. Closing the door quickly behind him, he grabbed the charcoal stick from underneath his bed and went into the servant’s hall. The dark, cool air greeted him like an old friend, and he sank to the ground, closing his eyes for a moment. 

    The last time he’d contacted his father, he had done so within his standard chambers. But something about the thrumming in his heart made him seek out the refuge of the as yet unexplored servant halls, away from the reach of anyone who might peek into his room. Though his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, he was able to draw the communication runes on his arms from memory. 

    Pa. 

    A pause, and then, Thean! 

    The joy in his father’s voice nearly halted his anger, until he remembered the way he’d had to plaster on a look of surprise at Inoth’s mention of dragons. 

    What happened to Aithusa? 

    Another pause ensued before his father’s voice returned with a much less joyful tone. How do you know about that? 

    They saw her. A patrol was sent out a week ago and just returned. 

    He could almost hear his father’s sigh. Perhaps he was with Arthur, then, turning to the king with a look of trepidation. The thought only spurred Thean’s anger on- he didn’t have that luxury. 

    Tell me. 

    And his father did. Slowly, the events of the past week unraveled between them- Aithusa’s fearful flight, the riots in the refugee camp, and the precarious peace that had since settled in Nemeth. All the while, Thean waited for himself to calm down. He kept waiting. 

    You should have told me, he said when at last the recount concluded. Gods, Pa, you had a week to tell me. 

    I’m sorry, came the weary reply. To say you have enough on your shoulders is an understatement, and I didn’t want to- 

    “NO!”

    If not for the echoes crying back at him, he might not have realized he’d shouted. 

    No, Pa, he continued, one hand clenched against his mouth to keep himself from crying out again. You told me everything was fine in Nemeth. You lied, and you’ve never lied to me. Please don’t start now. 

    He wondered if the communication spell betrayed the way he was shaking. 

    Okay, Thean. Okay. His father spoke gently, as though he were speaking to a toddler that needed placating. And perhaps, Thean reflected, that wasn’t far from the truth. Despite the anger still coursing through his veins, he was feeling quite powerless then. 

    You know I was just trying to protect you, right? 

    Thean sighed. I don’t think that’s much of an option anymore. 

    Doesn’t mean I won’t try. But I hear you; it was wrong of me to keep that from you. It won’t happen again. 

    Thean was able to calm down somewhat after that, much to his father’s gratefulness. They talked a little longer of less troublesome matters- of the dance in Nemeth, and of Eloise and Ava’s budding new friendships with the cured Nietta. Thean gave halfhearted responses to his father; while he liked hearing that his friends and siblings were doing as well as they could in Nemeth, he was reminded of all that he was missing. There was little he wouldn’t give then to be able to see them again, if only for a moment. 

    When they bid their good-byes and the communication spell ended, he leaned back heavily against the door, sinking a little further to the floor. One last piece of the day to himself before he returned to his lie of a life in the castle. 

    The air was warmer outside his room, but he scarcely felt it. Other children passed by him en route to the dining hall for dinner, steps quick against the floors. A few turned to cast glances at him over their shoulders, thinking themselves sneaky. 

    Only one group of children had the courage to look at him fully. Konneth and Etho were deep in conversation as they neared the double doors, Clara walking at their side. Konneth raised his hand solemnly in greeting; Etho and Clara did not, only staring long enough to show they’d recognized him. 

    Thean raised his hand back in greeting, almost wishing that they’d approach him. But they turned into the dining hall soon thereafter, leaving the dark-haired boy alone in the crowd once more. 

    He walked on until he reached the hall of Robin’s chambers. A guard dipped his head to Thean, knowing immediately whom he sought. “She’s at the training grounds, Raven,” he said, not unkindly. No guard held him in the same suspicion as when he’d first visited Robin. 

    The training grounds?  He hid his confusion as he turned back down the halls, tracing the path he used to never walk along without Anselm striding before him. Robin typically stuck to her routine of archery practice in the morning, then remained in her chambers until dinner, more often than not talking with Gemma of nonsense. 

    He found Robin poised before the dying light of the sun with only a few curious servants lining the grass alongside her. There was no quiver at her back, nor bow in her hand. Instead, silver gleamed, and she twirled it experimentally, carefully studying the target positioned much farther down than usual. Placing one foot behind the other, she sent one of Princess Eloise’s daggers soaring through the air in an arc. 

    It pierced the target board right down the middle.

Chapter Text

Arthur

    He was beginning to grow concerned about how much of the past year he’d been spent looking for children. 

    Back in Camelot, his own children had never proven too hard to track down. Servants and knights were constant companions of the prince and princess, and Gwen was especially attentive to their whereabouts when Arthur was otherwise occupied. 

    Merlin’s children, however, had proven to be far more elusive, much like their father. When Thean had first slipped into Arthur’s life, he’d been startled by just how quietly the boy could move from one room to the next. Merlin’s son had lived too long thinking silence was needed for survival, and it took a while for him to realize he could make his entrances and exits known without rebuke. When friendship began to grow between Thean and Arthur’s children, he was relieved- not just to see Thean adjusting to Camelot, but to be reassured that where his children went, Thean wouldn’t be far behind. 

    Luckily, Ava proved to be far less sneaky in her comings and goings than her brother. Unluckily, it was not she who Arthur searched for then, but rather Merlin’s second son. Clo had been at breakfast with the rest of the children, but he’d been unusually quiet, a fact which Arthur had failed to notice amidst the ensuing conversation.

    The first thing to tip Arthur off that something strange was afoot had been the grin on Ava’s face that morning. She practically squirmed in her seat with a happiness she’d not displayed since Thean had departed. 

    “What are you smiling about?” Arthur had asked, genuinely curious to hear some good news for once. 

    “Pa’s going to take me to see Aithusa today!” With her attention turned to the King, she missed her father’s emphatic gestures for her to stop speaking. 

    “Oh! Is he now?” He tried to keep his voice level as he reached for a piece of bread. 

    “I was, er, going to tell you,” Merlin said, having the grace to look sheepish. 

    “I’m sure you were.” 

    Arthur was sure he wasn’t planning on doing anything of the sort. Merlin, for his credit, had been relatively transparent since they’d arrived in Nemeth. He told Arthur every detail of Thean’s messages, and on the rare chance that a noble approached Merlin when he wasn’t with the King, he told Arthur of that information, too. 

    Arthur also kept Merlin informed. He had told him the night prior that he’d be in a meeting the next day regarding rations, one he didn’t think Merlin’s expertise would be needed at. He’d done so partially to allow his friend more time with the children he’d been separated from for so long. 

    He should have known that quality time between Merlin and his children would of course include a dragon- one whom Arthur had specifically said he did not wish Merlin to visit without him for the idiot’s own safety.

    “We just saw Aithusa the other day,” Arthur said, stabbing fruit with a fork. “I’m sure she hasn’t hunted down all the birds in the sky since then.”

    “It’s not her food supply I’m worried about,” Merlin grumbled. 

    “What, then?” Arthur gestured to the dining hall windows that revealed brimming clouds. “The rain? She’s got the caves to shelter in.”

    “And what would you know about any of that?”

    Eloise’s spoon clattered back into her bowl in surprise; the rest of their table remained silent. The retort had held the same insolence that a child might display, and Merlin seemed well aware of that, face reddening as he studied his plate sullenly. 

    “It’s not the rain I’m worried about, either,” Merlin muttered, staring at his plate instead of those around him. 

    “We’ve doubled the patrols along Nemeth’s border. Even if the invaders know of Aithusa, they won’t be so bold as to cross the border on a mere whim.” Or at least, so he hoped. 

    Merlin picked up on his uncertainty- he always did. “Arthur, they invaded Camelot,” he said. As if the King needed reminding. “We can’t predict all that they’re willing to do.”  

    “No, we can’t, and we’ll make ourselves mad if we try to.” Glancing around to ensure no prying ears were listening, he lowered his voice and continued, “What we do know is that the Nemethians are like startled deer around the idea of magic and dragons. We’re pushing our luck if we demand to see Aithusa every day. The last time you were alone in the citadel, there were guards by the dozens, and did they step in to help you?” 

    “No, but that’s-”

    “That’s that, then.” 

    He did not look up at his friend, staring down at his meal without seeing the food. He knew, should he look up, the suppressed fury he’d see there. 

    “I’ll go with him,” Anselm said quietly. There was no question in his voice. 

    Arthur rubbed his temple and sighed. “Anselm, that’s…”

    Anselm didn’t give him time to collect his thoughts, leaning forward across the table so that he could keep his voice low. “The Nemethians won’t try anything if enough of our knights and the prince are there,” he insisted. 

    “And a sorceress, and a dragonlord,” Ava added, the smile returning to her face. 

    Merlin had watched the exchange with hidden interest. At his daughter’s input, he mustered the will to speak up. Taking a sly sip of his drink, he glanced at Arthur above it and murmured, “They make a valid point.” 

    And so Arthur had thrown up his hands in defeat, outnumbered by the children and the manchild. He’d watched with trepidation as they embarked from the courtyard, Merlin leading the head of the group of knights from both kingdoms. His friend even dared to throw a grin over his shoulder as they strode forward. 

    Arthur did not miss the way Ava and Anselm drew their horses nearer to each other, nor the way Merlin’s daughter leaned in her saddle to whisper something in Anselm’s ear. With amusement, he realized he would have much to tell Guinevere when he saw her again. 

    The meetings had proven to be far shorter than Arthur had assumed, drawing to a close by midday. He had half the mind to get on a horse and head to the dragon’s cave himself, but thought better of it. He would have to take more knights away from the castle, and leave Clo and Eloise unattended. Though not strictly discussed between him and Merlin, the pattern they’d set up between them was that when one was away, the other was keeping track of the children’s location. 

    Aside from that, Merlin would likely take the King’s going after him as a personal affront. The stubborn fool didn’t seem to realize that it wasn’t him Arthur didn’t trust, nor even Aithusa; it was everyone else. The city had turned on Merlin not too long ago, and all the reassurances Mithian could give as to the newfound bond between the kingdoms wouldn’t change that. 

    But alas, worrying over his friend and the children who were not present would do him no good. The least he could do was ensure the wellbeing of Eloise and Clo- who proved far more tricky to track down than they had a right to be. 

    He checked the hall where he and Merlin had chambers first, and found them empty. His luck prevailed when he came upon the corridor of the Nemethian royal chambers; his daughter’s laughter was unmistakable, and he felt himself relax slightly at the sound of it. 

    “Over the bridge and through the woods, the willow trees grow on and on…” 

    He walked up to the door slowly, not wanting to interrupt Princess Nietta’s singing any sooner than needed. The door which had been always closed during the girl’s sickness was now always open, revealing a room littered with ribbons and knickknacks instead of potions and salves. Nietta and Eloise sat on the bed, their backs turned to Arthur as the older girl braided the other’s hair, humming a tune to herself all the while. 

    At Arthur’s gentle knock, they both turned, though Eloise did so much less than Nietta, not wanting to disturb the princess’ handiwork. “Dad!” she called out. “Nietta’s braiding my hair!” 

    “I can see that,” he said in amusement. Nietta began to shift, preparing to stand and curtsy, but Arthur stopped her with a calming gesture. “Not necessary, Princess,” he murmured, and she smiled at him, returning to her task. 

    When he walked across the room so that he could face the girls, he was met with the sight of Eloise beaming up at him. Arthur grinned back at her immediately. He had feared their time away from home might have stolen that ability from his children. 

    “We’re going to teach Ava when she gets back!” Eloise exclaimed proudly. “Then Clo can never say her hair looks like a nest again.” Her nose crinkled at the mention of the boy. 

    “Speaking of the rascal, have you seen him?” 

    “Oh, he was here earlier,” Eloise said, waving her hand dismissively. “We offered to braid his hair, too, but he refused.” 

    Arthur snorted with laughter. “The nerve of him.” He paused as he tried to keep his next words casual, not wishing to betray his worries. “Did he say where he was going? Merlin wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I lose him.”

    “He mentioned the Athrangi tree,” Nietta said. “Maybe he was trying to see if there was more fruit.” 

    “Nuh-uh, there won’t be any,” said Eloise. “Ava goes there every day and just stares at it, like this.” Eloise widened her eyes to the size of an owl’s, eliciting giggles from Nietta. 

    Arthur tapped his daughter on the head as he bid farewell, chuckling at her indignantly batting his hands away. He departed into the halls, bolstered by their reports of the boy’s whereabouts- though he’d be remiss to not confirm them. Just a quick stroll to the garden. He wasn’t being paranoid, certainly not; he was just being careful. 

    The path to the garden around the castle was largely deserted. Arthur had only tread it once before with Merlin after a particularly arduous council meeting. He’d seen nothing remarkable in the Athrangi tree; other than the uniquely purple leaves, it looked like any old tree to him. But Merlin had seemed to relax a little in its presence; the droop beneath his eyes had vanished for a moment, and so they’d stayed there longer than Arthur had intended. Perhaps, he presumed, that was why Clo had come here- to find peace in uncertain times. 

    He heard the voices of other children as he turned the corner to the tree, and was unsurprised. Clo had been fast to make friends throughout Camelot, and with the easing of restrictions on magic, he no longer had to hide himself within Nemeth. Where he went, other children were sure to follow. 

    Still, the sheer number of children Arthur came upon caught him off guard. Clo stood a little ways from the Athrangi tree, as predicted, and at least ten other children formed a semicircle around him. He could hear the voice of Merlin’s son rising, but could not make out the words; the other children fell into a hush as he spoke on. 

    Just as Arthur began to contemplate turning back with the boy’s whereabouts confirmed, an older boy stepped forth from the group and came to stand a few paces before Clo. He brought one hand before him, his mouth moved… 

    And Clo went flying back, hitting the Athrangi tree hard enough to shake leaves from the branches. 

    Arthur did not know if he cried out. The blood boiling in his ears drowned out all other noise. He lurched forward, all pretenses of not interrupting forgotten in his anger as he strode across the field. But he slowed as a new sound entered the fray- Merlin’s son, laughing . 

    Clo rose to his feet, dusting the purple leaves from his pants. “That was amazing, Egbert!” he said to the older boy. “My Pa couldn’t have done better himself! Just try to avoid this tree next time though, okay?” 

    “What is the meaning of this?” 

    The children turned their heads at Arthur’s voice. They were mostly boys and a few girls, with the oldest, Egbert, looking visibly pale and all of fifteen years at most. Some of the children seemed to recognize the king, bowing and curtsying with their heads down. Arthur barely registered their courtesies, his gaze trained solely on Clo. 

    “Erm… hello Arthur,” Clo murmured, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. Addressing the children, he continued, “Good work today everyone. I’ll see you here tomorrow, same time.” 

    They did as he bid, departing quickly without another word. Only the brave ones threw glances over their shoulders before turning down the path opposite the one Arthur had emerged from. 

    Clo looked after them a little wistfully. He avoided the ground near Arthur, picking up odds and ends from the grass and placing them in his own small satchel- a sharpened rock here, a coin there. Once done, he brushed past Arthur, but took no initiative to speak when he heard footsteps beside him.

    “What was all that about?” Arthur asked as they started on the path back to the castle. 

    “What did it look like?” Clo tossed one of the rocks he had picked up in the air, catching it deftly. “We were training.”

    Arthur was silent for a moment, genuinely baffled. “Training for what?”

    “To fight, of course.” With a glance up at Arthur, Clo rolled his eyes, looking much like his father then. “To fight the Departed Lands invaders. If their magic is really how Thean says, we need to use it against them.”

    The rock slipped from his fingers. Muttering a word that his mother certainly wouldn’t approve of, Clo summoned it back with a flash of his eyes. A small smile of satisfaction graced his features when he succeeded. 

    “I’m not disagreeing with you there,” Arthur said. “But you can’t expect those friends of yours to be sent into battle. They’re children.”

    “So?” Clo challenged, stowing the rock back in his satchel. “Didn’t you see what Egbert did?”

    “Yes, I saw how he could have killed you.”

    “Exactly!” Merlin’s son paused, frowning. “And I’m fine. I used a spell to soften the landing- kind of.” 

    Arthur suppressed a sigh, running his hands through his hair instead. They had reached the first of the castle’s halls; he’d give a lecture on self-preservation when they had more privacy. “How old is this Egbert? Fifteen?” he ventured.

    Clo shrugged. “What does it matter?” 

    “It matters because Queen Mithian will not send a fifteen year old into battle.”

    “Pa says you were fourteen when you went into your first battle.”

    Damn it. Damn Merlin and his ridiculously  thorough storytelling.

    “That was different,” Arthur said, though his tone lacked conviction.

    “Thean’s eleven, and he’s living with the invaders.” Clo stopped, coming to stand before the king so he could tilt his head up and look him in the eye. “Is that different, too?” 

    He knew he couldn’t win that line of argument, so instead, he spoke the words nearly every child dreaded hearing. “Does your father know about this?”

    The change was slight; Clo’s eyes flickered away from Arthur’s for a moment. “He knows I’ve been teaching other kids magic- he’s watched a few times,” he admitted slowly. His voice dropped as he continued, “But today’s the first time I taught them how to fight.” 

    “And it will be the last day,” Arthur said decisively. “As soon as he returns, he’s hearing about this.” 

    Clo gaped, face reddening with anger. “You can’t do that!” 

    “You’re wrong, Clo. I can because I am the king, and you are a child. ”

    They were almost in the hallway where they were staying. The servants had grown more sparse, but even those who had passed them halls ago might hear if a shouting match ensued. Besides, Arthur took no joy in the fight. He turned away, heading to any place that wasn’t near his friend’s angry son. 

    “Some king you are!” Clo called after him. 

    Arthur kept walking. 

    “You’re no king! You’re a coward! ”

    He stopped then; not because of the words, but because of the way Clo’s voice had broken on that last one. He turned to find the boy’s legs and fists trembling- in fact, he seemed to be trembling all over, like some scared animal. Like a small child. 

    Arthur took a hesitant step forward, and another. He reached out a hand as he got closer, but stopped when Clo startled and flinched back. As if the last of his energy had been seeped away by that one motion, Clo fell against the wall behind him. Sinking to the floor, he hugged his knees to his chest. 

    And began to cry. 

    It wasn’t the first time Arthur had seen him cry. There had been tears running down Clo’s face the day they’d met, but there had been joy mixed in with the grief of all he’d endured. Arthur saw no such light in the boy before him then, all elbows and sniffles. His head was ducked between his knees, his sobs loud- either he wasn’t ashamed to have the king hear him crying, or he simply didn’t have the energy to care.

    Arthur knew he should move, should do something, but he found his feet rooted to the ground. He had comforted his own children before, but the cause of their woes had usually been over trivial things; a scraped knee, a game they lost against the children of other nobles. Thean, too, he had consoled after the death of his mother had become known, but that had been under the cover of night, when such emotions took on a softer quality, uncomplicated by the rise and fall of the day. 

    He would never know the full extent of what Merlin’s family had gone through. Who was he, in the face of such pain? No decree could banish it, and though the changes he and Mithian dictated might right the future, they could never erase the past. 

    Clo’s sorrow showed no signs of abating in intensity until two serving girls rounded the corner. Their pleasantries with one another died down, their gazes politely shifted away from the weeping boy. Clo raised his head enough to watch their figures disappear at the other end of the hall. 

    “Clo.” Arthur took the opportunity as a chance to provide comfort, but Clo got to his feet without the help of his offered hand. Wiping snot on his sleeve, he turned in the direction of their rooms without a word to the King. 

    Arthur followed. Not for the first time in recent days, he wished Thean was still in Nemeth. Though Merlin’s sons often bickered with one another, their clashes tended to temper Clo’s rambunctiousness, as if he reserved his argumentative nature solely for his older brother. If Thean were there-

    But whose fault is that? 

    He knew the answer, as did the boy dragging his boots in the carpet. 

    When they reached the chambers Merlin and his children had been staying in, Clo did not slam the door behind him as Arthur had been bracing himself for. He left it ajar, depositing himself at the far end of the lone bed in the room. Tugging his knees up to his chest similarly to how he’d huddled in the hall, Clo faced the window, not the King. 

    Having been neither granted nor denied entry, Arthur made his way cautiously into the room. When he had come into Clo’s peripheral vision and still was not turned away, he sat down on the same side of the bed, careful to keep some distance between him and the boy. Clo gave little sign of acknowledging his presence, so Arthur followed his gaze to the window. The clouds that had threatened the morning had passed, leaving proud sunlight in their wake. All in all, it was shaping to be a nice day. 

    One by one, Clo unraveled his limbs from one another until his legs hung over the bed, his hands palm open at his sides. “That first day,” he said, pausing to clear his throat. Without turning to Arthur, he continued, “After Thean found us here. Even though we’d just found out that Ma was- gone, and that Pa was still missing… even then, when I saw you, I thought- everything’s going to be alright now. Because we were going to Camelot, and we were supposed to stay in Camelot, and you were supposed to be-”

    His voice broke off. His shoulders sagged. He glanced at Arthur without the hope the King wished to see. “But it didn’t turn out that way, did it?” Clo said in a small voice. “And you weren’t who I thought you’d be.”

