Chapter Text

It begins, as most things do, with bandits.

Arthur, Merlin, Morgana, and Guinevere are all in the Darkling Woods together, ostensibly to help Merlin gather herbs for Gaius but truly to get out of the castle after a