    Arthur nodded slowly, trying to subdue the ache in his chest at the boy’s words. He turned to the tactic he had always used as a prince when emotion got the best of him. In a forced light tone, he said, “Your father never told you about my many mistakes over the years?” 

    “No, he did,” Clo said dully. “But I never wanted to listen to those parts of the stories. I much preferred the ones where you saved people, even when you didn’t think you’d be able to.”

    Arthur’s heart warmed up a little once more. No matter how many people he’d disappoint, Merlin was always the exception- always one to point out his mistakes, but not think less of him for them. “It was usually your father who made me think I could. He’s always had more faith in me than I deserved.”

    Clo frowned, perturbed. “I never said you didn’t deserve it. I’m just… not sure I can do the same.” 

    “You don’t have to do anything for me, Clo.” 

    “So I don’t have to listen to you?” Clo asked, scrutinizing the King with the beginnings of a smile. 

    Arthur snorted, shaking his head in amusement. He wondered if Merlin had been this insolent as a boy, too; it wouldn’t surprise him. “I’d certainly prefer that you did, especially  when listening to me involves not getting thrown against trees.” He waved a pointed finger in front of Clo’s face for emphasis, but then withdrew, sighing. “But you’re free now, so truly… no. You don’t have to listen to me, if that’s not what you want.” 

    It was Clo’s turn to laugh, or try not to. He’d never been good at hiding his emotions.

    “What?” Arthur asked, bewildered. He thought he’d said quite a nice thing. 

    “It’s just…” Clo gestured uncertainly. “The way you said that. That I’m free now. I’ve always been free.” Taking in Arthur’s still confused expression, he continued, “I mean, yes, I know- I grew up as a slave, but I never felt like one. During the days we couldn’t do what we wanted, but at night.” A smile came to his face, his eyes taking on a distant, joyful look. “When Pa would tell us stories, and Ma and Ava would sing, and Thean and I would trace out the stars. And I’d think to myself, how can this not be freedom? Of course I was free.”

    Arthur… didn’t know what to say to that. Continually, Merlin’s children surprised him with their strength and character. Even the youngest had not been bereft of his father’s wisdom. 

    But the joy in Clo’s eyes then did not match the tear tracks drying on his face, nor the way he had flinched back when Arthur had first sought to comfort him.  

    He had to know. 

    “Do you still feel that way? That you are free?”

    The peaceful demeanor of the boy fell away, startled by the question. He spared Arthur a glance, shifting where he sat. The lack of an answer was answer enough. 

    “Cloooo!” 

    Anselm’s voice rang down the halls. Clearly, his time away from his mother had made him forget some of the more basic manners required of a prince, such as not shouting indoors. 

    “Guess what we got to- oh. Hi Dad.” 

    Arthur twisted around to nod at his son, giving a little wave that he hoped looked more jolly than he felt. Anselm didn’t seem convinced- nor did Ava, who came to stand beside him in the doorway. Taking in the way Clo hastily wiped a sleeve across his face, back still turned to them, she strode across the room. “What happened?” she asked, the slightest hint of accusation in her voice. 

    Arthur rose so that she could take his spot by the boy. By the time she had begun to rub comforting circles on her brother’s back, Merlin had arrived as well, quick to throw a questioning glance Arthur’s way. 

    “Clo was playing with some other children, and things got a little out of hand,” Arthur said slowly. “I was only there for part of it. He can tell you about it better than me.” 

    From the corner of his eye, Clo looked sharply at the king, a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty flashing across his features. 

    “Come, Anselm,” Arthur said, sensing that it was best to leave the family alone then. He gave Merlin a quick squeeze on the shoulder as he passed to steady the both of them. 

    King and prince departed to their chambers, the latter chattering as he changed out of his traveling clothes and into those more suitable for dinner. “We spotted a deer with a broken leg on the way to the mountain, and one of the knights was about to kill it, but Ava stopped him. She healed it, Dad! She didn’t even have to lay her hand on it or anything!” 

    As Anselm rattled on the details of his day, Arthur was lost in his own. He knew Clo had a right to accuse him of hypocrisy when it came to Thean. But to send a child directly into battle was not quite the same as sending one to spy on the enemy in the hopes of saving the lives of many others. And yet, he had trouble convincing himself of that, let alone a very angry and righteous young boy. 

    “And the knights kept calling for us to come down, but Merlin pretended not to hear them. He helped us up onto Aithusa’s back, and we flew! It was scary, I kept thinking we’d fall off, but Ava said Aithusa wouldn’t let that happen.”

    He’d made a promise to himself to protect Merlin and his family with all he had. He’d also been made since birth to continually promise that all he did would be in the best interests of the kingdom, not in the interests of his own peace of mind. Those who were close to him- his children, and Merlin, and Merlin’s children- would be subject to danger as long as they were associated. It didn’t help that Merlin’s children had grown familiar enough with threats to their health and safety that they did not shy from the dangerous, much like their father who-

    “Wait. He let you do what !?”

Chapter Text

Thean

    He could still see their footprints on the stone floor, memories that neither ash nor rain had managed to efface. Some of the prints held the neater outlines of boots and slippers. He wondered if they’d had time before escaping to put on the new footwear they’d been so proud to receive, or if they had simply sat down in the dust as the walls crumbled down beside them, cursing themselves for being so foolish as to hope for a better future. 

    A patrol had been sent to search the ruins of the Chapel in the citadel, though none of the Departed Lands children knew that to be its name. They simply referred to it as ‘the ruins,’ as if such a name set it apart from the rest of the city. Thean had been ordered to lead the patrol in one of his rare meetings with Inoth, left with the task of choosing those to accompany him. He’d hated the way the dining hall had quieted at his entrance, hated the way he’d had to randomly choose the majority of children based only on their status rather than their names. He’d chosen a handful of mage students, for he knew them best, but had made sure to select at least one follower from each section. 

    Presently, the sole brute and messenger he’d chosen stood at what had once been the entrance to the Chapel, kicking at pebbles in boredom. Thean preferred their attitudes to that of the other children, though. 

    “Eugh! Look!” cried a serving girl. She held a drab gray dress as far away from herself as possible. “Who would ever wear this?” 

    Thean knew the apparel well. Some of the slaves were scared to let go of the clothes they’d worn for so long, feeling strange in the more plush fabric of Camelot. Even as they tried to adjust to their new lives, it wasn’t unusual for them to hold on to what little possessions they’d accumulated during their captivity. 

    Across the room, Luther laughed. “Add it to the bonfire!” 

    Thean had chosen the serving boy to accompany them in the hopes of making amends for getting off on the wrong foot. His interest in such a possibility was rapidly waning. 

    “There’s not nearly enough to make a bonfire,” sighed Konneth. “The folk who lived here must have been the bottom of the bottom.” 

    Thean stopped in his pretend rummaging through the rubble. With his back turned to the other children, he took a deep breath and turned his eyes to the sky. Most of the roof had caved in during the attack, obscuring whatever small belongings that might have been left behind. 

    “This thing’s uglier than Sheila!” 

    Thean turned around begrudgingly to see a handler boy with a doll in his palm. Many of its like had been sold to children in the marketplace- Gwen had given a matching pair to Ava and Eloise shortly before the attack. This doll in particular had likely been at a discount; its hair stuck out at odd ends, and it was bereft of any of the accessories Thean had seen on his sister’s. Still, to a child that had been enslaved, it would have been a treasured possession. 

    “Let’s see if it’s faster than her. Over here!” 

    The doll was passed back and forth between the two boys several times, each throw being more careless than the last. Unable to watch it any longer, Thean began to step forward. “Hey, there’s no need to-” 

    He’d spoken too late. On the next toss, the doll slipped out of the boy’s hand, its body splitting in two on the stone floor. Having seen Thean stepping forward, both boys stood up a little straighter, awaiting what he had intended to say. 

    He willed his hands to not form into fists. He couldn’t let them see him angry over this- over a doll, of all things. That wasn’t who he was supposed to be to them. 

    “We’ve been here long enough,” he said, careful to keep his voice level. “Time to move out.” 

    “But we’ve hardly found anything!” exclaimed the girl who had criticized the dress. 

    “And we won’t. Konneth’s right,” Thean said, to which the boy he named popped his head from behind an archway in surprise. “Whoever lived here didn’t seem to have anything valuable. We’re wasting our time. Gather what you’ve found and wait outside; I’ll take one last look around.” 

    There were a few grumbles as the children filed out into the street, but overall, they complied- a fact which Thean found a bit unnerving. He’d hardly spoken throughout the search, but as soon as he had, they’d listened. Yet, he had a feeling it wasn’t really him they were listening to, but the one he spoke for. 

    Konneth slipped him a smile on his way out. His pockets were full, likely with odds and ends destined for the bonfire. Though Thean had grown to like Konneth, his penchant for watching things burn was rather concerning. 

    He had no intention of searching the ruins any more. To him, this was an unmarked grave, though there were no bodies to be seen. Any visible deaths had clearly been swept away by some of the invaders. His mind flitted briefly to the craters he’d passed by on his way to Camelot, where bits of pale skin had poked through the dirt. 

    He pushed the thought down; best not to have anyone hear him retching. 

    Thean wouldn’t have stayed behind at all if not for those two boys. They didn’t have to disturb this place so much; they could have just left it alone. But none of the invaders seemed to consider that a possibility, determined to erase any sign that those but themselves had dwelled here. 

    Sighing heavily, he picked up the doll’s halves, ensuring that his figure was hidden behind one of the remaining walls. “ Haelan ,” he whispered. His handiwork could have been better; a crack could still be seen where the split had occurred. But for now, it would have to do. 

    He covered the doll in a blanket of dust, then rose to join the others. 

    Luther was closest to the entrance, but he didn’t notice Thean’s approach. He held a scroll before him, frowning in deep concentration. Thean did not recognize the inscription, save for the title, written in Albion’s common language- A Walk by the Stream. 

    “What is it?” Thean asked, genuinely curious. 

    Luther looked up in surprise, the disappointment plain on his face when he realized who’d spoken. “It’s music. I didn’t realize… it’s written like ours.” 

    “Huh,” Thean said, feigning disinterest. Luther still didn’t know that it had been him and Gemma that had danced to his music, so he wasn’t aware Thean knew just how much he enjoyed his craft. Even if Thean hadn’t heard him play, the look of longing in his eyes as he scanned the sheet music would have been unmistakable. 

    “Here,” Luther sighed, handing the scroll over to Thean. 

    “What are you giving it to me for?” 

    “Well, I- it should go in the bonfire, shouldn’t it?” 

    Thean bit his lip, looking to the side at nothing in particular. “If it’s just music, then it’s not going to hurt anyone.” 

    When he handed the scroll back, Luther seized it quickly. With a nod, he strode away to join the other children- though not before looking at Thean over his shoulder with a small smile. 

    Thean picked up his pace until he was walking near the head of the group of children, though he took that position more out of formality than necessity. On the way to the Chapel, he’d been at the helm, having been given directions by Inoth to reach the ruins. He’d pretended to mess up reciting the turns to the Balancer just to solidify the impression that he didn’t know where he was going. The children had required his guide on the way there, but now that they were returning, the messenger student ran forward at a slow jog. Their teacher, Lilan, had them scouring the citadel and nearby woods every day to memorize the landscape. Messenger students were trained to have keen memorization skills, Inoth had told him. 

    Though it unnerved him to see another child navigating the citadel so easily, he was grateful to have some time to himself as they walked back. His thoughts were preoccupied with the night before, when he had visited Camelot’s true citizens who hid in the tunnels. The reunion might have been a happy one; Gwaine wrapped him in a big bear hug, Gwen in a gentler one. Elyan had joked about how he would soon be taller than all of them (though Thean knew that to be a lie- his growth would likely always remain stunted). But after giving the Queen news of the King and their children, as well as updating her on his rise in status amongst the invaders, he asked to speak with another- one who he’d been avoiding since his return to the captured city. 

    The hall Gwen led him to was clearly meant for the ill and dying; the sounds of coughs and groans of pain were never far from being emitted. The stench, too, was too great to be from lack of washing alone. “I’ll wait here for you,” Gwen had murmured, reluctantly letting go of the hold she’d had on his shoulder while guiding him there. “I’ll walk you back.” 

    Thean nodded. There was no real need for her to accompany him back; the hour was late, she needed rest, and a guard could do the job just as well. But he could tell she worried for him. He hadn’t needed light to know there’d been disappointment in her eyes as he told her of the slow progress in Nemeth, nor the fear in her eyes when she’d started to see through his vague details on his duties as the Balancer’s new apprentice. 

    For once, he didn’t mind being thought of as a child. He was growing tired of playing soldier. 

    Moving quietly so as not to disturb those who’d managed to fall asleep, Thean made his way to the bed at the very end of the hall. He did not see the shock of white hair until he was a few paces away, for it was shorter and thinner than he remembered. He let his footsteps become heavier. 

    Despite his ailment, Gaius’ senses were still on full alert, as he turned in his cot as quickly as an old man could manage. “Who’s there?” he asked, squinting in the darkness. After a pause, he whispered in disbelief, “ Merlin ?”

    Thean’s heart sank. “No, Gaius. It’s me, Thean.” 

    “Oh. Thean.” There was still happiness in his voice, though not as much as before. The cot shifted as Gaius moved to take Thean’s hand in both of his, patting it slowly. There was a tremor in the motion. “That’s alright then, Thean. That’s alright.” 

    They’d talked for a short while after that. Thean tried to tell him of the happier aspects he’d learned of his father’s time in Nemeth- of the dance he’d gone to with Clo and Ava, and of his visits to Aithusa in the Medora mountains. But Gaius soon grew confused, repeating the same questions within short spans of time. Eventually, he lapsed into telling Thean a disjointed recount of how Merlin had first come to retrieve Aithusa’s egg, one which Thean had heard many times, but listened to patiently, not bothering to correct the mistakes Gaius made along the way. 

    He hadn’t told his father when Gwen had first mentioned that Gaius was ailing. He had told himself that he wanted to confirm it with his own eyes, but truly, he didn’t know how to tell his father. He felt even more lost in the matter after meeting with the old physician. 

    “Oi, Raven.” 

    Konneth appeared a little breathless at his side, having quickened his pace to fall into step beside him. Thean raised an eyebrow in welcome. 

    “Dinner with the Balancer and princess again?” 

    “Yes,” Thean said slowly. 

    “Shame, that. You’re missing out on some truly subpar fish rolls.” A mischievous glint entered Konneth’s gaze, and he lowered his voice. “Come to my room when you’re done. It’ll be fun.” 

    An invitation? Thean had seen other children visiting each other’s rooms after dinner, but never for long, and they often closed their doors and fell silent when they saw him walking past. He assumed he wouldn’t grow closer to any of the children now that he was the Balancer’s apprentice. 

    Mistaking his confusion for worry, Konneth batted him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t look so scared! As I said, it’ll be fun.” 

    Somehow Thean didn’t find that reassuring, but he nodded. That seemed enough to satisfy Konneth, as he fell into a contented silence thereafter. 

    When they arrived at the courtyard, each of the patrol members deposited the small bits and pieces they’d gathered into a heap. The servants would go through it the next morning and determine what could be salvaged, and what should be left for a bonfire. The pile was small that night, barely up to Thean’s knees- a dismal sight for the pyromaniac Departed Lands children, but a wonderful one for him. Perhaps if Camelot’s citizens could return one day, some of their belongings might remain. 

    With their findings dropped and quickly forgotten, the children made their way to the dining hall. Thean watched as they entered, catching Gemma’s eye where she stood serving those who’d arrived sooner. He waved, and she nodded. Such was the main interaction they’d been able to manage since he’d been apprenticed. 

    He was the last to arrive in the more formal dining hall, putting him in an uncomfortable position. He became keenly aware of the dust on his boots as he bowed his head deeply to Inoth. He could see the questions beginning to brim behind the man’s eyes, but he knew they would not be asked yet- not while Robin was in the room. 

    Jay began one of his stories, as he always did. Thean listened long enough to hear the general plot, which concerned a particularly talented young sorceress named Tazriel. He lost interest soon after, until he felt himself nearly asleep with eyes open. 

    “What do you say, Raven?” 

    He looked up with the calm facade he’d maintained throughout the dinner. 

    “The ramparts,” Robin repeated. “It’s a full moon tonight, and we’ll be able to see all the stars. What do you say?”

    He knew he should say yes. It would be suicidal to say no. But Konneth’s mysterious invitation flitted through his mind- an invitation which, he had no doubt, involved something that may get his friend in trouble. 

    Luckily, Jay spoke before he could. “Ah, look at the boy, Robin,” he said, clicking his tongue in concern. “He’s falling asleep where he’s sat. Let him rest.” 

    “Hmm.” She looked to Thean, and the slightest knit appeared on her brow. “Sleep then, Raven. I’ll tell the moon to come back tomorrow.” 

    Inoth chuckled; it was a low, rumbling sound, the likes of which could only be heard when his daughter was near. “I’m sure the moon will heed your word. For now, though, I must speak with Raven before he rests.”  

    Robin leapt lightly from her seat, pausing to kiss her father on the cheek. “Good night, Papa.” 

    He murmured something too low to discern in her ear before she and Jay departed. The servants, too, left thereafter, sweeping up the plates and cutlery with dizzying speed. Inoth’s eyes rose to meet Thean’s when the sound of the door shutting filled the room. 

    “So, Raven,” he said, interlocking his fingers together. “I trust your search of the ruins was fruitful?”

    “Not very.” There was no point in lying; the lack of a bonfire was evidence enough. “The ruins must not have housed any wealthy citizens, or they left few belongings behind.” 

    “I suspect it was the former.”

    As if you don’t know. His fingers curled into the wood beneath his chair. 

    “I did not think you would find much,” Inoth continued, his tone taking on a ruminating nature. “The building did not look like it was a masterpiece before it fell. But looks can be deceiving, and we must be thorough. Did the other children listen to you?” 

    The question took Thean by surprise. “Yes,” he answered truthfully. “They did as I told them to.” 

    “Good,” Inoth murmured. “It’s easy to have them listen to you while you’re still in this castle, but out in the rest of the world, you’ll only have yourself.” 

    Thean chose not responding as his best option. 

    Inoth rose, standing to open the door but not stepping out of it. Merlin’s son stared for a moment, befuddled, before realizing the Balancer was waiting for him. He’d seen others hold doors for each other prior to the invasion, but he didn’t think the custom extended to the Departed Lands people. 

    Was Inoth showing him a sign of respect? Or acknowledging him as someone lesser, who still needed help? He couldn’t know. 

    When he stepped over the threshold, Inoth closed the door softly and turned to him once more, scanning him over. “Leave your boots outside your door, and a servant will clean them. And get some rest. I’ll see you on the ‘morrow.” 

    “Good night, Inoth.” The words slipped out against him. His cheeks turned scarlet. He’d not heard anyone refer to the Balancer by name except for Jay. 

    But Inoth, to his bewilderment, smiled at his mistake. “Good night, Raven,” he murmured, nodding his head and turning away.  

    Thean swayed a little where he stood, waiting for the blood within him to slow down. He always felt this way after his time with Camelot’s new occupying family, especially after his one-on-one meetings with Inoth. He thought his nervousness would die down with time, but whenever he started to feel comfortable, he slipped and said or did something that felt out of place, jolting him back to the reality of his very precarious position amongst them. 

    He paused by his bedroom door. Konneth’s room was several hallways away, up two flights of stairs. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to where the Departed Lands children slept in the castle; though they were segregated by studies in lessons and in dining, no restrictions applied in which chambers they occupied at night. Thean could imagine them eagerly running through the halls on their first night in Camelot, greedy to claim the largest chambers for themselves. 

    Recalling Inoth’s instructions, he left his dirtied boots by his door, collecting a neater black pair from his room. He ruffled up the blankets on his bed, too, to give the illusion that he slept there should someone poke their head in. He doubted any such thing would happen, though; the longer he lived as the Balancer’s apprentice, the less likely he was to be disturbed. 

    He heard laughter outside Konneth’s door before he knocked. A muffled question posed, and the sound of shuffling followed before Konneth opened the door with a wide grin on his face. 

    “Raven!” He clapped Thean on the shoulder, dragging him in in the process and closing the door quickly behind him. 

    Etho and Clara sat on the floor, leaning against the walls where they met to make a corner. “Is he really a good idea?” Etho asked, pointing a finger at Thean with a frown. 

    “‘Course he is,” Konneth said easily, sitting down before the other two children. Thean followed suit. “If not for Raven here, tonight’s festivities would not be possible.” 

    “Really?” Thean had no idea what the boy could mean. He searched back through the day to think of anything significant, but he’d hardly interacted with Konneth, save for the strange conversation that had led him here. But Konneth only nodded sagely. 

    Speaking through a yawn, Clara said, “And just what might these festivities be?” 

    Konneth didn’t reply immediately; instead, his eyes traveled over his gathered friends, as though basking in the moment before his big reveal. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a bottle with clear liquid. He held the object between his palms like one might hold a precious jewel. “This,” he said proudly, “dear friends, is the solution to our woes.” 

    “Let me see that.” Etho snatched the bottle from Konneth’s hand, untwisting the top and inhaling deeply; his breath was cut off shortly as he began to gag and cough. “It smells like poison!” 

    “Poison?” Konneth rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s what my mum calls it. But my da says it’s the nectar of the gods.” 

    Clara took the bottle next, though she was careful to not put her nose anywhere near it. “You brought this from your home?” 

    “Home? No! I found this on patrol at the ruins.” 

    Etho’s eyes flicked to Thean and back to Konneth. “And you didn’t report it?” he asked softly. 

    “Not much point in that,” Thean chimed in. “There’s no telling how old that is, or what it even is at all. Only useful part is the bottle.” 

    He didn’t want to give the impression that he’d report everything they did and said in front of him; if they thought that, they’d always be on the tips of their toes around them. He’d learn more about them and their people’s ways if they thought of him as a friend, however much his conscience ached at the illusion.

    “Pfft. My da said good liquor never gets old.” Taking the bottle back from Clara, Konneth took a large swig of it, ignoring the cries of protest from her and Etho. His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed as he swallowed with an audible gulp. “Though perhaps this isn’t good liquor.” 

    “That bad, huh?” Etho murmured. He seemed more curious given that Konneth hadn’t dropped dead immediately. 

    “Eh, just at the start. Go on, Etho, try it.” 

    Etho did just that, and the regret on his face was instantaneous. “You liar!” he cried at Konneth. “It’s bad, it’s really bad!” 

    Konneth couldn’t speak through his laughter, so Clara did. “Let me try.” 

    “Oh, Clara, maybe not-” 

    “You really shouldn’t-” 

    “Oh, bother off,” Clara said, swiping the bottle from Etho’s hand. “I’m sure I can handle anything you babies can.” She took a swig nearly as large as Konneth had, then sat back against the wall in thought. “It’s a little stronger than water.” 

    Etho and Konneth laughed, and Thean tried to join in with them, but he was nervous from what would come next. Sure enough, Clara passed him the bottle. He briefly considered refusing; he’d seen the way Gwaine’s tongue loosened after a few mugs of mead, and he couldn’t afford to let something slip. But he also couldn’t give these children more of a reason to distrust him, and provide yet another reason to add to the long list of how he differed from them. 

    He was about to raise the bottle to his lips when he caught the inscription on it. ‘Evernin.’ He’d heard Ava asking Helena about it one night when Thean had been helping them reorganize potions in the physician’s chambers, to which the healer had explained it was a strong liquor used to numb patients before particularly painful procedures. The bottle must have been kept at the Chapel for those liberated slaves who had an urgent need of care upon arriving in Camelot. 

    “Go on, Raven,” Konneth plied, the goofy grin still on his face. “Have your share.” 

    Stuffing down his instinct to chuck the bottle out the window, Thean took a swig. And proceeded to spit half of it out in shock. The burning sensation was far worse than he’d imagined, sparking as soon as a drop hit the back of his throat. With the cursed liquid dribbling down his chin, he looked up sheepishly at the other children, expecting to see them looking uncomfortable or pitiful for him. Instead, he found them trying to stifle their laughter. 

    When he laughed, they laughed too. 

    They passed the bottle around several more times until it was nearly empty. Each of them would make a face as the liquid burned its path down their throats, their groan of distaste drowned out by the laughter of the others. Thean was careful to take small sips, though even those he had trouble stomaching. He was beginning to feel lighter, and had to pace himself lest all his restraint be washed away. 

    Konneth, meanwhile, grew bolder with each turn. After another large swig, he studied the bottle in wonder. “It must be enchanted. It burns less each time.” 

    “I feel less of anything each time,” Etho said, his voice having taken on a strange sleep-like quality. He was sprawled out across the floor, looking more relaxed than Thean had ever seen him before. 

    “I think we just need to wait a bit,” Konneth murmured. “My da would always drink quite a bit before he got happy. Taz snuck some once, and he didn’t need nearly as much to feel it.”

    “He didn’t let you try?” Etho asked. 

    “I was six. Would you have let your little sisters try?”

     “If I thought it’d make them happy, yeah.” Konneth frowned at the implication, but Etho paid him no mind, his eyes turning instead towards Thean. “Have you got any siblings, Raven?”

    “Not this again,” Konneth groaned, running a hand down his face. Thean didn’t know what he meant, but he didn’t dwell on it. He had begun to wearily accept he could not understand all that the Departed Lands people said. 

    The image of Clo and Ava smiling at him came to mind, and he stuffed it down. “No. Just me.” 

    “It’s better that way. Less hay for the horses.”

    It was Clara who had spoken. She’d grown quieter and quieter with each sip from the bottle, and seemed to nearly have forgotten the other children in the room. She could not ignore them now, though; all their focus had turned to her at her last comment. Sighing, she traced nonsensical shapes in the floor with her finger. “My parents vowed to not have another child the moment they discovered my magic. Why go through the pain of losing another to the Balancer?” 

    “They couldn’t have known the next children would have magic,” Etho said, the disapproval clear in his voice. 

    “Your sisters did,” Clara pointed out. 

    Etho clumsily pushed himself to a sitting position, his palms nearly slipping on the floor in his indignation. “Yes, but- that doesn’t mean that they’ll- they might be excused! If I become a good mage, then maybe-” 

    “Maybe what?” Konneth said flatly. “Maybe nothing. You think the Balancer will make an exception for your sisters just because you dedicate your life to him? That’ll never be enough.” 

    Etho leapt to his feet with more grace than liquor should allow. “You don’t know that!” he cried, and Thean cringed inwardly; if they got much louder, they were sure to be discovered. 

    Konneth studied the shaking boy before him, then stood up reluctantly to look Etho in the eye. “Your sisters will be sent here same as the rest of us. And before you know it, you won’t even recognize them any more.” The cold look on his face faded into one more sincere. “Just forget about them, Etho. It’ll hurt less.”

    Etho’s face contorted in rage; his fists clenched, and Thean rose, knowing what was about to happen. He wasn’t fast enough, though- he hesitated, and Etho’s fist did not. One sank with a thud into Konneth’s stomach, enough to make the boy stumble back and fall to the ground. Konneth recovered quickly, opening his mouth to say something. 

    And then bent over, and promptly vomited. 

    Amidst Clara and Thean’s gasps, Etho looked at his hand in bewilderment. “I didn’t punch him that hard.” 

    Thean and Clara hurried over to Konneth, hauling him up by his arms. “It must be the liquor,” Thean said, careful to keep conjecture in his tone. “He must have drank too much of it.” 

    Konneth moaned from where he hung between them. “I had the same amount my da has.” 

    “Yes, but he’s a good deal bigger than you, isn’t he, Konneth? And I hope not half as daft.” Clara heaved Konneth up a little higher when he began to sink on her side. Konneth wretched, but nothing came out just then. 

    “We have to take him to Roo, he can help,” Thean said. 

    Etho paled. “What? No! If they find out we took this stuff they might…” 

    “They might give us lashes,” Clara murmured, finishing what the boy couldn’t. 

    Thean looked between the other children; one sick, and two scared. “I’ll go,” he said resolutely. “They’re less likely to suspect anything if just one of us goes, and I don’t have to say anything about the liquor. I could just say I found him like this.” 

    Clara looked like she wanted to say something, but held back. Etho looked down at his boots. 

    Taking their silence as acceptance, Thean adjusted Konneth’s arm around his shoulder until all his weight was leaning on him instead of Clara. They made an awkward mess of trekking to the door. “Drink some water. It helps,” he said as he stepped into the hallway. “That’s what my Pa used to say.” 

    Yet another lie; he’d never seen his father drink. Gwaine, on the other hand, he’d greeted in these very halls after the knight had clearly had ten too many drinks. On the mornings after, he’d carry a pitcher of water with him wherever he went. 

    The gods blessed them with mostly empty halls. Whenever he heard the din of voices, he’d turn in a different direction, hoping that Konneth was too out of it to notice his more than skillful navigation of the castle. 

    When they neared Roo’s working room, Konneth spoke for the first time. “I told ‘em,” he muttered, and Thean had to strain to hear him. 

    “What’s that?” 

    “Told ‘em you were alright. Told ‘em we could trust you.” 

     Thean’s heart warmed briefly before guilt took hold of him. If Konneth knew who he really was, he would not say such things. 

    Or would he?  From his time amongst them, he’d learned that it seemed to be fear which united the Departed Lands children. And fear, Thean knew, was a much weaker thing than loyalty. His father and Arthur had raced at each other’s sides for years, risking their own lives for the other’s countless times, even when- and especially when- every fiber of their being was screaming at them to turn back, to save themselves. 

    Would these invaders do the same for one another, for their leader, if not for their shared terror of retribution? He didn’t think so. 

At last they made their way to Roo’s chambers to find the door ajar, and the man himself washing his hands in a bucket of water. He turned at their footsteps. “Raven. Konneth,” he greeted them, and Thean felt a faint bit of surprise until he realized Roo must know the majority of the mage children. They were infamous for their tendency to be injured during lessons. 

    “Konneth here’s not feeling good,” Thean said, guiding the boy to sit down heavily on the nearest cot. 

    “I’ll be fine,” Konneth sighed, and Thean winced at the slur in his voice. “Just need to…” His hand reached for empty air, but Roo knew well the sight of a child about to vomit; he brought an empty bucket forward just as Konneth buckled over. 

    “Ack, poor boy,” the physician sighed. “I hope you didn’t catch what’s going around the brutes. Been tending to them all day.” 

    “All the more reason to stay away from them,” Konneth panted, to which Roo chuckled, rubbing the boy on his back. Thean noticed then how tired Roo looked, and a twinge of guilt buried in his chest that they had delayed his retiring for the night. 

    When Konneth’s nausea seemed to have passed, Roo set down to inspecting him more closely. Thean shifted on his feet nervously, sneaking glances at the physician and patient. His unease grew when Konneth was asked to stand and walk a few paces on his own. He nearly tripped after just the first step. 

    “I think I prefer the cot,” Konneth said sheepishly. 

    Roo laughed softly and helped the boy back to the bed. “I have just the thing to help, and then you should be good to go back to your own cot. Raven, would you help me over here?”

    Reluctantly, Thean followed Roo to the other end of the room where many bottles and herbs lay scattered about. Gaius and Helena had always been proud in their organization of remedies, but Thean supposed Roo could be forgiven for his lack of that, considering he had not dwelled in the citadel for very long. 

    The healer’s requests for aid were simple and seemingly unnecessary. A sprig of this here, a jar from the cabinet there. It was not long before the silence was broken and the true intentions of Roo’s requests became clear. 

    “I know what caused Konneth’s ailment,” he murmured. “How much did he have?” 

    Thean wanted to shrink within himself. “Too much.” 

    “And you? How do you feel?” 

    That was not the next question Thean had expected. In fact, he hadn’t expected to be questioned any further at all, but rather be shepherded to the Balancer to be dealt whatever punishment he deemed fit. 

    “I-I feel fine,” he stammered. “I didn’t have much.” 

    Stupid! You should have said you didn’t have any!

    “Good, good,” Roo murmured. He glanced at Thean, then frowned. “You don’t have to be afraid, Raven. I won’t tell anyone, but I can’t promise others will keep their mouths shut if they notice. Please be more careful.” 

    Thean nodded numbly. Again, he had found help amongst the invaders. He was beginning to grow uncomfortable at the number of them he found to be good people. 

    He thought that would be the end of the physician’s words, but Roo kept talking as he ground together another handful of herbs. “I have buried enough children throughout the years.” A distant look had entered his eyes. “Don’t make me bury any more.” 

    Roo hardly seemed to be speaking to him with that last sentence. Thean did not know much about the gods of the Departed Lands, but he could tell the healer was sending them a desperate prayer. 

    After the potion was prepared and tucked safely into Konneth’s pocket, Roo bid them farewell with the strict instructions to have Konneth lay on his side when he slept that night. Konneth seemed more than happy to follow any orders involving sleep; though the nausea had abated, tiredness took over. Thean had to support him once more throughout the halls, which were thankfully quiet. Few children seemed to be about, and the moon hung high in the sky. 

    He lingered long enough in the doorway of Konneth’s room to assure himself that he and Etho lay on their sides, then set off- not for his own room, but for the kitchen. The strange liquor he’d consumed still burned in the back of his throat, and he’d seen buckets of water in the kitchen from the few times he’d visited Gemma. He doubted anyone would notice if he took a few sips. 

    Coming down the curving steps closest to the kitchen, he began to hum to himself; a feeling of peace had settled onto him. He knew that might be in part due to the liquor, as it was a far cry from his normal state of mind, but he welcomed it all the same. 

    The soft sound of crying jarred him from continuing his tone-deaf humming. That sound alone was not too odd- he’d heard such noise behind closed doors when younger children thought no one else was nearby. But the source of the sound was odd, coming from beneath his feet instead of from any of the doors of the hallway.

    He treaded lightly down the remaining steps, peering into the darkness beneath. Two frightened eyes stared back at him. 

    “Gemma? ” 

    The girl was sitting with her back pressed as far against the wall as she could manage. Her hair was a mess; fresh and dried tear tracks traced down both cheeks. She had been there for some time. 

    “Raven!” she exclaimed, clearly trying to hide her embarrassment, and just as clearly failing. “I-I was going to clean these, but…” 

    He squinted to see what she was indicating, surprised to find a familiar sight at her side- the dusty boots he’d left outside his door to be cleaned by a servant. 

    “Are they really so dirty?” he murmured. Gemma only stared at him blankly, and he bit his lip in regret. Perhaps he really had had too much liquor; it was making him even more tactless than usual. “S-sorry,” he said earnestly, coming to sit beside her in the recess beneath the stairs. “What happened?” 

    “Nothing,” Gemma said, hugging her knees closer to her chest. She must have seen the doubtful look on Thean’s face, though, for she continued, “Well- something. But I’d rather not talk about it.” 

    “Okay,” Thean said slowly. “Would you want to talk about why you’re here, then?” 

    “Hiding.” 

    “Hiding?” Thean repeated in alarm. “From who?” 

    Gemma only shook her head. Merlin’s son suppressed a sigh. He was used to being the quiet one; he hadn’t realized how frustrating that could be from the other side of the conversation. 

    “Well, you’re not hiding very well,” he said. 

    Gemma still had enough spite to look offended. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have any better suggestions?” 

    The response he should have gone with was no, of course he didn’t. But instead, he said, “I just might.” 

    He stood as best he could in the cramped space, then offered his hand to her. She studied him doubtfully for a moment before taking it, her other hand grabbing onto his boots. They walked in silence throughout the halls, Thean once again being grateful for the quiet. With how empty they were, Gemma might have very well been fine staying where she was- but he couldn’t risk that when he knew there was a safer place for her to stay. 

    When their direction became clear to the serving girl, she stopped suddenly. “Raven,” she said sternly. “Much as I appreciate your help, I’m not about to spend a night in your room. You’ve no idea how much the servants gossip.” 

    Normally, Thean would have turned red and flustered at her comments, but he chuckled softly. “We’re not going in my room. We’re going through my room.” 

    That did not alleviate Gemma’s misgivings- if anything, she looked even more confused, but it was enough to get her over the threshold and into his room. She still held onto his boots. 

    “Leave them,” he said. “I can clean them myself.”

    After a long pause, Gemma put them on the ground, studying Thean more closely. “Are you okay? You seem a little… different.” 

    “Me? No, I’m- I’m similar.” 

    Gemma snorted with laughter, and his heart soared at the sound. A voice at the back of his mind told him that this was not smart, that he’d be revealing too much, but he bid that voice to shut up. This felt right. He was helping someone finally, not just deceiving them. 

    He beckoned her towards the servant’s door. He let her step in first, closing the door behind them. With his eyes adjusting, he could just barely make out her in front of him, but he could sense her fear welling up again. 

    “I’m not sure I could spend the night here either, Raven. It’s so dark,” she murmured, a hint of shame in her voice. 

    “This is not the place I meant.” He felt himself grin in anticipation. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Come on!” 

    They set out at a quick pace, Gemma’s steps keeping up with his. He kept close to her in case she stumbled, though he didn’t think she’d have reason to. During his visits to Gwen and the tunnel dwellers, he’d cleared out most of the larger rocks that fell during the invasion.

    “Gods, I’d heard there were servant hallways, but I didn’t think they were this long!” Gemma said from behind him. “Why’d you come here in the first place?”

    Thean was able to come up with an answer quickly. His lies grew more instinctive by the day. “My father used to say the most extraordinary of places can be found where you least expect them,” he said easily. “When I started to recover from the sickness I had, I wanted to explore- see if he was right. And after staring at the door for days, I was curious.” 

    “Curiosity’s a dangerous thing,” Gemma murmured. 

    “Sometimes,” Thean admitted. “But sometimes it’s a wonderful thing.” 

    Gemma didn’t respond to that. Thean couldn’t see it, but in the dark behind him, she smiled. 

     When they reached the entrance to the chapel, Thean did not need to tap on the stone as Anselm had to find the most hollow spot. He could navigate the servant hallways in his sleep- and many times in his dreams, he had done just that. He opened the latch confidently and heard Gemma gasp softly as light poured in; though dim, it stood in stark contrast to the darkness that had enveloped them just moments ago. 

     He scrambled up without grace, offering a hand to Gemma to help her up. “Watch your head,” he added as an afterthought, remembering his surprise to find himself beneath an altar the first time Anselm had led him here. 

    Once Gemma was fully up and out of the halls, he closed the latch. He had no fears that they’d been followed, but he preferred to maintain the separation between this hallowed place and the dark hallways. Such was what Anselm had always done, and such Thean would do until the prince returned. 

    By the time he had placed the small door back into the floor, Gemma had already risen from beneath the altar. She turned in slow circles, taking in the high ceilings, candelabras, and the benches facing the altar. “Is this a… church?” 

    “A chapel.”

    Gemma’s focus on her surroundings broke as she cast him an inquisitive look. “What’s the difference?” 

    Thean shrugged. “Dunno. It just feels like a chapel to me.” 

     “Hmm.” She took uncertain steps between the pews, one hand trailing along their dusty surfaces. She must have assumed the dust lay their from lack of use, but Thean knew there was another reason. He’d come to the castle’s inner chapel only once since arriving amongst the invaders. He had wanted, needed, to confirm that the sanctuary of his friends and siblings still stood. Aside from sparse chunks of ceiling having caved in, the chapel itself was largely unharmed. The yard attached to it, however… 

    “Ancestors of yours?” Gemma was pointing up to the ceiling. Pieces of the mural had chipped away, appearing like scars on the faces and hands of the mages depicted there, but the magic being shared between them was unmistakable. 

    “Maybe,” Thean murmured. He’d never thought about the mural like that, but there was reason to think some of his ancestors might be depicted there- if not on this mural in particular, then perhaps on others. Balinor had been a dragonlord, after all; his kind stretched back to the time before men set ink to paper. 

    “What’s this?” Gemma said to herself as she stepped towards the arch between the chapel and yard. 

    Thean reluctantly followed. He had hoped the sight would hurt less the second time around, yet his heart twinged all the same as he took in the dust littering the grass from the rocks that had been hurled against the castle. Though he’d managed to stop the first of the attack with a spell before helping Clo and the prince and princess get away, more rocks must have fallen after they’d left. One of those rocks had destroyed the raised stone bowl in which Thean had glimpsed his father’s face moments before the attack. 

    He turned away from its cracked ruins then, shame beginning to color his thoughts. When he’d come up with the idea to bring Gemma here, he had been thinking of the chapel as it had once been- a place of joy and magic. He still felt that pulse of life as he stepped on to the grass, but it was subdued. Wounded.

    “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but- I think it might have been beautiful once.” 

    “Once?” Gemma repeated, frowning. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s beautiful as it is.”

    He didn’t know how to respond, and Gemma didn’t wait for him to. Wordlessly, she took off her boots, taking several careful steps on the grass before she reached the center of the clearing. Shoving a few of the larger rocks to the side with one foot, she laid down, chin tilted to the sky. 

    The last time Thean had lain watching the stars, he’d been with Clo back in Nemeth just by the Athrangi tree. There were no trees here, and his little brother was far away, but the urge to turn his gaze skyward was still within him. He laid down so that his head was at an angle from Gemma’s. A few stones poked his back, but he scarcely noticed them. He had lived his whole life in the mines; one learned to let small discomforts fade from mind. 

    Gemma’s eyes searched the sky, and so he let his do the same. The moon was full just as Robin had said. A few wisps of clouds littered the center of his view, but he could still make out the constellations. He suppressed the urge to trace them with his finger; he did not know if the Departed Lands people had such things in their culture. If they didn’t, he felt sorry for them. 

    When he’d sought out each constellation twice over with his eyes alone, he let his gaze fall to the girl beside him. From where he lay, he could see half her face. Her blinks came slowly, taking in the sight above them with patience. Her hands lay palm open at her sides. Thean could see the calluses that he had felt each time he’d helped her up from the floor or into the chapel. He wondered what would happen if he just…

    “I shouldn’t have come here.” Gemma’s words came out as a whisper, a confession made in shame. 

    “You don’t like it?” Thean asked, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. 

    “No- no, that’s not it at all.” She shifted where she lay, turning her face so they were both looking at each other fully. “It’s lovely here, really, Raven. But I’m putting you at risk by being here. If the Balancer found out-” 

    “He won’t.” Thean couldn’t let her finish that sentence. Inoth seemed able to take what he wished, but he would not step foot into this place. 

    “How can you be so sure?” 

    “Can’t you feel it, Gemma?” He smiled, thinking of the first time he’d entered the chapel. “All the goodness. All the magic.”

    Gemma looked back to the sky in thought. “I’m not sure I feel any magic, but… when we first stepped out here, there was this breeze. It felt just like the kind that comes off the ocean.” 

    “You’ve been to the ocean?” 

    “I lived by the ocean.” 

    “What’s it like?” Thean asked eagerly. He’d read numerous books, including those with pictures, and heard the tale of when Arthur and his father had traveled close to it. Still, he found everyone who’d been to the ocean described it differently, and he found that more fascinating than any fact or image he could find on that vast body. 

    “It’s like the sky, but in reverse,” Gemma said, voice full of reverence. “Endless. Robin and I used to practice holding our breaths and diving as deep as we could to touch its floor, but past a certain point there was no bottom. My mum said it doesn’t follow the same rules as land. She said the gods made the ocean so big so that us humans would leave it for them, after we took everything else.” 

    “Everything else?” 

    “Well.” Gemma’s hands turned over, her fingers curling slightly into the dirt. “That was one version of her stories- the one version that agreed with what the Balancer taught us.” 

    “And the other versions?” Thean knew his questions lacked subtlety, but he no longer saw the point in it. He trusted Gemma, and he hoped she felt the same. 

    Her reluctance to speak again broke like a dam, words tumbling forth without any clear path to be stopped. “She told me that the Balancer lies. That the kingdoms lying beyond our lands are not full of crooked and evil people, but people just like us. Scared, uncertain, and struggling to put food on the table. And she said, too, that our ancestors didn’t damn us- that we had simply settled on infertile lands, and that  was what caused our poor crop years, not the sins of our great, great, great, great- well, you get the point.” 

    Thean truly didn’t get the point. Evil people? Ancestral damnation? 

    Clinging to the only thread of the conversation he wasn’t confused by, he asked, “If the ocean was so wonderful, why did you leave it?” 

    Gemma let out a huff. “I didn’t want to, but my mother did. She’d always talked of us leaving to find a better life, out and away from the Departed Lands, but she never created any solid plans until…” 

    Her voice trailed off. She looked at the stars still, but didn’t really see them any longer. 

    “When we were seven, Robin and I got into a fight. I don’t even remember what it was about- something stupid, probably- but it ended with Robin crying for hours. And I... got sick soon after. Really sick. I don’t remember much from those few days either, but I heard Robin crying outside my door one night, begging to see me. And the next morning, I felt completely well again.” 

     “You think someone poisoned you?” 

    “No, I think the gods cursed me for the sins of my grandfathers,” Gemma said blandly. “Yes, Raven, I think someone poisoned me, and I think we both know who that was. My mother was convinced of it too. At the end of that week, she told me to stay up that night, for we would escape once she had finished the last of her tasks. But she never came. I didn’t see her again.” 

    Thean closed his eyes briefly, trying to block out the last time he’d seen his mother. He feared she’d always be there, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. Though he panged with sympathy for Gemma, a small part of him envied her. At least the last time she’d seen her mother, she’d been alive and whole. 

    “A patrol was sent out the next day to search.” Gemma’s voice had taken on a flat tone Thean had never heard from her before. “They said they found blood on the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs. Said she must have been gathering near the edge and fallen. It wasn’t the first time that happened.” Her hands curled in the grass once more, this time taking on the shape of fully formed fists. “But I know  that isn’t true. My mother was terrified of those cliffs. There was one type of berry that Robin loved that we searched for near them, but whenever we got too close to the edge, she wouldn’t let me go any further. We’d return to the castle and tell Robin that there were none left, even though some of those bushes might have had hundreds.

    “When I went out to the cliffs to see for myself- to see if maybe someone else’s body washed up on the shore- there was no blood on the rocks. It was drizzling, so a small amount could have been washed away. But I like to think it was all a lie. That she escaped, and that one day she’ll come back for me and Robin. And we’ll go to those kingdoms with those people like us, and break bread with them and farm with them and struggle with them.” 

    He saw in Gemma’s eyes then what he’d seen before- disbelief in one’s own words. He’d seen that same look more and more frequently in the eyes of adults as he got older, the consolations they gave growing emptier with each year that passed. 

    “Robin was on the ramparts tonight.” 

    “What?” Thean shifted to look at her, surprised by the turn in conversation. 

    “She was walking along them. Not along the walkway, like the guards do. She was walking along the very edge.”

    “Isn’t she afraid of falling? Especially after…” 

    He didn’t wish to finish that thought, but Gemma had no qualms doing such. “After what happened to my mum?” She shrugged. “Robin and I were told she must have been alone when she fell, and Robin is never alone. There are always guards and mages nearby. She’s so sure they’ll be able to catch her if she loses her balance. But I couldn’t stand watching her, and we got into a bit of a fight. I may have said some things I shouldn’t have.” There wasn’t regret in Gemma’s voice; whatever she had said needed to be spoken. 

    “That’s why you were hiding,” Thean said softly, the realization coming to him then. 

    Gemma nodded, dirty blonde hair brushing against the grass. “We’ve had a few fights since we moved from the ocean, but every time I get afraid it’ll happen again. That her father will decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth, and be rid of me,” she whispered, hands bunching into the hem of her dress. 

    If Gemma’s life had first been threatened at seven years old, then she’d been living alone with fear for nearly half her life. He wanted to reach out to her, to tell her that she wasn’t alone in being so afraid. She wasn’t alone at all. 

    An idea came to him then. A crazy, stupid idea, but one he couldn’t resist. Gemma had spoken her truth; what kind of person would he be if he didn’t do the same? 

    “Gemma,” he said before he could lose his nerve. “Those stories your mom used to tell you. Do you still believe in them?”

    “The older I get, the less I do.” 

    Maybe it was the liquor still pumping in his veins, or the magic in the air that told him to be bold and send forth himself. Maybe years of hearing how his father lived in this very castle had pushed Thean to the point that he couldn’t bear the thought of another suffering a similar fate. 

    Or maybe, it was simply because the girl beside him needed hope, and though he couldn’t give her much, he could give her that. 

    “What if I told you the stories were true?”

Chapter Text

Ava

    Winter had always been the least favorite season amongst Merlin’s children. The cold brought with it an oppressive awareness of the tenuous grasp they had on life. Their food sources grew thinner and the handlers hoarded rations for themselves, but the workload of the slaves did not decrease to make up for the lack of sustenance.

    When Merlin’s family returned to the sleeping mines after a winter’s day of work, they were greeted with darkness outside equal to that inside. This was the worst aspect of winter in Ava’s young mind. She was not afraid of the dark; one could hardly fear something they’d lived alongside since birth. But no sunset meant no shadows, and no shadows meant her father could not so easily illustrate his stories for them with his hands when no drawing pebbles were sharp enough. The times when he used magic to enhance his shadow telling abilities were rare, but Ava and her brothers always watched the walls closely, waiting for that rabbit to jump up to the ceiling, or that dragon to form scales too intricate to be made by human hands. 

    Though it was spring in Nemeth, the sky seemed to argue otherwise. Three days of cloud and no sun had cast a dreary mood over Merlin and Arthur’s children. To perk them up, Merlin had gathered the four of them together while Arthur was in a meeting. They had watched with bewilderment as he strung their sheets to the windows, blocking out the pearly light peeking through the clouds. Only when Merlin began to light candles in a semi-circle before a barren wall did Ava and Clo catch on to what he was doing. 

    Anselm and Eloise had still been befuddled by the excitement, the latter of whom frowned when she first saw Merlin begin the hand motions. “I haven’t seen shadow stories since I was little,” said the eight year old princess. 

    “Really?” Merlin said. “Did you ever hear one about the fox and the fire fern?” 

    Though his two hands were preoccupied with making the approximate shape of a fern, a new shape sprung onto the wall- a fox, darting about and pausing as though on a hunt. Eloise let out a gasp, stretching a tentative hand over the part of the wall nearest the fox. The shadow danced away from her; Ava almost thought she could see its nose twitch as it sought out safety. 

    When the story of the fox and fern concluded, Eloise and Clo were very vocal about wishing to hear another. The next was a tale of a chef trying to please a dragon with his gourmet dish. The story was a silly one, and Ava could tell her father was making it up as he went along, but the two youngest of the children laughed loudly as the chef’s frustration mounted. 

    Anselm laughed, too- a little more softly than the others, but a smile was on his face throughout each of the stories. With her attention only half on the tale, Ava looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was laying on his stomach across the floor, chin in his hands, gaze never straying from the shadow wall. 

    He will be King one day. It was an unnerving thought. She had always known this, but the reality became stranger by the day. 

    Anselm, the King. 

   No. She much preferred to think of him like this; a boy unafraid and enraptured as he listened to a story with magic woven into its very essence, his sister and friends beside him without a dignitary in sight. Light in his eyes. 

    The story regained her attention as the conclusion neared. The chef in his frustration threw a raw chicken at the dragon, vowing to no longer try to please him. To the chef’s astonishment, the dragon then applauded him, promising to protect his livestock if only he continued to supply him with that delectable delight. 

    Whilst Ava idly wondered if they could sneak a chicken to Aithusa, a knock sounded at the door. A Nemethian knight regarded the room with confusion; sheets everywhere but the beds, and shadows that had no right being as detailed as they were. Merlin’s hands fell, his back straightening; the golden glimmer in his eyes disappeared. 

    “What is it?” he asked, no hint of the humor that his voice had been rich with just before. 

    “Queen Mithian requests your presence. Yours, and Lady Ava’s.” 

    It took Merlin’s daughter a moment to realize that she was the one being referred to. Back in Camelot, Thean’s reputation for not liking noble titles had kept he and his siblings from being called by anything but their first name. In Nemeth, however, Ava had not stopped the odd servant or messenger from addressing her as such. She liked the propriety of it all; after not even being called anything at all by those outside of her family, the addition of a title helped her see herself as a free person, an identity which she was still getting used to even though she’d been free for the better part of a year. 

    She wondered if her mother had ever been called a Lady. She didn't even know if the Departed Lands people had such a term. 

    Lady Lea. Yes, that had a nice ring to it. 

    Ava sat up and straightened her dress, trying to keep the nervousness from her movements. Ladies were supposed to have a sheen of calm in everything they did. 

    “King Arthur tasked me with looking after his children,” Merlin said, not having risen from where he sat on the floor. “Can Queen Mithian not come to us?” 

    Not for the first time, Ava was surprised by his father’s boldness. She knew he’d never been one frightened of challenging royal norms, but she’d thought that applied mainly to his and Arthur’s relationship. In Nemeth, that assumption of hers was often proven wrong. 

    The messenger appeared only slightly surprised by Merlin’s request. Her father had already built himself a reputation in this foreign court. “I cannot say the exact nature of her request, but it is urgent. It would be best if we don’t delay.” 

    Merlin surveyed the other children, not supplying an immediate answer. His gaze met Anselm, and the prince gave the subtlest of nods. Merlin and Anselm had been sharing those silent moments of understanding more often since the prince had accompanied their last visit to Aithusa. A bond had formed, a deeper level of respect that went beyond their mutual ties to the King. 

    “Very well,” Merlin sighed. “I’ll alert our guards.” To the children, he added with a smile, “Keep the sheets up. I’ve still got one more story to tell.”

    They left with the sounds of cheering at their backs. As the door closed, Ava caught Anselm looking after them, worry drawn across his brow. 

    With her father having called to the guards down the hall to station themselves at the door, they set off behind the messenger. He kept them at a quick pace to make up for their hesitation when he first arrived. 

    “What do you think this is for?” Ava whispered to her father. 

    “I’ve no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “These nobles, they’ll always ask for your time. As if they are the only busy people in the castle.” 

    “But Pa, we weren’t busy.” 

    “Of course we were!” Merlin said, looking aghast at his daughter. “I didn’t get to tell you about the cloud shifter yet! That tale holds vital information.”

    “More vital than the Queen’s summons?” 

    “Undoubtedly so.” 

    Ava chuckled, blushing as the messenger glanced at them over his shoulder. Nervousness overcame her once again, though her father’s sure strides at her side kept her thoughts from growing too frazzled. To calm herself further, she tried to admire the vases lining the halls. She could easily pick out Halberg’s handiwork; his art stood out as smoother than all the rest, his decorations rife with flowers and animals. 

    Though she loved being with her family once again, she couldn’t help but miss Halberg and the other girls he’d saved from slavery. They had provided her first home outside of the mines, her first season ever spent being clothed and fed like a real person should be. The constant worry she’d had for Thean and her parents would dim when she heard the youngest girl laughing, when she watched as Clo ran through the streets without fear, and when Halberg knelt down beside her to show her just the right way to make the pottery smooth. 

    But sometimes, when she sat at Halberg’s house for a meal, she’d be overcome with a sharp sense of wrongness. Where is Thean? Where’s Ma and Pa? 

    Or, what if something happened to Clo? What if he got lost delivering Halberg’s pottery one day, and never returned? He was her responsibility. If she lost him, she’d have no family left. She’d be alone. 

    I’m not alone. She focused on the sound of her father’s steps, quick and sure. She listened until her own steps fell into perfect rhythm with his. 

    Not alone. 

    They began to hear the commotion just as they entered the hallway leading up to where Queen Mithian received the commoners. Rinette’s soothing tones provided a backdrop as an unknown man’s voice rose.

    “...don’t need another physician, he’s seen every physician in the kingdom!” 

    Ava tensed up as the messenger opened the double doors, not feeling ready for whatever was behind them. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her father’s mouth forming a thin line; he did not like being summoned without rhyme or reason made known. 

    For all the noise they’d heard when nearing the royal hall, surprisingly few people were within the great room. Queen Mithian sat on her throne lined by only two guards, her usual entourage of advisors nowhere to be seen. Still at the meeting, Ava surmised, though that in itself was odd. Of the few meetings she’d attended, rarely was much discussed when the Queen was not present. 

    The cause of the commotion became abundantly clear as a frantic looking man turned at their arrival. In his arms he held a young boy whose eyes were closed. The boy’s face was gray, and he was thinner than any child had a right to be. For a brief moment Ava wondered if he had been a former slave, but the man presumed to be his father looked well-fed despite the desperation in the air around him. Rinette stood to his side, casting Ava a regretful glance.

    “Thank you for joining us,” Queen Mithian said, dipping her head in respect to Merlin and Ava. 

    Ava curtsied in acknowledgement, but Merlin only stared at the ailing child. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, taking a tentative step closer. 

    The father put a protective hand around his son’s head, stepping away from Merlin. “He’s ill. Everyone says it’s incurable, but I’ve heard the stories- they said the same of Princess Nietta’s illness.” A bit of hope entered his eyes as he studied Merlin. “Was it you, then? Did you cure her?” 

    “I- no. No, that wasn’t me.” 

    Merlin’s eyes flashed for the briefest moments in Ava’s direction, but it was enough to catch the man’s attention. “Her? ” he said in disbelief. 

    Ava wished the ground would swallow her up then- not forever, just until the father and the boy she could not help left the castle. Ever since news of Nietta’s miraculous recovery reached the citadel, there had been an influx of previously hopeless citizens arriving in Rinette’s chambers begging to be healed. Ava had been assisting Rinette in seeing to them. Their suspicions surrounding magic had been alleviated enough to let Rinette use magic to seal their wounds and cure their coughs. On the rare occasion that Rinnete had to turn a patient away on account of their illness being beyond her knowledge, they would ask about the fruit that had supposedly healed Nietta. Always Rinette would gently tell them they had not yet managed to secure more of the healing fruits. Ava would watch the hope crumble from the faces of the patients, who had no idea that the assisting girl before them was responsible for saving the princess- and therefore, responsible for not saving them. 

    They’d managed to keep Ava’s identity mostly secret. Rinette told her that some rumors circulated the citadel that it was a young girl who had saved the princess, but most brushed those aside, having no reason to believe that as the truth. Until now. 

    “Her name,” Merlin said pointedly, “is Ava.” He came to stand beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. 

    The father seemed to get over his surprise quickly enough. To both Merlin and Ava’s astonishment, he knelt down before them. “Can you do it, then?” he asked, carefully cradling his son as he moved down. “Can you heal my boy?” 

    This was precisely why they’d tried so carefully to avoid knowledge of Ava’s ability from reaching the public. Because she couldn’t bear to give a suffering person hope, only to snatch that away with her own ineptitude. 

    “I’m sorry,” Ava whispered, staring at the floor. “I don’t think I can. I’ve tried to create more of the fruit, but I’m afraid it just might have been a… a fluke.” 

    There was a silence for a moment at her admission. The father got suddenly to his feet, and though she did not look at him, she could sense the anger thrumming from him. 

    “A fluke?” he repeated incredulously. “Well then- make more flukes! Make as many as you can! The princess isn’t the only one who needs healing!” 

    Merlin’s hand tightened around her shoulder, and he drew a breath in to say something. Mithian beat him to it. 

    “That’s enough, now,” Mithian said, though not ungently. “I understand your pain. Believe me, I do. If we could help more, we would.” 

    “If you would like, I can still take a look at him. See what I can do.” That was Rinette. 

    “No. No.” The anger had gone somewhat from the man’s voice, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. “I won’t submit him to poking and prodding anymore. I’ll take him home. He deserves to go in a place he loves.” 

    With Rinette’s soft steps sounding to guide the father and son, Ava dared to look up. She caught the man giving her one last glance over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said again. 

    The man’s face twisted in pain. “Me too.” 

*****

    The moment they stepped out of the double doors, Ava ran. Her father called out for her; he wanted to comfort her, she knew, but she felt beyond comfort. 

    More than anything else, she felt angry. Angry at Mithian for letting her see that grieving father. Angry at Thean, for being braver than he had any right to be. 

    Angry at her mother for leaving her behind. 

    Her feet carried her ever forward, with the boots digging at her heels being the only sensation she was aware of. She was growing, and would grow taller than that boy ever could, grow to heights most of the children in the mines had never gotten the chance to reach. 

    The confused servants dotting the halls were blurs at the edges of her vision. Ava went out into the light and down the path, scarcely surprised to find that the gods had answered one prayer of hers. The grounds near the Athrangi tree were blissfully empty. Clo had eased up on training other magic possessing children, only doing so under Merlin’s supervision. Her little brother had not wanted to give up his last vestige of control entirely, and Merlin hadn’t had the heart to snatch it away from him completely. So the practices had gone on, albeit more gently. 

    Children, playing at war. How silly. Whether at war or from disease, it didn’t seem to matter much to Ava. The end result was the same, and there seemed nothing she could do to change that. 

    In a flurry of motion, she ran at the tree, and when she reached its roots, she began to pound her fists on the bark. And screamed. A long and unintelligible noise shook her and said more than any words could. 

    When her breath was gone and her knuckles skinned, she fell roughly to her knees. Her dress would get dirty. She should care about that, yet all she had the energy to care about were the events and the people that had led her to this place and time. Not Queen Mithian, nor the grieving father, but far, far back to the handlers in the mines. Farther back even to those she had not met, to the man who Thean claimed was behind it all. 

    The Balancer. He who lay in luxury with his spoiled daughter, uncaring of the wells of suffering they brought into the world. 

    For the first time, Ava felt a strange emotion. She could not name it immediately, for she had not believed herself capable of it before then. 

    Though she had not met the Balancer, nor his daughter, she came to know this beneath the Athrangi tree: she hated  them. It did not matter to her whether they knew the full extent of the destruction caused by the ways of the Departed Lands. Knowingly or unknowingly, they had broken apart countless families so that their own could thrive. They lounged atop the suffering of those who were forced to provide for them. 

    That thought summoned one last piercing bit of energy from her reserves. She punched the Athrangi tree squarely in its center- and immediately felt as though she’d been punched atop the head. 

    Falling back in surprise, her hands scrambled on the ground for purchase. As one hand found a patch of grass, the other came upon a much less familiar texture. Raising the object to her eyesight revealed something she’d not been expecting at all. 

    A piece of fruit, shining deep green beneath the clouds. 

*****

    If anyone had called for a painting then, the sight the artist captured would have bewildered castle goers for centuries. A young girl, a King and Queen of two different lands, and several other onlookers all stared intensely at a single piece of fruit. 

    Ava’s father had come to the Athrangi tree soon after her discovery. Though surprised to see what she held in her hands, Merlin did not seem joyous. Ava couldn’t bring herself to be either. Punching a tree and receiving a gift in return didn’t sit right with her. Her family had learned to be wary of sudden windfalls of good fortune. 

    “Fascinating,” Rinette murmured, tapping her chin. “I had no idea the Athrangi tree could produce fruit, let alone two different kinds.” 

    They’d come to the physician’s chambers for analysis, with King Arthur and Queen Mithian being sent for soon after, knights for each behind them. Ava shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the attention they all had on whatever it was she’d inadvertently created. 

    “Can it heal that boy?” Mithian asked. When she’d first walked in, her lips had almost parted in apology upon seeing Ava, but the girl had remained resolutely facing away from her. 

    “There’s no way to know for certain,” Rinette said, picking up the fruit for the tenth time and turning it around, as if an answer lay within her reflection on its skin. “That is, until someone tries it.” 

    “My children are out of question. They’ve tried enough magical fruits,” Arthur said drily. Ava cast him a nervous smile, and he smiled back to show he meant no harm by that. 

    “Oh, certainly not,” Rinette said, waving her hand. “There will be no sampling by any of us. Sir Whiskers, however…” 

    “Sir Whiskers?” Arthur repeated, glancing at Mithian. “One of your knights?”

    Rinette laughed and shook her head, disappearing behind a drawer and returning with something cupped in her hands. “This is Sir Whiskers,” she said proudly, revealing a small brown mouse running circles in her hand. “He has sampled many mysterious potions and herbs in the pursuit of scholarship.” 

    Ava stared at the mouse, jaw dropping slightly. She hadn’t known of Sir Whiskers, but the day when she produced her fruit would have been much less confusing had she come up with a similar plan. “Why… why didn’t I think of that?” 

    Stroking the mouse with one finger, Rinette turned up her nose at the girl. “Perhaps if you’d come to me instead of Prince Anselm, you might have remembered to use your head.” 

    Ava turned scarlet, staring down at the hands in her lap. She did not know how much Arthur and father had noticed her and Anselm’s budding friendship- or rather, their budding… something. 

    “Get on with it, then. The Queen doesn’t have all day,” came a gruff voice, spurring Ava to study the Nemethian knight more closely. To her displeasure, she recognized him as Sir Enthus- the same man who had so staunchly supported Thean’s mission with the Departed Lands. 

    “No, though I do have a few minutes,” Queen Mithian said easily. She gestured to Rinette to continue. 

    “Ava, cut off a little piece. Small as a fingertip,” Rinette ordered, setting Sir Whiskers down by the hearth. This part of the castle was often chilly, and so a few logs had been lit earlier that day. 

    Grabbing a nearby knife, Ava cut a sliver from the fruit. The inside was not what she had expected, the mushy brown a stark contrast to the smooth green of the outside. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she handed the piece to Rinette, who in turn placed it on the floor in front of Sir Whiskers.  

    The mouse was clearly acquainted with this process. Without hesitation, he scampered up to the piece and, after a timid sniff, ate the majority of it. 

    Nothing happened. 

    “Well,” Arthur sighed. “That was-”

    A squeal interrupted him. Sir Whiskers twitched and let out several other similarly high-pitched sounds, and though Ava wasn’t well-versed in mouse language, she could hear the pain in his cries. After a moment of muted thrashing, the mouse fell stiffly to his side, not moving again. 

    “Oh no,” Rinette murmured, kneeling beside the mouse. “Oh dear. Sir Whiskers?” She used a single finger to try and rub some life back into him. 

    “So it’s not medicine,” Arthur said. “It’s the opposite.” 

    “Poison,” Sir Enthus breathed. “Brilliant.” 

    “Brilliant?” Merlin repeated incredulously. He had moved closer to Ava, but her mind had hardly taken note of his presence, eyes trained solely on the still mouse. 

    “Yes, brilliant. Most well-known poisons have antidotes now, right, Rinette?” 

    Rinette looked up from her task of trying to revive the mouse only briefly, distress in her eyes. “That’s… that’s correct.” 

    Sir Enthus seemed quite pleased by the confirmation. To Merlin, he said, “If your boy has grown close enough to dine with the ruler of the invaders, and we can get this fruit to him, we can kill their leader before we even regain the castle. With that chaos in place, it’ll be easier to overthrow their presence there entirely thereafter.”  

    “It would have to be done carefully,” Arthur said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “As soon as they realize the Balancer has been poisoned, Thean will be under suspicion.” 

    “Hang on a minute,” Merlin said. “Are we so sure-” 

    “We don’t have enough information on this thing,” Mithian murmured, half to herself. “We’d have to do more… experiments.” 

    “Wait!” Merlin shouted, exasperated. “We haven’t even asked if-” 

    He broke off as Ava suddenly left his side. Grabbing the fruit from the table, she skidded over to the fire and threw it in. Green flames sputtered up for a moment before dying down, the fruit in their clutches already starting to melt under the heat. 

    “Ava!” Rinette gasped, momentarily forgetting her task to heal the mouse. 

    Fists curled at her sides, Ava turned to face the others- some shocked, some angry. All looking at her. 

    “My magic is my own,” she said to them, and her words came out strong. “It is not for poisoning, or harming, or killing. Do what you wish with the Balancer, but his death will not be by my hands.” 

    The constant fear that had beat a steady rhythm throughout her life was absent. In its place, a hardened resolve was starting to take shape. 

    She’d lost her mother, and she may yet lose her brother. But she would not lose herself. 

    The adults surrounding her were silent for a moment. Sir Enthus looked like he was fit to burst from the redness in his face. Rinette and Mithian appeared merely surprised by Ava’s outburst, though not displeased. And Ava’s father, he looked…

    Proud. 

    Arthur looked at those gathered from side to side, appraising their reactions with amusement. Settling on a decision, he turned back to the girl and nodded with a smile. “Lady Ava has spoken.”

*****

    When the dust had settled, Ava found herself once more before the Athrangi tree. She came to the clearing at a slower pace than before, anger replaced by resolve replaced by a weary calm. 

    She was alone, but not for long. 

    “Thought I’d find you here, little dove.” 

    She smiled at the sound of her old nickname; her father hadn’t called her that in years. She scooted over on the bench to give him more room. “Just trying to sort through everything,” she said, leaning forward with elbows on knees, staring absentmindedly up at the tree. She half expected it to reply to her. 

    “Hmm. You would have a lot to sort through, after today.” Merlin looked down at the ground, brows drawing in closer together. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner, back in Rinette’s rooms. I wouldn’t have let them do anything you weren’t alright with.” 

    Ava shook her head before his needless apology had even ended. “I was the one who should have stopped them, but when I saw Sir Whiskers… I just didn’t realize I could create something like that.” 

    “Something like…?” 

    “Something evil,” Ava said darkly. 

    “Ah. Do you think I’m evil, Ava?” 

    “What? No!” She looked up at him, startled. “Of course not.” 

    “And yet, I’ve hurt people with magic.” His eyes dimmed, and his voice dropped. “I’ve killed people, too.”

    It was an uncomfortable realization Merlin’s children had come to accept. At their youngest, he’d brushed over what happened to the enemies plaguing he and Arthur throughout the years. But as they’d gotten older, Ava and her brothers had begun to realize why all those bandits never seemed to get up and attack them again. 

    “That was different,” Ava insisted. “You were protecting yourself, and Arthur. You were protecting Camelot.” 

    “I was trying to,” Merlin conceded. “Though many were hurt along the way, and I’m still not sure all of them deserved it.” 

    She knew there was one person in particular her father was thinking of. “Morgana,” Ava breathed. Those were the stories Merlin had told them least. Always he’d rushed through to the end, quickly moving on to a happier tale. 

    Her father nodded, eyes lots in memory. “In protecting one friend, I lost another. Perhaps I could have saved them both.” He shuddered. “Or lost them both.” 

    Ava was silent for a moment, weighing the words brimming at her lips. “Earlier today,” she began hesitantly. “After we saw the boy and his father, I was just so- so very angry. At everything, and everyone.” She looked to Merlin again, seeing the confusion and worry plain on his face. “How do I get rid of it, Pa? I don’t want to hurt anyone with my magic. What if I just snap, and lose control?” 

    “Getting rid of your anger,” Merlin repeated thoughtfully. “That’s like getting rid of joy, or grief. It comes and goes. You just… learn to live with it, over time. Learn to use it, even.” 

    “Use it?” Ava repeated. “Why would I want to use my anger? Just today, it created poison.” 

    Merlin was silent for a time, looking out at the Athrangi tree without really seeing it. “When Arthur first started to see magic as a non-threat, he began to look into his father’s past more. And I’d never seen him so angry, Ava. But it was a different kind of anger, a new one for him. It pushed him to change things for the better, to write speech after speech explaining the wrongdoings of Camelot over the past few decades, and how he intended to rectify that.”

    Ava swung her feet back and forth despondently. “I’m not sure I can do anything that grand. I punched the tree when I was angry.” 

    “Well, I’m not saying Arthur never did that, either,” Merlin snorted, the edge of his lip quirking into a smile. “It takes time. And in the meantime, Rinette can help teach you all the good that can be done with magic.” He reached into one of his pockets, pulling something out in a cupped hand. “Like saving little mice.”

    “Sir Whiskers!” Ava gasped with pleasure. Her father’s fingers opened to show the gray mouse squeaking merrily, looking as healthy as he’d been before consuming the fruit. 

    Merlin let her take the mouse into her own palms, smiling as Sir Whiskers ran in circles between her hands. “Rinette was able to revive him shortly after you left. Just took a few powerful smelling salts.” He paused, waiting until he had regained her full attention. Solemnly, he said, “Our magic can do terrible things, Ava. But it can do just as much good.” 

    Ava nodded to herself, taking in his words. In the mountains, she had wished so desperately to be able to practice magic; she had never thought of the challenges that would bring. Reality was far more complex than daydreams. She’d have to learn when to trust herself, and when to hold back. She was no longer a slave, after all; her decisions would be her own, and so she’d have to make them count. 

    Her father left for the dining hall with a promise from Ava that she’d join him soon. As she sat before the Athrangi tree, alone once more, a stillness came over her. She thought back to the first time she’d assisted Helena in healing someone. It had been a simple wound, a young girl who had scraped her knee after playing too roughly with her older siblings. When Ava had murmured a healing spell under her breath, the girl’s crying had stopped abruptly, and a smile had alighted on her face. 

    Ava focused on the warmth that had spread through her chest in that moment, the joy of having taken away another’s pain. After setting Sir Whiskers down on the bench, her legs moved of their own accord, bringing her to kneel before the tree. She clasped her hands together in supplication. 

    “Please,” she whispered, shutting her eyes tight. “Help me help them.” 

    When she opened her eyes and looked up, a shining purple fruit winked back at her in the sunlight.

Chapter Text

Thean 

    He turned towards the shadows, angling his face as far away from the sun as possible. Each time the light touched the corner of his vision, the ache in the side of his head would double its miserable efforts. 

    For the past three mornings, Thean had woken up with a searing pain in his right eye, as if his bedroom window had burst and the shards of glass had all taken up residence on one side of his face. Usually the pain subsided shortly after waking, but his luck with that pattern seemed to have run out. His eye did not feel quite as poorly as it had when he’d first woken up, but the dull ache was persistent. 

    “You look awful.” Konneth had come back to stand beside him, fingernails covered in dirt from their present lesson. “Did you find another bottle?” 

    “Balance, no. Never again.” Thean shuddered at the memory of that liquid. Though he had felt a certain lightness from it, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps that night would have never happened if- 

    Don’t think about that. There was nothing he could do to rectify that situation just then. 

    “Next!” Zezumo called. When he saw that it was Thean, his face twisted into an ugly smile. “Or is this beneath you, Master Raven?” 

    None of the children laughed. Only Zezumo had the gall to say such things to the Balancer’s apprentice. 

    “Not at all,” Thean said easily, scooping up a handful of dirt from the nearby sack. With his other hand, he took a single seed from a bucket held out by a serving girl. Before him lay a trough sectioned into separate compartments by wooden dividers. Each section had a name written on it in those unique, looping symbols that the Departed Lands used. Thean had spent a painful amount of time just writing his name there, scratching at the corners of his mind for the little he’d learned from Jay. 

    Their first mage lesson that day had come as a pleasant surprise to Thean- for once, they did not break into battle stances as soon as they reached the courtyard. Instead, Zezumo taught them a spell which Merlin’s son had never heard of before. 

    “Ensethwe,” Thean whispered to the dirt and seed in his palm. Bring life. He expected a pulse of energy to spread through his fingertips, but he felt only the faintest sensation, so small he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. 

    Feeling a little disheartened, he placed the dirt and seed into his named compartment and returned to stand beside Konneth. More children still had to carry out the spell themselves, and so he had a moment to observe. Though Zezumo looked extraordinarily bored, several of the boys and girls approached the task with reverence, cradling the dirt as though a precious jewel lay buried within. They murmured that strange spell instead of shouting it as they would during battle practice. 

    We could learn from these people. It was a realization that both fascinated and uneased Thean. Until he’d come to live among them, he thought the invaders only used magic and runes for oppression and harm. And though a good deal of their sorcery were indeed for those two things, he was beginning to see how a wealth of knowledge on healing and nature focused magic may have accumulated amongst them. The Departed Lands were infamous for having little formal interaction with other kingdoms due to both their geographic location and their poverty. As such, the Purge of magic had never reached them. They had not suffered the same desolation as sorcery within Camelot had. 

    The older children were ordered to break into sparring pairs, while Thean and the younger mage students took to the courtyard steps to practice rune drawing. Tazuth accompanied them, as he had for many of the lessons since Zezumo had first threatened to put runes on him. Inoth had kept to his word; Konneth and his older brother had not been punished in the traditional sense. However, Zezumo’s bitterness clearly remained; in between commenting on the younger children’s writings, Tazuth would look longingly towards the practice matches. Strange, to think that he missed what might have caused him to suffer runes upon his skin. 

    Though, perhaps it wasn’t very strange at all. The magic is a part of him, Thean thought to himself. Just as it is a part of me. The mage children were discouraged from using their magic outside of lessons (“It is a tool, not a toy,” they’d been told), and so Tazuth may have not used his magic at all since that confrontation with Zezumo weeks ago. Those weeks could feel like years. 

    As the older boy began to walk down the line, Thean tried to focus on his runes. These were not the torturing type, thankfully; they had learned those last week. Instead, these were of a more innocent nature, to be carved into the grounds of crop fields to bring about more prosperous harvests. Once again, Thean felt himself surprised by the ingenuity of the Departed Lands people with runes.

    Our ancestors didn’t damn us. We had simply settled on infertile lands. 

    Those were one of the many things Gemma had said that baffled Thean. Though it was not what she said that truly bothered him, but what he had spoken in return. 

     In an attempt to distract himself, he let his eyes wander. Konneth sat beside him, hyperfocused on his parchment. But the boy’s hands moved far too fast than the intricate lines of the runes demanded, and so Thean shifted to get a closer look. There at the top corner of his sheet, Konneth had drawn a crude representation of a man with wild hair. The brow was angled with anger, making the figure appear quite similar to-

    Thean glanced across the courtyard. The older mage students were focusing on moving the wind between each other today. As Zezumo tried to observe them, he kept getting caught between the gusts of air, causing his air to be pushed back from his forehead in many directions. The likeness he had to the stick figure was unmistakable. As Thean’s eyes drifted back to the drawing, Konneth caught his gaze. After a pause, they both broke out into giggles. 

    Etho and Clara, who bordered the two of them, stared in confusion. Tazuth was not far behind. “What’s this?” he murmured, plucking the parchment from where it had fallen out of Konneth’s lap amidst the laughter. When Tazuth’s eyes alighted on the drawing, his mouth set into a thin line, just barely curling up at the edge. Clearing his throat, he handed the parchment back to his brother and said, “Excellent work. Carry on.” 

    It took several minutes thereafter for their laughter to subside. Whilst settling back into his task, Thean noted happily that the throb in his head had lessened. It still stubbornly made its presence known, but he no longer winced with pain when the sun peaked out from behind a cloud. 

    When noon approached, so did a messenger child. That gave the children sparring a pause; interaction rarely occurred between the different groups of students, save for during patrols and bonfires. Zezumo did not take the time to yell at his students for their distraction, instead waving the messenger forward. After the girl murmured something to him, he turned his gaze to the courtyard steps. 

    “Raven!” he called, loud enough for all to hear. “For whatever reason, you’re wanted. Follow this girl- and don’t feel the need to grace us with your presence again.” 

    Thean set aside his parchment and rose swifty, as though he’d been expecting the interruption. In truth, it wasn’t too surprising; this had happened at numerous lessons before. 

    “Have fun,” Konneth said cheekily as Thean moved away. Etho and Clara did not meet his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder; these summonings always reminded them of how he differed from them. 

    Thean followed the girl out of the courtyard and into the castle. He slowed when they passed the opening to the training grounds, but the girl kept walking. Their path took them not to the royal chambers, his second guess, but rather up several staircases. 

    He realized their destination with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Two guards stood at either end of the stretch of ramparts Robin occupied. She stood midway between them, leaning forward with her arms for support on the walls. Thankfully, she gave no indication of wishing to walk on the edge then as Gemma had said she was wont to do. 

    The messenger girl disappeared from behind him without a word. With no excuse to hang back anymore, Thean slowly walked to where the Balancer’s daughter stood. As he got closer, he saw with a start what she was inspecting- the area of the courtyard which Thean had just been in. Down there, mage students continued to spar and practice rune drawing. 

    Without turning to him, Robin spoke. “Tell me about them.” Her voice was quiet, the look in her eyes wistful. A breeze pushed light brown hair behind her ears.

    “About the mage students?”

    Robin nodded. 

    “There’s not much to tell,” Thean said, shrugging his shoulders and trying to smile shyly. “I don’t know them that well.”

    Robin’s gaze flickered towards him briefly, then back over the ramparts. “You were just laughing with them.” 

    That she had been able to observe that made Thean even more uneasy. How long had she been standing there? And why did she seem so… not herself? 

    Maybe she’s just bored, he tried to tell himself. He was stalling; to speak of his friends with her felt like a betrayal. 

    But this was Robin. Denying her wish was not to be done lightly. 

    “That one there, that’s Rupert,” he began, pointing to one of the older boys sparring. “He’s quite good with spells, though he can be a bit brash.” 

    “How so?” Robin asked, sounding genuinely curious. 

    “Once he starts to learn a spell, he acts as though he’s mastered it, so he rarely wins matches. And over there, that’s Ili- she’s one of the oldest students, and the best at sparring.” 

    And so it went on. The words came surprisingly easily to Thean, though he took care to not speak of each child more than another, especially the three whom he knew best. There were only a few older boys he’d not gotten to know the names of, but the rest he was able to remark on. Robin was quiet for most of the affair, following the figures he pointed out and asking for the occasional clarification. 

    “...and that last one at the end, that’s Talon, though everyone calls him Tal.” The young boy he pointed to was the one who’d gone on the patrol that had departed during Thean’s second night with the Departed Lands people. “He’s real quiet. I think he’s just scared.” 

    “Scared of what?” 

    Thean felt himself on guard again. Scared of everything, he wanted to say. Who knew what the boy might have seen outside of the war-torn citadel? Aside from Aithusa, of course. 

    “Of Zezumo,” he fibbed. “He can be a little harsh.” 

    Robin nodded, seeming unsurprised. “Harsh to you, especially, I’m guessing.” 

    Unease gripped Thean at the accuracy of her deduction. Had she gathered that just from observing this lesson? Up here, they could hear the hum of conversation from below, but no specific sounds save for the shouts of exuberant sparring pairs. 

    “He wasn’t very nice to Ghis or Lain either,” Robin said, leaning further forward so that her head rested on her arms. “It’s ‘cause he wants his son as my father’s apprentice.”

    Thean hadn’t heard those two names before, and he was silent until he realized why. The two apprentices before me. Hearing their names made their fates seem more real, and closer to his own. 

    “Zezumo has a son?” he asked, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. That thread of conversation was what he should really be focusing on; he’d assumed the teachers of each lesson group did not have their own children, for he never saw them talking to anyone but each other and their students. 

    “He doesn’t live here,” Robin said, flicking a pebble off the edge with one hand. “He’s still too young. Only five. Zezumo says he has magic, too. But I don’t think father wants to wait that long for an apprentice.” She tilted her head to look at Thean, the hint of a smile coming to her face. “Not when he’s already found a good one.” 

    Thean smiled back at her. In Robin’s eyes, he was supposed to find being Inoth’s apprentice the highest honor- not a matter to be petrified of.

    The children below began to abandon their duties, breaking off into small groups as they departed from the courtyard. Even from far up, Thean could make out the figures of Konneth, Etho, and Clara walking together. Had he still been with them, he would have had to awkwardly say good-bye as he left in the opposite direction towards the royal dining hall. 

    Robin kept watching them, eyes bouncing between their separate little groups. Shifting from foot to foot, Thean mustered up the nerve to give a fake yawn and stretch. “Ready to go to lunch?” he asked. The longer they stayed there, the more time he’d have to ponder whether he should have told her as much as he had. 

    “Hm? Oh, yes,” Robin said, though she lingered where she stood for just a moment longer. As Thean turned, he caught her murmuring under her breath, “Rupert. Ili. Calvert, Mea, Lon…” 

*****

    Jay was not at lunch, and Robin was quick to catch on to this oddity. The older man was always the first of them to arrive in the dining hall, ready with a smile and a story. 

    “Papa, where’s Jay?” Robin demanded as soon as her father entered.

    “Resting,” the Balancer said, taking his seat swiftly. He did not look at his daughter, instead focusing on the meal being set before him. 

    “Resting?” she repeated incredulously. “But- all he ever does is read! Why would he need to rest?”

    “Ah, but reading can be quite draining. Isn’t that right, Raven?” 

    Thean started in surprise at being addressed, but recovered quickly enough to nod in agreement. Robin frowned at the both of them for a moment before sighing and shaking her head. “Dreadful stuff, that must be,” she muttered, turning her own attention to the meal. 

    Without Jay’s stories to fill the time, they ate in relative silence. Robin would occasionally make a remark on the food, or give some inane detail about how her archery “lessons” were coming along. Her father would look at her with a calm smile, but Thean could tell he wasn’t really listening to her, only nodding and murmuring when he knew he should. It reminded him of when Clo used to go on tangents as a young child, and his parents would laugh at his antics without absorbing the rush of his gibberish. 

    Robin left before Thean, called away by a servant reporting the training grounds were ready for her. The girl leapt out of her seat at the announcement and hurried away with a wave over her shoulder. That left Thean alone with Inoth; suddenly the room seemed a lot smaller. 

    “Jay will not be giving you lessons today,” Inoth said, folding his hands in front of him. “There are more pressing matters at hand. You’re to report to Zezumo in the dungeons.” 

    A thousand questions brimmed at Thean’s lips, but he spoke none of them. This was an order, and he was supposed to follow those; that was all. He rose from his seat more slowly than Robin had, giving a deep nod in Inoth’s direction to show his respect. He did not let his footsteps falter as he left the room, only allowing his emotions to wash over him once he crossed the threshold. 

    Zezumo, and the dungeons that housed the less lucky of Camelot’s survivors. Thean would have far preferred to comb through the confusing mess of symbols Jay was teaching him. Resting, huh?  he pondered, recalling Inoth’s vague explanations regarding his father. Thean had told enough lies to know when he heard one. He wondered if Robin’s father ever told her the truth. 

    The guards posted outside the dungeon entrance did not even glance at him as he approached. He’d been there several times before, and the memories that he suppressed returned to him then- memories of prisoners that had fought the first time he put a rune on them, but did so less and less with each visit. Soon they’d run out of room on their arms, and then newer runes would have to be applied to their abdomens and perhaps their upper thighs. Much like when Thean had been a slave, these people did not have the privilege of dignity. 

    Clara stood with hands behind her back at the beginning of the dungeons. She was unsurprised by Thean’s arrival, immediately handing him one of the blackish blue charcoal tools used for rune drawing.  “New prisoners just arrived,” she told him in a neutral tone, her words clearly rehearsed from being told the same by another. “We’re to put calming runes on them all. I’ll take the left, you take the right.” 

    Thean nodded, allowing his face to freeze into a look of acceptance. Further down the long hallway, Zezumo talked and laughed with a group of adult brutes. They must have been the one to bring in the new people, Thean deduced. 

     He and Clara began their walk down the dungeons, passing the many cells containing men with the children’s handiwork imprinted on their arms. Thean tried very hard to not look their way, but his eyes betrayed him. No longer was he under the protection of the veil of numbness that had followed him his first 10 years of life. 

     It wasn’t protection, a voice at the back of his head argued. It was willful ignorance. 

    What he saw from the corners of his eyes nearly wiped away the indifferent demeanor he was trying to maintain. Thin faces, thinner arms and legs. They were not yet as severely malnourished as Thean and his family had once been, but they soon would be if circumstances didn’t change. Even the knight who’d been famous for his impossibly muscular arms had been diminished by weeks of little food or activity. 

    Percival. Thean’s heart clenched in pain as he passed the man’s cell. He wanted so desperately to reach out to him, to be reassured with a squeeze on the shoulder that the knight had not been irrevocably changed by this hardship. But to do so would reveal Merlin’s son to not be who he said he was- a child of the Departed Lands, one who saw these people as having the same worth as the weakest of forest creatures. 

    A forceful tug lurched Thean to the side, slamming him into the bars of a cell. A hand had wrapped around his shoulder. “What are you doing to them?” a desperate voice said. It belonged to a woman; a set of wild eyes stared at him through the bars. “What are you doing to my babies?” 

    Before Thean could stammer out anything, a larger hand reached out, wresting away the woman’s and twisting it so that she lost her hold on him. With a cry of pain, the woman shuffled farther back from the bars, blinking tears from her eyes as she took in the man that had come to Thean’s aid. 

    “Do that again,” Zezumo growled,  “and you and your brats will never leave this place.” He stepped up closer to the cell, sparking the woman to retreat farther back until half her face was covered in shadow. Zezumo held her gaze for a moment more, then beckoned down the hall to where the brutes stood. “Wrenoth! Watch this woman while Master Raven calms her down.” He cast one final look in Thean’s direction before heading back to the other end of the dungeons. 

    With the brute glaring through the bars, Thean set to work with placing the calming rune on the woman. She did not make any attempt to fight back; in fact, she seemed hardly aware of his presence anymore, staring at nothing. 

    The calming rune was one of the simplest ones to draw, meaning it only took a few minutes to apply it to a cooperative person. And cooperate these prisoners did. The brute only remained near Thean for the first few cells he entered; once it became clear none of the prisoners were likely to fight back, the man walked back to where Zezumo and the other brute conversed happily. Thean did not miss his company- without his watchful eyes, he was able to think more clearly. 

    The majority of adults he saw to were women. Though distressed, they still appeared well-fed, indicating they’d not been in captivity for very long. Somehow, they and their children must have escaped the notice of the invaders during the first wave of attacks on Camelot- perhaps their husbands had managed to fight off the invaders, but perished in the process. Regardless, the end result for each of them was the same; they’d been captured. 

    Whilst attending to the adults, Thean did his best to ignore the soft cries and sniffles coming from the cells ahead. He’d heard such sounds many times in the mines, and he’d largely ignored them then. 

    I’m not that boy anymore. What should have been a happy reflection of his growth in the past year made his hands begin to shake as he put runes on the last woman on his side of the cells. The next cell would have a child- a child he’d have to put runes on. 

    He couldn’t do it. He had to do it. 

    He didn’t have a choice. 

    There’s always a choice. 

    The girl sat against one corner of the cell, arms hugging knees covered by a tattered dress. She was crying as quietly as she could. Dark hair tangled, like Ava’s when hers had grown too long. She couldn’t have been older than six. When she noticed Thean, her sobs became louder, her eyes widening in fear. In fear of him. 

    Thean did not know how long he stood there. When Clara touched his shoulder, he jumped. 

    “Did you put runes on her?” Clara asked him softly. She’d worked faster than him; the children on her side hardly stirred. 

    Thean shook his head. The question he knew she’d ask next came too soon. 

    “Why not?” 

    His breaths were coming out shaky. If he was not so distressed, he might have felt embarrassed. “I can’t,” he whispered. The admission did not make him feel any better. 

    Clara sighed wearily. “If we don’t do it, someone else will.” 

    Thean didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t make a difference. 

    At his silence, Clara nodded slowly. “Give me your charcoal,” she said. Her voice didn’t hold an accusatory note; she merely sounded tired. 

    Thean did as she asked without question, not speaking up even when she entered the cell, whispering something softly to the little girl and asking for her arm. Nor did he say anything when she went to the next cell, and the cell after that, and all the ones that followed. He stood there in that same spot in the dungeons with his hands at his sides, a silent witness to a series of tragedies he could not prevent. 

*****

    A year ago, Thean had thought himself capable of nothing. Now, he knew the truth: he was capable of some things. More often than not, these things were small and insignificant, but occasionally they brought a smile to someone’s face. His time with Arthur and his family had taught him this, like when he’d first summoned a trick of the light into the image of a horse for Eloise, or seen the look of joy on Anselm’s face when Thean read through a chapter of a book without asking for help with any of the words. 

    That night amongst the invaders, he was aiming to do what should have been a small, insignificant thing. Unfortunately, circumstances dictated that any deviation he made from the norm of these children would risk danger. This would be one of those occasions. 

    Sleep did not beckon him as he lay in bed. His mind and body felt in sync, both remaining alert as the moon crested to its peak. He did not even need to stretch as he rose and slipped on his boots. 

    The halls were empty, as expected. He heard sporadic mutterings and muted laughter from behind some doors, though; even the Departed Lands children needed their small acts of rebellion, such as staying up later than they ought to. 

    His steps grew more thoughtfully placed as he neared the kitchens. How often he had strode eagerly into those rooms before, welcomed by voices familiar and smells divine. The silence that greeted him instead served as a stark reminder of how out of reach those days were. Even at midnight, Camelot’s citizens would have been milling about; servants would bring back the dishes of nobles who preferred to entertain late, and the newer cooks would be assigned the task of preparing ahead for breakfast. Young cooks would be informed such tasks built skill and character, when really, the old cooks simply didn’t want to do them- such Thean had been told in confidence. 

    Despite the new arrangements to the kitchens, Thean knew where to find what he sought. The remains of each day’s meals were collected by the servants every night, then mashed up and served to the farm animals nearest the castle. He’d seen the servants bringing out the mess a few mornings ago and thought little of it at the time. Most would never dare think of eating the stuff, but Thean knew from experience that hunger could create an appetite for almost anything. 

    Out of an abundance of caution, he entered the room in a semi-crouch. Immediately, he began to retreat, but his efforts proved futile. 

    The figure at the corner of the room he’d not seen had spotted him, raising their head. “Oh, bother,” they said. 

    Gemma. Of course. 

    The last time Thean and her had been alone together, they’d been much closer, lying outside the chapel in grass pockmarked by flung boulders. He’d spoken more that night than he thought he ever had before. 

    When his words had finally come to a halt, she’d gotten up, and walked away. 

    He’d called after her, but she had not returned. 

    “I was- just…” Thean found his tongue scrambled. He’d tried to avoid thinking of that night, for it the memory was still too fresh and painful. Now, he was kicking himself for ignoring it- maybe he’d actually be able to string a sentence together if he’d been more thoughtful. 

    Gemma did not wait for him to recover his wits; she slapped the dough she’d been holding back onto the table. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. She stalked towards him, and then past him. 

    “Gemma, please,” Thean said, alarm coursing through him that he might miss this opportunity. “Listen-” 

    “Oh, I think I’ve listened to you enough already.” She spun on one foot, turning back to him. “What other world shattering revelations could you possibly have to tell me? Is the sky not blue? Are you half wolf, or is your name not Raven?” 

    Caught off guard, a grimace came to his face at that last comment. “Well, actually… my name, er, isn’t that,” he said lamely. What was the use in dishonesty anymore? Somehow, he’d left out mentioning his real name during their night in the chapel. Amidst all of what he’d told her, that hadn’t seemed important. 

    Gemma gaped at him. “Unbelievable. You are unbelievable!” she shouted, making Merlin’s son cringe at the loudness. She struggled with something for a moment, biting her lip till Thean thought it might bleed. “You know what they’ll do to you, if they find out?" 

    “So you believe me? You believe what I told you?” Despite her anger, that made Thean hopeful. His words of a kinder world had not fallen on deaf ears.

    Again, Gemma stared at him with disbelief. “That’s all you gathered from what I just said? Don’t you- don’t you realize what you’ve done, in telling me all this? Whatever happens to you, it won’t be just to you. They’ll do it to me, too.” She grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. A wild look entered her eyes as she shook him roughly. “Is that why you told me? Is that what you want?  To not be alone when they kill you?”

    They stared at one another for a moment more, Thean on the tips of his toes and Gemma’s breaths coming out like she’d just been in a race. When she released him, all the tension seemed to seep out of her. Thean, too, felt similarly drained. The kitchens had never felt so empty. 

     They stood there, neither of them looking at each other, until at last Merlin’s son found the will to speak again. “I told you about my family- about Camelot- because I thought it might give you something to hope for,” he said. “But… I see that it’s only given you more to fear. And I’m sorry, Gemma. That was never my intention. I can’t promise you I won’t get caught, but you have my word that if that happens, I won’t give you away.”

    He’d said all he could. Disheartened, he walked past Gemma, careful to not brush against her shoulder. His small, insignificant mission had been forgotten.

    “Wait.”

     The word came reluctantly from Gemma’s mouth when he was nearly out of the room. When he turned back to her, she was rubbing her temples in a way that reminded him of Arthur.

    “I can’t just pretend I don’t know now,” she said. “And Balance help me, a part of me wants to know more. So, maybe- maybe it’s best we don’t just ignore this all.”

    “Meaning…?” Thean would not let himself fall into false hope again.

    Gemma sighed wearily. “Meaning I’ll help you. I’ll help you get Camelot back.”

    A grin came to Thean’s face, the likes of which hadn’t made an appearance since he’d left his father and siblings. “Oh, Gemma,” he said, taking several steps back towards her. “You don’t know what that means to me- what that will mean to my family, and to-” 

    Gemma raised a finger, halting him in his joyful gushing. “Under one condition,” she said, determination in her gaze. “You swear to me that no harm will come to Robin.” At Thean’s look of confusion, she continued, “I may not know much of the world outside, but I’ve pieced together enough from my mother’s stories and the more believable ones from Jay. The Balancer is our leader- and when one leader takes another’s land, they’re likely to be killed in retaliation. The leader, and  their heirs.”

    “Arthur’s not like that,” Thean said immediately. “Robin will not be harmed- you have my word.” Though the King was not the all-powerful god Thean his siblings had once thought him to be, he was nothing if not honorable. 

    Gemma eyed him skeptically, not yet soothed by his reassurance. “I’m putting a lot of faith into this ‘word’ of yours. You haven’t even told me what word it is.” 

    Thean chuckled nervously, feeling a little unlike himself from the turbulent conversation. “It’s an expression. Like how you ask Balance for help.”

    Gemma frowned. “That’s not an expression. We really do ask Balance for help.” She shook her head. “But never mind that now. What are you even doing here? I assumed you didn’t just come to make me commit treason.”

    “I came to get mush,” he said, pointing to where the buckets of gray and brown lay gathered at the courtyard door, ready to be brought to the animals in the morning. 

    Gemma glanced back between him and the buckets a few times before speaking again, her voice thick with pity. “Oh, Raven. Do you really hate yourself that much?”

    His confusion turned into a snort of laughter. “No, no,” Thean said, waving his hands. “Not for me. For the prisoners.”

    “You know the prisoners?” To herself, she muttered, “Of course you know the prisoners.” 

    “I don’t know all of them,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Just a few of the knights. But they brought in more citizens today, and Gemma- some of them are children. Hungry looking children.” 

    The serving girl nodded slowly. He had not told her in depth of his time in the mines. He’d focused mainly on telling her of the wealth of kindness and freedom he’d had in Camelot- but it was obvious from the way she looked at him that she knew where his sympathies originated. 

    “So you were going to give these hungry children and knights mush,” she ventured. 

    “It’s better than nothing,” Thean said, shrugging. 

    “Not by much. C’mon- you’re in luck. I’ve got something that might sit in their stomachs better.” She waved him over to the corner of the room she’d been in before. There, arranged in unkempt piles next to the dough, were many triangular blackberry pastries. “I was about to put these in the mush before you came,” Gemma explained. 

    Thean hovered a hand over one of the piles. An old instinct bid him to seize one for himself, damn all the others, but he brushed the thought aside. He wasn’t the hungry one anymore; many others had replaced that station of his. “These will be great,” he said, turning to Gemma with the start of a grateful smile. “No one will miss them being added to the mush, though?” 

    “I’ll sprinkle a few on the top to be safe,” she decided, seizing a few to do just that. She nodded her head towards empty buckets en route to the mush, and Thean began to fill each with the pastries. 

    When they’d each finished their individual tasks, they met back by the then pastry-laden buckets. Gemma seized the lighter of them, prompting Thean to cock an eyebrow. “You’re… coming with me?” he asked. 

    She sniffed with a fake haughtiness. “I’m watching out for your hide to watch out for mine. We’ll need to do more than just carry these, though. There will be guards at the dungeons, right?” 

    “I’ll figure out a distraction,” Thean said, already rifling through the tactics his father had described. “What’s our story for if we’re caught carrying these?” 

    “Er… don’t get caught?” Gemma said cheekily. “I don’t know, Raven, you’re the spy. I’m just the cook.” 

    “Ah, so you made these,” Thean murmured, nodding thoughtfully. “Makes sense- they do look a bit dry.” 

    Gemma’s face altered between an open mouth and one scrunched like she’d just bit into a lemon. Seizing one of the flakier ends of a pastry, she threw the crumbs at him. 

    “Oi, oi!” Thean laughed, batting them away. “Don’t waste them! I’m sure the knights will love it, they’ll say-” 

    He broke off, the sounds of footsteps and murmuring coming to his attention. Gemma paled before him; they scarcely breathed until the sound died away. 

    “Let’s go,” Thean said softly once the moment had passed. Gemma nodded, her grip tightening on the bucket handles. If they dallied any longer, they might lose their nerve. 

    They treaded the halls carefully, sticking close to the walls lest they needed to duck around corners to hide from others. Voices danced in the distance at some turns, spurring Gemma to draw in closer to Thean. “Is there a way through the servant halls?” she whispered. 

    “Probably, but I don’t know of it,” Thean admitted. His siblings and friends had never had reason to find the path to the dungeons. They preferred to use the servant halls to secure midnight snacks, or sneak to each other’s rooms when the prince or princess should have been studying. “Maybe if I had my blade-” he halted that trail of thought instinctively. 

    “Blade?” Gemma repeated, befuddled. “What would you do with it- intimidate the walls?” 

    “Osgath’s Blade is not really a blade. It’s… more of a map, really, disguised as a blade. That’s how I found my Pa, even when we had no idea where he was.” 

    “Well, that sounds incredibly useful. Where’s it now?” 

    “With my family- because, you’re right, it’s very useful.” He sighed, letting go of the sound softly. “I wanted to know they’d have it in case I didn’t make it back.” 

    He braced himself for ridicule about the stupidity of that idea, but none came; nor did she try to reassure him that they would both be alive and well if all this ever ended. Gemma was not much one for platitudes, and Thean was alright with that. They both knew how bleak the chances were of them getting through their espionage unscathed. 

    Silence reigned between them as they approached the winding staircase that led down to the dungeons. Gemma observed the old stones with interest, and it occurred to Thean then that she’d never had a reason to visit this place before. He was sad to be the one to lead her there. 

    They slowed as the last turn of the staircase neared, remaining in the shadows at that end of the hall. Torchlight was at the other end, illuminating the shadows of two figures, their low voices echoing slightly. 

    Only two guards, then. That much he could handle. 

    “Got a plan?” Gemma whispered from behind him. 

    He nodded, splaying his hand out so that it would be just out of sight of the two guards were they to look towards the staircase. “Hypnion,” he whispered. Their murmurs turned into drawls, and metal scraped against stone as two shadows sank to the floor. 

    Thean relaxed his hand, breathing a sigh of relief that got cut short when he turned to find Gemma missing. A soft snore alerted him to where she sat on one of the last steps, slumped forward. 

    “Gemma!” he whispered urgently, kneeling down to shake her. “Gemma!” 

    “Hm?” she groaned, blinking in confusion at Thean until recognition lit her eyes. “Did it work?” 

    “Too well, apparently. Sorry about that.” With one hand to assist her, Gemma rose, rubbing the sudden sleep from her eyes. “I’ve never used that one before,” Thean admitted. “Didn’t realize it was so strong.” 

    “You tried a spell you’d never used before? While we’re sneaking about, risking our lives?” Gemma sighed, too tired to be very angry.

    “It was in my Pa’s spellbook, so I knew it would work somehow. You seem to be waking up fairly easily,” Thean observed, frowning. “We’re still going to need to be careful- and quick.” 

    “Careful. Quick.” The serving girl nodded resolutely, hugging the bucket of pastries to her chest. “Yes, I can… be those things.” 

    With that reassuring declaration, they crossed the hall. A snore erupted from one of the guards, confirming Thean’s spell still held firm. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then reached out a hand to open the door that would lead them to the rows of cells holding Camelot’s people. 

    “Wait,” Gemma said, taking him by the shoulder. “Is there anything you want me to tell them? About your people?” 

    Thean grimaced, weighing the question whilst chiding himself for not thinking of it before. “No,” he sighed. “Best not to. If any of them get interrogated…”

    Gemma nodded; he didn’t need to finish that thought. Thean wanted desperately to give them hope, but giving information was a lot riskier than handing out pastries.

    Together, they pushed the door open, revealing a hall lit by little light. Only one torch at this end and the other illuminated their way. Even with the lack of vision, the sounds of nervous shuffling occurred, the people on the cells put on edge by the anticipation of guards. 

    Thean jutted his chin towards the end of the hall, gesturing for Gemma to start there. Tackling different sections would be more efficient, but he also wanted to keep himself close to the door in case the guards woke up. The hand he wasn’t using to hold pastries twitched in anticipation of possibly doing magic. 

    Perhaps Zezumo’s lessons will come in handy, he thought as he slipped the pastries through the bars. It would be with a grim satisfaction that he could use the mage’s own spells against him. 

    Many of the captured knights recognized him, and held out their palms for the pastries. On her end of the hall, Gemma was having more trouble. “I made these myself,” she murmured to one frightened mother. “Blackberries, ma’am. For you and the children. It’s not much, but…” 

    As he handed out the next pastry, Thean danced with the idea of heading towards Gemma and finding some way to vouch for her. A whisper stopped him in his thoughts. 

    “Thean.” 

    He recognized the voice immediately, and despite the circumstances, he smiled. “Percival.” 

    In the dim light, he couldn’t see much of the knight, but the change in him was still evident. Dark blue eyes hung above gaunt cheeks. Percival smiled, too, but his was longer in coming. 

    Thean slipped the biggest of pastries between the bars, resisting the urge to provide two. They hardly had enough as it was. 

    “A feast,” Percival chuckled, taking a grateful bite. His gaze did not remain joyful, and he looked to either side with a nervousness he’d not possessed before his capture. “Listen, I know you must not have much time, but there’s something you should know. We’ve heard talk between the guards, when they think we’re asleep- talk of moving us.” 

    “Moving you?” The bucket nearly fell from Thean’s grasp. “To where?” 

    “That, I don’t know. But knowing them? Probably a camp.” 

    A slave camp. Knights, women, children- they would become what Thean and his family had been. “No,” Thean said hoarsely. “I won’t let them. I’ll find a way to stop it- somehow.” 

    “If you can. But don’t get yourself found out in the process.” He regarded Thean for a moment, features softening. “Arthur always called you Sir Thean, didn’t he? I’m starting to think you deserve that as more than a nickname.” 

    Thean snorted derisively. “If Arthur knights me, he’ll have to knight Clo, too.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “And Ava. And Pa.” 

    “Raven.” Gemma stood a few steps from him, her bucket empty. Behind her came the sounds of munching and contented sighs. 

    Thean nodded to Percival. “Until we meet again,” the knight said solemnly. There was a wishful tone to his words. 

    They departed from that hall of hollow-eyed people. Confused and grateful gazes followed them out. The guards were still asleep, thank the gods, but their snoring had abated, spurring Thean and Gemma to travel quickly up the staircase. They did not speak to each other until they’d passed through several halls. 

    “I’ll take the buckets back,” she said, taking Thean’s quickly enough to leave no room for argument. “The less we’re seen together, the better.” 

    Shaking himself from a stupor, Thean looked at her- really looked at her. Eyes wide despite the hour, not even straining to hold up her lot. She was waiting for him to speak, even though he did that so little. 

    “I can’t thank you enough, Gemma,” he said, overwhelmed by how much their dynamic had changed that evening. 

    Gemma blinked, a smile coming to her face that looked- shy? He hadn’t seen her have that expression before. “Thank me by not getting yourself killed,” she said. Her hand hovered awkwardly above his shoulder before giving it a quick squeeze. Hastily, she took down the hall at a quick pace. 

    Thean stood in that same spot for a time, watching as her curls disappeared around a corner. He was befuddled by her, and these foreign people in a familiar land. But as he touched the part of his shoulder that she’d lain her own hand on, he was encompassed by the distinct feeling of being not alone. 

Chapter Text

Merlin

    The first time he’d said “I love you” to Lea, they’d been wrapped in each other’s arms trying to keep out the chill of a spring night. The moment the words had fallen from his tongue, she’d stiffened in his embrace. Within another heartbeat, she had withdrawn from him entirely, hugging her knees to her chest. Though Merlin rose to a sitting position as well, she did not look at him, staring straight ahead at the cave wall. 

    “You don’t have to say it back,” he’d murmured. He hadn’t expected her to. 

    “I want to, but…” She was shaking slightly- not a shiver, but a fine tremor. “You could change, Merlin. People do that all the time. What about tomorrow? You might not say it then. Or next week, or six months from now.” 

    As a slave, time was narrowed down to three lengths- mealtime, work, and sleep. To hear Lea referencing the more distant future surprised and baffled Merlin. If not for the change in seasons, he would have lost track of how long he’d been in the mines. 

    “Lea, I’ve no idea what our lives will be like in six weeks- or even six days.” He reached over slowly, taking her hand in his once it was clear she would not go farther from him. “But I know I love you now. Can’t that be enough?” 

    She drew her thumb over the back of his knuckles, staring down at his hands. “I suppose it’ll have to be,” she murmured, and a small smile came to her face. 

    “What is it?” Merlin asked, not even trying to keep the happiness out of his voice. Her smiles were so rare, and this one looked different than the rest. 

    She regarded him fully for the first time since he’d uttered those three words, the smile slipping into something else. “Just… for a moment there, you sounded like one of us." 

    She didn’t clarify who ‘us’ was. She didn’t have to; they were surrounded by the answer in the form of dozens of sleeping figures, each not knowing where their fates would lead them, or for how long. 

    Merlin had lived with the threat of possible death for a long time. Even before Camelot, he’d wake from nightmares of the village discovering the depths of his powers and sending him to the flames. But in the mines, instead of bursts of terror, there was a weary acceptance. The hunger and labor wore one’s fears down to numbness, and he suspected the runes encouraged their apathy. Most days, the only time he felt any emotion was when he was with Lea. 

    They had clung to each other. During their moments apart in the mines, and after their separation, the question would come to Merlin’s mind if he and Lea would have come together had they met in standard society. It was a question without an answer that mattered. They had met, and he had loved her. And now, she was gone. 

    And he still loved her. 

    In the streets of Nemeth atop a horse, he hugged Clo closer to him. The boy scarcely seemed to notice, bouncing with excitement at their day trip outside the castle. His red hair was already messy, so Merlin didn’t feel bad about ruffling it a little. Clo reached back to push his hands away, giggling as he did so. 

    Ava rode a horse beside them. More and more, she showed interest in doing things on her own. Merlin wasn’t sure how to feel about that. In the mines, the thought of his children reaching adulthood felt like a distant dream. Now that that possibility seemed more likely than ever, each step they took away from childhood brought him a melancholy mixture of emotions. Even on his darkest days as a slave, he had pictured Lea being there with him to raise them. 

    They might not all reach adulthood, whispered a voice in his head, but he pushed it aside. Thean would be fine. Merlin would not lose another piece of himself- the world had already taken enough from him. Surely the gods could not be so cruel. 

    Ava arrived at their destination first: a small house nestled in between nearly identical ones along a busy city street. Vases and decorated flower pots were displayed in the two windows beside the door, and a freshly painted sign hung for all to see: “HALBERG’S POTTERY.” Crude drawings and little handprints bordered the carefully written letters. 

    Clo leapt from their horse before Merlin could draw it to a full halt. He knocked on the door with two hands in quick succession, crying, “Halberg! Halberg!” 

    Though Merlin had not yet met the man who’d taken care of his two children for half a year, he could guess that the person who answered the door was not him. Clo stepped back in surprise, taking in the sight of the person before him. “Uh…” he murmured, brows drawn in confusion. 

    The woman blinked back in surprise. A little girl was balanced on her hip, who cooed at Clo. “Oh! You must be Clo- and Ava?” She smiled gently at the children. “Halberg and the girls have told me so much about you two.” 

    Merlin disembarked from his horse just as a portly man stepped up to the doorway. Clo and Ava’s reactions were immediate, with the both of them running into his open arms with delight. “Ah, you rascals!” he cried, spinning them about with surprising agility. When he set them back down, huffing with laughter, he turned to Merlin. “You must be their Pa?” 

    Merlin nodded and, not knowing what else to do, extended his hand. Halberg clasped it with both of his in a hearty handshake. “Nice to finally meet you,” Merlin said, though those words fell short of what he really wished to say. How did you properly thank someone who’d taken your children in during the worst period of their lives? 

    “You as well, you as well! Come in, the girls have missed you two,” Halberg said, waving them in. 

    The room he led them into was clearly the shop area, full of shelves of pottery piled high and close together. Merlin had no idea how he kept small children from knocking them all over. Branching off of that main room were several smaller ones. Upon approaching one, the woman set down the little girl she’d been holding, who then toddled over to two other older girls bearing similar features. With them was a boy about Thean and Ava’s age, observing the newcomers with interest. 

    Clo hesitated for a moment upon locking eyes with the other boy- he and Ava had never mentioned Halberg having a son. But he quickly got over his shyness and went to join them, holding out a hand for the other boy to shake. Ava remained with the adults for a moment, eyeing the woman with what she hoped was subtlety. 

    Sensing the girl’s confusion, the woman smiled again. “My name is Demel,” she said. “I’ve been helping Halberg out for the past few months with his pottery orders.” Pointing to the room with the other children, she added, “That’s my son Tate over there. He wants to be a potter, too. Do you want to say hello to him?” 

    Ava glanced towards her father, and he nodded. She went off towards the other children, Demel following her as the youngest girl began to bite her fist in a sign of hunger. 

    “Come, sit,” Halberg said to Merlin, gesturing to another room with several cushioned chairs. “I think the children will want to catch up with each other. Demel made some tea we can enjoy in the meantime.” 

    Merlin nodded, throwing one last glance over his shoulder to ensure his children were well. When he saw Ava laughing at something another girl said, he felt content enough to let them out of his sight for a bit.

    “I wanted to thank you. For taking care of Clo and Ava, all those months,” Merlin said once he sat down. Halberg had his back to him as he bustled about, but Merlin felt like he had to say something.  

    Halberg waved a hand in the air. “No need. Really, those children saved me. It’s them who should be thanked, for being the lights in my life.” 

    He said all that in such a matter-of-fact way. Once again, Merlin found himself not knowing what to say. But thankfully, Halberg proved to be a rather conversational man.

    “A good woman, Demel is,” Halberg said as he poured the tea, handing the first cup to Merlin. “Met her and her son in the market shortly after Clo and Ava left.” He shook his head like a man stepping out of a dream. “Never thought I’d meet someone after my wife. Didn’t think she’d go first, either. She was always the healthier one- the stronger one, if I’m being honest. But it’s often that way between a man and a woman, isn’t it? Though many fools don’t care to admit it.” 

    Halberg grinned then, and Merlin tried to return it, though he found his acting skills lacking. He considered the man’s words; Lea, the stronger one? In the traditional sense, she hadn’t been. She had never tried to fight against the handlers whilst Merlin had been with her, and he doubted she’d tried any such attempts before they’d met. No, her strength had been of a different kind: the strength to endure. 

    “Forgive me,” Halberg said, setting his mug of tea to the side; Merlin’s remained untouched. “I forgot how new your loss is. I lost my wife years ago. I like to talk about her now, but that wasn’t the case the first year after.” 

    “So it gets easier?” Merlin rasped, surprised to find his voice hoarse. “You don’t… feel it as much?” 

    “No. Easier isn’t what I’d call it,” Halberg said softly. “I still wake up and find myself thinking she’ll be by my side. Some days missing her is a dull ache; other days it comes on like a knife in the alley. But I suppose, after a while, I started to… see light with the darkness.” 

    Merlin nodded, and just that motion was a lie. “I’m not there yet,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ve even fully realized she’s gone. Sometimes I tell myself that maybe, Thean found the wrong woman. That I’ll wake up, and she’ll have found me again. And I know it’s a lie, but it’s easier to pretend.” 

    Tears burned at the edges of his eyes, and he wiped them away, frustration dimming his sadness. Damn it- he’d come here to thank a generous man, not to unearth his sorrows before him. 

    Halberg nodded with patience, absorbing Merlin’s words with a bowed head. Gone was the cheer he’d displayed at the start of their conversation. “And your children?” 

    “They cry.” Merlin laughed a little; the sound was wet. “Clo would hate me for telling you that.” 

    “I won’t tell,” Halberg promised, chuckling softly. 

    After a pause to drag in a few breaths, Merlin spoke again. “How did you do it? Caring for five children on your own- and even now, with three?”

    “Same way as you’ve done, I’d imagine,” Halberg said, shrugging. “I hoped. Prayed a few times, though I’m still not sure anyone was listening. If they were, then I think they brought me Demel and her son for a reason.” A small smile returned to his face. “That light in the darkness- they helped me see it.” 

    Merlin nodded. “They are special to you.” 

    “More than that. I certainly could use another set of hands to raise three children- or really, four now- but I would have fallen for Demel even if she didn’t have any hands.” He laughed, shaking his head in amusement. “My wife and I never talked about what we’d do if one of us died much earlier than the other; we couldn’t conceive of the thought of living without each other. But…. I’d like to think she would have approved. She and Demel are cut from the same tough cloth.” 

    Somehow, Merlin mustered a smile in response. Perhaps he’d manage to finish this visit with some dignity. The tears building up once more in his eyes disagreed. 

    “Sorry,” he sighed, swiping once again at his face. “I didn’t mean to get like this. It’s… just…”

    “You feel as though you can’t show your sorrow to anyone else? That you need to put up a brave face to the rest of the world- and especially to your children?”

    Merlin blinked in surprise, staring at Halberg in shock. “Are you a seer?” 

    Halberg guffawed, shaking his head. “No, I’ve just been where you are.” 

    That was a difficult concept for Merlin to reconcile, seeing how content Halberg seemed with his present life. Merlin tried to picture himself years from now, tried to see a version of himself that had accepted the hardships he and his family had been through, including the ones that had led to Lea’s demise. He couldn’t; the image before him was a blank canvas, just as it had been when he was in the mines and tried to picture being outside of them.

     “I feel as though I should be grateful,” he said. “All my children have survived so far, against the odds. And I have had so many people take care of them while we were separated.” 

    “You’ve lost the woman you love. That is a pain that doesn’t go away just because you have others to look out for you.”

    “No, it certainly hasn’t,” Merlin said, releasing a shaky breath. “And though it might be better for my children, I’m not sure I can do what you’ve done. I don’t know if I can love again.” 

    As a child, he’d had passing wishes to be with another. Freya had been the closest he’d come to loving another prior to the mines, though that had lasted only a few short days. 

    But Lea- Lea, he had shared his entire being with, had slept beside for the more than ten years that had taken everything he held dear in his old life. And yet all that pain had bestowed upon him that which he cherished more than anything- her, and the children they raised together in a world that threatened to constantly tear them apart. To think that he might share that deep of a bond with someone else was something he couldn’t imagine; at least, not then, when the ache he felt for her was so strong. 

    “No one’s saying you have to,” Halberg said, and then hesitated. “But- a word of advice, if I may?” 

    Merlin nodded immediately. He’d been treading dark waters for a year; he needed all the guidance he could get.

    “Just- leave the door open, alright?” The older man smiled warmly. “You never know who might walk through.”

    He graced the older man with a weary smile, accepting the advice as best as he could in that moment. In truth, he had left the door open- but he’d left it open for someone who’d never be able to walk through it again. One day, perhaps one day soon, he’d have to accept that. 

    “Paaaa, Halberg!” came a cry quickly approaching. Clo appeared in their room in a huff, raising one hand out for the two men to see. “Mary bit me! I wanted to use one of her knight toys, and when I grabbed it she-” 

    The boy stopped suddenly, taking in the somber mood of the room and frowning in confusion. Ava and Demel appeared shortly behind him, the latter with Mary balanced on her hip. The perpetrator of Clo’s woes was presently biting one of her hands, as no others were in her proximity.

    “Terribly sorry about that. She’s been teething something fierce lately,” Demel said, nudging the girl with the arm she was held in. “You’re sorry too, right, Mary?” 

    “Yes. Vewy sowwy,” Mary mumbled around her fist, looking not at all remorseful.

    “That’s alright. Clo was biting too until a few months ago,” Ava said, giving her little brother a haughty look. 

    “Hey! That’s…” Clo sighed. “True, I guess.” 

    “We should probably head back. Arthur gets nervous if we’re gone too long,” Merlin said as he stood, feeling his legs shake a bit. He hadn’t realized how much the conversation had drained him. 

    “Come around again when you can,” Halberg said, striding over to Demel and pulling her closer. “She makes the best roasted chicken in all the Five Kingdoms.” 

    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Demel laughed. “Perhaps it’s the third or fourth best.” 

    The couple followed them out to the front door, encouraging little Mary to wave good-bye as Merlin and his children approached their horses. At Arthur’s insistence, two guards had accompanied their journey. They nodded to the family with respect, a gesture that still felt odd to them. 

    Before embarking the horse he and Clo had shared, Merlin turned back to the couple standing in the door. They had turned to look at one another for a moment, though their hands still waved to their departing visitors. They looked so natural there, standing together, as though they wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else. 

    Maybe, Merlin thought to himself, thinking back to Halberg’s words of advice. 

    “Pa?” 

    Ava was tugging on his tunic, though she scarcely needed to do that at her current height. The gesture reminded him of when she was much smaller and wouldn’t venture anywhere without her parents in arm’s reach. Presently, she searched Merlin’s face for… something. Whatever she was looking for led her to look up at him with concern- and then, to step forward and wrap her arms around him. 

    Merlin stared down at her in surprise- though ‘down’ wasn’t the right word. Gods, when did she get so tall?  Slowly, he put his arms on her back in return, and then around Clo as well when he came to join their circle. 

    The little family stood for a while in that busy street of Nemeth- broken, incomplete, and clinging to one another as tightly as ever.

Chapter Text

Thean 

    Thean walked through walls. 

    The first day he had tried this, Inoth had to put multiple runes on him to even get him through the thinnest of walls. Three days later, and Thean was able to do it on his own without the aid of any runes. 

     He’d been highly suspicious when Inoth had demonstrated the ability. With a flash of his eyes, the man had appeared more transparent, the light from the windows streaming through him. Inoth had approached the wall at a walking pace, and then disappeared through it, returning in the opposite direction just a second later. Thean had never heard of such an ability from his father, who he assumed had known more about the limits of magic than anyone else. 

    “How come I’ll need runes?” he’d asked. The Balancer had casually retrieved one of the charcoal tools from inside his robes, but the small action had sent Thean’s heart thrumming. 

    “They’ll help your body get over the initial shock of it,” Inoth had murmured, gesturing for Thean to put his arms out. With no choice but to accept, Thean had raised his two arms with palms up, trying to not shake as charcoal was pressed to his skin. He was letting someone- the Balancer, of all people- put runes on him again, after a year of being free of them. How had he led himself back to this position? 

    “I made these back when I was your age,” Inoth said as he finished the last swirl, nodding in acceptance at his handiwork. “Had quite a few mishaps the first time I tried them out, but I’ve learned since then. You shouldn’t have any trouble.” 

    “You… created these?” Despite having had many lessons with the Balancer over the last few weeks, Thean knew little of his magic abilities other than that he simply possessed them. Inoth only showed demonstrations of what he wanted to teach Thean when absolutely necessary. Sometimes, he didn’t teach Thean anything new at all, but instead wished to hear updates on how he was progressing with Zezumo’s and Jay’s lessons, the latter of which had still not resumed. 

    “Zezumo likes to take the credit for many of the new runes we’ve created,” Inoth said; there was fondness in his voice. “But this I created on my own, before I met him.” He frowned then, a flicker of an unpleasant thought behind his eyes. He hastened Thean to begin trying out the spell. 

    Each time Thean implemented the Speculo spell, he felt lighter- somewhat similar to how he’d felt when drinking the spirits Konneth had found, though without the threat of feeling poorly the next morning. When he looked down at his body, he’d find that even his clothes had been seeped of color, letting sunlight through like a window. He realized that seeing his body this way was quite discomforting, and so he’d learned to begin his wall walking as soon as he’d said the incantation. 

    The first few times he’d gone through a wall, a heavy feeling would pass through him; he’d feel each and every stone that had come together with the purpose of impenetrability. With each day of practice, however, the sensation dissipated, until the walls felt no different than air. As his fears of solidifying against his will faded, he grew bolder. Under Inoth’s instruction, they had moved down several floors to where many vacated rooms lay. There, Thean was able to run through several rooms at once- and even through whatever objects lay within- without needing to stop to repeat the incantation. 

    The feeling was intoxicating. For so much of his young life, he’d been contained. Slivers of the outside world had taunted him and his family with their proximity, yet seeming so impossibly out of reach at the same time. But with this new ability, he felt himself unlimited. No room could keep him now; he raced through them, hardly even taking in his surroundings, his feet barely skimming the floor as he moved from one room to the next. He laughed, though no one was around to hear him. In his joy, he forgot who he was- 

    Until he came crashing into the back of the Balancer. 

    Without realizing it, he’d made a circuit around the hallway, returning to the larger room that Inoth occupied. His body reacted to the mistake before his mind did, becoming solid again once he was through the wall- but his feet didn’t catch up with him, skidding from the momentum until he collided with Inoth. The man took several stumbling steps at the impact, but recovered quickly. 

    Thean did not have as much luck; he ricocheted back to the wall, heavy with the sense of becoming grounded- and aching- once more. He rubbed a sore spot at the back of his head, a groan coming from his lips. 

    Any other pain he felt was suppressed as he tried to stand and face the Balancer. “Very sorry!” he said meekly. He had trouble focusing entirely on the man before him. 

    “Got a bit carried away, did we, Raven?”  

    “Yes, I- it would seem so.” His cheeks reddened furiously. 

    Inoth chuckled. “That’s alright,” he said. “You’ll learn to contain your excitement the more you practice these abilities. This is just the first of my creations that you’re to learn.” 

    “So there’s more?” Thean asked, not even trying to keep the awe out of his voice. “What’s next? Flying?” 

    Inoth raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Nothing so grand as that- though with magic, I wouldn’t say that’s impossible.” 

    Thean nodded in eager agreement. He thought the same. His father had been described as magic itself- and yet, as Thean and his siblings grew older and entered the stage where they asked incessant questions, they began to realize how little their father still knew of the limitations of magic. Merlin had spent years in hiding, only using his magic when absolutely necessary. There was no telling what sorcerers might be capable of. With the wall walking ability, Inoth had just demonstrated something entirely new. The thought of even more such abilities being within his reach made Thean actually excited for future lessons. 

    And then, the rest of himself caught up. What am I doing? 

    This wasn’t just a teacher whose lessons were to be used for Thean’s enjoyment. This man was responsible for the death of his mother, and likely thousands upon thousands of other unlucky souls. It was easy to forget that during some of their conversations, though; the more Thean met with Robin’s father, the more normal he seemed. 

    Perhaps that’s why he’s their leader, Thean reflected. An otherwise ordinary man with an unusual amount of power was far more likely to be accepted as a leader than a social outcast with the same. 

    He had to learn from the Balancer, but not for his own benefit. He needed to find the flaws in the system this man had constructed. 

    “I appreciate all these lessons,” Thean began hesitantly. “But if I may ask…”

    “Ask away, Raven,” Inoth said easily, waving a hand. “I’ve told you, questions are encouraged here, not scorned.” 

    “Right,” Thean murmured, taking a deep breath. “If I’m to- to be like you, one day, then why do I have to know how to do this?” He gestured to the wall he’d just come through. “Won’t I need to know more about strategy, not how to use my magic?”

    “A good point,” Inoth said, giving a nod of approval; Thean had to suppress the pride he felt at that. “Strategy is important, and you will learn that in time.” He began to pace slowly, arms crossed in front of him, one hand tapping fingers on his elbow. “But what’s perhaps even more important is that you have the respect of the people you lead. That doesn’t come from sitting in a chair and ordering others about; you’ll have a revolt on your hands soon enough if that’s how you lead. Respect comes from working side by side with them, putting your life in the same amount of risk as they put theirs.” He paused, casting a sly smile Thean’s way. “Or at least, making it appear that that is the case. Do you understand?”

    Thean nodded. “Yes. I think I do.” 

    He understood completely. Inoth did not have the same sense of honor as Arthur and the best of the knights in Camelot; all the more reason for Thean to not let his guard down when with him. 

    “Good,” Inoth said, folding his hands behind his back. “In that case, it is time I tell you about your next mission.”

    “I’m ready.” He straightened his back and puffed out his chest, playing the part of a child eager to make him proud. 

    “I’m sure you are. Come, let’s return to the tower.”

   Though some of their lessons had begun to take place outside of the tower, the two of them always returned there once they were to have discussions. Thean didn’t know for sure if it was the comfort of being in the same space, or a paranoia of what might be overheard, though he suspected the latter. 

    When the winding staircase had been overcome, Inoth rounded his desk, taking out a map and spreading it across the desk. Thean came forward at his beckoning. “Now, as you know, we have quite a few barbarians in the dungeons,” Inoth said. “Soon enough, we’ll run out of room for them, so they must be moved to somewhere else to do penance for their crimes.” 

    The Balancer did not speak of the prisoners with the same disdain as Zezumo. Instead, he spoke of them as though they were items to be traded, used, and tossed aside- not due to hatred, but indifference. Thean nodded as he spoke, keeping his face one of mild curiosity. If not for his meeting with Percival several days ago, this would have been entirely new information for him. 

    “I want you to lead a patrol for the transfer. Unfortunately, my father has still not been able to resume his reading lessons with you, so you’ll need a messenger to read the map to you as you travel.” He patted the map on his desk, one which remained entirely indecipherable to Thean. “Other than that, who will accompany you will be at your discretion. I would suggest bringing quite a few mages and brutes along- but, it is up to you. You’ll leave tomorrow.” 

    “Tomorrow?” Thean repeated. He was hoping to have more time to ready his father with information on stopping the transfer- and have time to figure out how exactly he’d obtain that information. 

    “Yes, tomorrow.” Inoth frowned. “Is that a problem?”

    “No,” Thean said, straightening his back again. “I’ll ready the others right away.” 

    “Good, good,” Inoth murmured. A silence passed between them, one in which the man clearly wanted to speak again- Thean had deduced that was the case whenever his fingers began tapping the nearest object, which on this occasion was the map. At last, Inoth cleared his throat and said, “You’re doing quite well, Raven. I’m confident you’ll prove yourself as a leader with the others.”

    “Thank you,” Thean said, feeling genuinely surprised. It wasn’t rare for Inoth to give positive remarks when he excelled at a particular skill, or brought up an interesting point in one of their discussions- but for Thean to receive an outright compliment on his overall progress was new. 

    Inoth nodded, moving on quickly from that part of their conversation. They spoke for a little longer on ways to improve the spells he’d learned under Zezumo, and talked until the sun’s point in the sky indicated it was time for supper. As usual, Inoth waved Thean out first, claiming he’d meet him and Robin at the dining hall soon enough. 

    Thean closed the door behind him softly, listening to the way the wood slid into place. On the outside of it, his hands hovered over the handle, that which separated him from the maps inside. It was yet another barrier to him aiding those imprisoned in the dungeons. 

*****

    Later that evening, Thean balanced on the end of his bed. His toes hung over the edge, his heels on the stripped mattress. Sheets and pillows he’d thrown haphazardly on the floor; he closed his eyes, pretending they were clouds. With his arms extended to his sides and a dramatic flourish of his hands, he took a leap of faith- and came crashing down. 

    He wasn’t surprised; his elbows and knees already ached from where he’d attempted the same jump five times prior. No matter how much he tried to focus before the leap, his magic did not help him hover for even a second in the air. It flickered under the surface, as if it were saying, Sorry, kid, you’re on your own. 

    Regardless, he got back up onto his bed to prepare himself once more. Inoth had said flying might be possible, and to some extent, Thean had already believed that. Dragons could fly- and sure, they had wings, but Thean had magic, and magic could do anything. 

    It couldn’t save Ma. 

    He shoved the thought aside, and leapt. 

    He stayed there on the ground longer then, sighing. He knew the root cause of his being out of sorts. Just after supper (and a long hour of complimenting Robin at her archery practice), he’d contacted his father. Thean had told him of the impending transfer of Percival and the other prisoners, and of his intentions to obtain information on the route to be taken in advance. Merlin had listened stoically, claiming he’d relay the plans to Arthur and Mithian as they came. But beneath the seriousness in his tone, Thean heard his father’s worries bleeding through. The helplessness. 

    So thereafter, he focused on flying. Or, presently, laying on the ground. 

    A creak sounded, and Thean turned his head in the direction, still lying on his stomach amidst the pillows and sheets. Above him was Gemma, having just entered from the servant’s door in his room. Though she didn’t know much of the servant hallways, he’d helped her memorize a route from the nearest entrance in the kitchens to allow them easier communication. 

    “Raven?” A bemused smile came to her face. “What are you doing?” 

    A giddy feeling entered Thean’s chest at the sight of her. He sat up quickly, suddenly aware of how messy his hair must look. He couldn’t keep a grin off his face. “Practicing secret spy stuff,” he said, wiggling his toes for emphasis. “Very secret.”

    Gemma nodded sagely. “Ah, secret spy stuff,” she murmured. “Like this?” She held a note forward, one that she pulled from a rift between her smock and dress. 

    Thean beamed, recognizing his own handwriting on the crumpled paper. “It worked!” he exclaimed. “I was worried I might have slipped it in the wrong bucket.”

    Gemma stepped over the nearest pillow, settling down in front of him and frowning. “‘Worked’ isn’t how I’d put it. I have no idea what you wrote- I came here to ask.” 

    “I wrote for you to come here after supper.” He thought he’d written that clearly enough. 

    “Raven…” Gemma laughed, shaking her head. “I was going to do that anyway. Just like yesterday, and the night before.” 

    “Oh.” Stupid. “Right. Well, tonight it’s really important that you came. I need your help.” 

    She nodded for him to go on, leaning back on the palms of her hands. Thean told her in detail the events of the day, specifically of his need to read the map in Inoth’s room to relay the directions to his father- that way, knights could be sent to stop the transfer of the prisoners to the slave camps, and provide them sanctuary in Nemeth until Camelot was retaken. 

    When his recount had concluded, Gemma tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Let me make sure I have all this right,” she said, holding her hand in the air. She put down each finger individually as she spoke. “You and I are going to somehow break into Inoth’s tower room and read his map, without getting caught. Then, you’re going to go on this journey with prisoners and a bunch of mage children, let an ambush take over- and somehow not get killed, or look suspiciously like you’re helping the enemy?” 

    “Yes…” Thean said, maintaining eye contact with her. That showed confidence, right? Even in a plan that was ridiculously prone to failure? 

    Clearly, he hadn’t inspired enough confidence in Gemma for her to be persuaded. “Raven. We can’t do this on our own.”

    “Then what are you suggesting?” He knew that this was part of why he’d wanted to confide in Gemma; other than to give her hope, he’d also desperately wanted to not be alone in the complexities of his double life. 

    Gemma straightened her back; suddenly, she was the one who seemed to try and muster up confidence in her words. “That we let someone else in on this.” 

    “What?!” The word came out as a shout, and Thean had to make a true effort to say the rest in a hushed voice. “A week ago you were furious I told you at all! Now you want to let someone else know? 

    “I don’t like the idea either, but there’s strength in numbers- even though there’s risk, too. If you weren’t leaving the castle, I wouldn’t suggest it, but…” She looked askance at him, a small smile on her lips. “You’re going to need someone to look out for you when I’m not there.” 

    Thean sighed. She was right, of course- but her proposal put a whole new problem before him. Telling Gemma had been a huge risk, one his father and those back in Nemeth only approved of because it was irreversible. One wrong decision on who else to trust, and the tower of glass he’d created could shatter. Or trust no one at all, and risk his and Gemma’s luck running out. 

    Gemma scooted in closer to him, hugging her knees to her chest. “Is there really no one else who might help?” she murmured, voice gone soft with worry. 

    “Well…” Thean said reluctantly, turning his head towards the door. “There is one.” 

*****

    Konneth was the one to open the door of his shared room, and thank the gods for that. Thean hadn’t even tried to think of an explanation had it been Etho who heard the knocking first; perhaps he had a little too much faith in his ability to lie. 

    He led a sleepily befuddled Konneth back to his own room, where all the sheets and pillows still lay on the ground from his flying experiments. Konneth took the strange sight in stride, sitting in the mess across from Thean- coincidentally, in the same spot as Gemma had been in. Thean had told her to remain in the kitchens lest his conversation with Konneth go awry. She’d hesitated, but eventually relented. Though she had shown herself more than willing to help out Thean in the past week, she still had some sense of self-preservation, a skill which Thean realized he might be lacking as he prepared to tell yet another Departed Lands child about who he truly was. 

    This time, he held back more than he had with Gemma. They were on a time limit; the night was growing shorter, and Thean was unsure of precisely how early Inoth might rise and visit his tower. His long-winded and haphazard explanation to Gemma may have been what drove her away, too; he couldn’t afford to make the same mistake. 

    He spoke of a world entirely new to Konneth- one where children stayed with their parents, and were not singled out for their talents; a world where one’s way of life and beliefs weren’t forced upon them by the powerful, and variety encouraged. A world where even the most beaten down could find hope. 

    When Thean had spoken his mouth dry, Konneth sat back and let out a long breath. He nodded once, succinctly. “Okay.” 

    Thean waited for more. “Okay?” he repeated in disbelief. “I just told you all of- that- and your response is, ‘okay?’” 

    “Sorry,” Konneth said, frowning in confusion. “What reaction would you prefer? How about, er… you bastard! May you be forever Unbalanced, traitor!” 

    “That was more what I was expecting, yes.” 

    Konneth shrugged. “Most of what you told me sounds like nonsense, but it still makes more sense than what I’ve grown up with.” 

    “Right,” Thean said uncertainly. “So, you don’t have any questions?” He wanted to believe that he’d managed to have this revelation go better than it had with Gemma, but that seemed a suspicious strike of good fortune. 

    “Oh, I have many questions,” Konneth said. “But first, I’m guessing you’ve told me all this for a reason. Why?” 

    “My, erm, partner convinced me to.” He felt suddenly even more uncomfortable than he had when he first began to tell Konneth of Camelot. Letting someone else in on their plans had been Gemma’s idea, but revealing her identity still made Thean uneased; it reminded him that his well-being wasn’t the only one he had to worry about.

    Konneth beamed at Thean’s implications. “So someone else knows, too?” He studied Thean, whose blush could be made out even in the dim lighting. “A girl, then? Clara?”

    “No,” Thean said quickly. “And you mustn’t tell her- or Etho. I know they’re your friends, but…”

    “I won’t tell them,” Konneth promised solemnly. “Just ‘cause they’re my friends doesn’t mean I trust them.”

    Thean felt a bit of the tension seep out of him, sighing in relief. 

    Having overcome some of his prior sleepiness, Konneth clapped his hands together. “So! What’s my first mission, Commander Raven?” 

    “I’ll explain once we’re there,” Thean said, smiling at the nickname. “Come on.” 

    They headed out of Thean’s bedroom and towards the kitchen. Thean slowed to match his pace with Konneth’s, continually glancing at the other boy. He wanted to trust him, but couldn’t do so just yet. Actions over words, his mother hand once told him. Konneth could easily break his promise and go running to whomever would listen.

    For the next few minutes, though, Konneth gave Thean no surprises. They wound their way easily through the halls, not encountering another soul until they reached the kitchens. Upon seeing Gemma through the doorway, Konneth glanced at Thean, a flash of unease in his eyes. Thean nodded meaningfully towards him.

    “Really?” Konneth gasped. “Oi, pastry girl! You too?” 

    “Oi, magic boy. Keep it down,” Gemma hissed, striding towards them. 

    “You know each other?” Thean asked, looking between them in confusion.

    “Unfortunately,” Gemma muttered. “Konneth here is always ruining what I make.” 

    “Enhancing is the word you’re looking for,” Konneth said, a smug look on his face. “Etho and Clara never liked those cheese pastries of yours until I magicked up some spices for them.” 

    “It’s not my fault those are no good. Sadovy never gives us-” Gemma paused, taking in a deep breath. “That’s not important, though. We should get going.” 

    “Going! Yes,” Konneth said, his excitement renewed. “Going where?” 

    Thean hesitated for a moment, looking towards Gemma for confirmation. When she didn’t protest, he turned to Konneth. “Going to the Balancer’s quarters, where my lessons are held. There’s a map I need Gemma’s help reading, and we’ll need you as a lookout.” 

    Konneth nodded, brows furrowing. “Why would you need a map, though? I thought you knew this citadel like the back of your hand.”

    “I do,” Thean said, feeling a moment of pride in the truth of that statement. “But I don’t know the forest outside Camelot as well. Tomorrow, me and others of my choosing are going to escort the prisoners- my friends, Camelot’s citizens- to be transferred. I don’t intend to let them reach their destination.” 

    “Sounds like an excellent way to unbalance the Balancer.” A slow grin came to Konneth’s face. “Will I be on that mission tomorrow, as your most trusted companion?”

    “Most trusted?” Gemma repeated dubiously. 

    “If you’re willing,” Thean said to Konneth. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be safe.” 

    “Neither is staying here,” Konneth said grimly. “I’d much rather take my chances with you than with Zezumo.” 

    Their magic instructor still showed his distaste for Konneth and Tazuth regularly, but whatever Inoth had told him regarding Thean’s request to not punish the brothers had stuck. Still, it wouldn’t be unlike Zezumo to take advantage of Thean’s absence the next day and use the opportunity to ridicule them more than usual. 

    Having nothing else that needed immediate addressing, the three of them left the kitchens. Thean led the way, Gemma and Konneth close behind. There was a strangeness to hearing the footsteps of others behind him, and not fearing the sound. He’d gotten used to being alone. 

    I could get used to this, too.

    They reached the winding staircase to the tower without issue. Konneth whistled softly as he craned his neck to see where the top was, earning him a glare from Gemma. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, hurrying to follow them as they began the ascent. The wooden steps creaked far too loudly for comfort, and they were all silent until they reached the top. A comically large silver lock greeted them, gleaning from the moonlight of a nearby window. 

    “A lock?” Gemma murmured, leaning down to observe it. “Somehow I didn’t think Inoth’s security measures would be so… ordinary.” 

    “I don’t think it is,” Thean sighed. “There’s magic coming off that in waves.”

    “Yeah. I feel it, too,” Konneth said softly.

    Swallowing down his nervousness, Thean began to reach his hand forward tentatively. A million scenarios of doom raced through his mind- the lock setting off a cascade that made the floor beneath them crumble, or sending a shock through his body like lightning. 

    “Oh, come off it,” Konneth said, batting Thean’s hand away before it could reach its destination. “Haven’t you ever broken into somewhere before?” 

    Thean straightened up, squinting at Konneth in the dim light. “Have you? ”

    It seemed the natural next line of questioning, but Konneth wasn’t prepared for it. “I may have, once or twice,” he muttered, shifting where he stood. “Winters weren’t the nicest season in our village. Had to make our own charity, you know?” 

    Neither of the other children did know, precisely- but they understood enough to nod and avert their eyes. Konneth cleared his throat, turning his attention back to the lock. 

    “You sure you can pick that?” Gemma asked. 

    “No,” Konneth said, kneeling down to begin- but Thean put a hand on his shoulder, halting him in his tracks. 

    An idea had come to him suddenly- one he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of before, it was so simple. The easiest way to bring down your enemy? Use their own tricks against them. 

    Thean took a deep breath, and walked through the door. 

    A muffled cry of surprise rang out from behind him, and cringed. He heard no other loud sounds thereafter, though, so the other two children must have remembered their need for quiet. The room before him looked no different than when he’d last seen it, so he strode over to the large, ornate desk at which Inoth kept his maps and materials. 

    No locks were on the drawers, but Thean still grew tense as he pried one open, waiting for the sound of bells ringing in alarm or mages running up the steps. When he had listened to the sounds of a sleeping castle for several moments, he began to sift through the contents of the drawer quickly. The first he checked had no maps, only books written in the chaotic language of the Departed Lands. A few held diagrams that looked to depict spells, and Thean had to force himself to not linger on them. 

    The next drawer held the maps, each rolled carefully in line with one another. He grabbed the topmost one, showing what he thought to be the border between Camelot and Nemeth. Ink that looked fresher than the rest drew a line in the lowermost left corner. To be safe, he grabbed the other nearest maps in case he’d guessed wrong. 

    He strode confidently towards the door, but stopped just in front of it. When practicing the wall walking spell, he hadn’t been carrying any specific objects. But his clothes had followed him through (thankfully), so he assumed the thin parchment of the maps would, too. 

    His assumption proved correct- the maps went with him through the doorway just fine. He smiled to himself in satisfaction as he came out on the other side and solidified. 

    Two baffled faces gaped back at him. “What  was that?” Gemma demanded. “You disappeared! Without a word!” 

    “Yeah, we thought the door had eaten you,” Konneth said. 

    Gemma rolled her eyes. “No, we just thought you’d done something dumb.” 

    “Neither. I got the maps!” Thean said, holding up the parchment roll. “At least, I think I did. I’m, er, mostly sure.” 

    Perhaps the late hour was getting to Gemma- or perhaps Thean really had done something dumb, but she was too to reach peak annoyance. She took the maps from him with a sigh. “This is why you don’t just walk through walls without telling us first.” She began to lay out the maps on the small landing, forcing Thean and Konneth towards the periphery. As Konneth began to peer at them, Gemma frowned. “Konneth, why don’t you keep a lookout down below?” she said. “Make sure no one comes too near here.” 

    Konneth blinked in surprise, but accepted the task without protest. He retreated to the midpoint of the stairs- far enough down that he could keep an eye on the nearest hallways, but close enough to be within their line of sight, too. 

    It didn’t take long for Gemma to settle on the most likely map that held the route for the mission. “This one,” she said, tapping a finger on the map Thean had first grabbed. “Starts at the castle, ends with the word ‘transfer.’ Although…” 

    “Although?” Thean prodded. 

    “It’s a much longer route than I’d expect,” Gemma said, tracing along the inky path. “Even if you marched through the night, you wouldn’t reach the last spot till the next morning. The Balancer didn’t tell you that?” 

    “No. He hardly told me anything.” And that was just starting to bother him. 

    “Hmm,” Gemma murmured, eyes flicking between Thean and the map. “Perhaps he doesn’t trust you as much as we thought.” 

    Thean sunk back where he sat. He’d been becoming increasingly more comfortable during Inoth’s lessons, finding himself watching his words less and trying to truly enjoy the new spells he’d learned. The fearful image he’d constructed of Inoth was being torn down each day with every laugh and bit of encouragement the man gave him. 

    “That doesn’t mean he suspects anything,” Gemma said, easily reading Thean’s thoughts. “He didn’t get where he is by trusting everyone. He’s still told you more than any other apprentice.” 

    “And I still hardly know anything,” Thean said glumly, shame biting with his self-pity. 

    “That’ll change. You’ve got us now, right?” She cocked her head in the direction of the stairwell where Konneth was. Before Thean could respond with more than a smile, she turned her attention back to the map, unrolling it further. “This route he drew will take you through the lowlands of Camelot and into the Departed Lands. The transfer- to grown up brutes, I’m guessing?- that’ll take place east of the Medora mountains.” 

    “Medora mountains?” A chill went down his spine. Even after a year, the name of that place still held power over him.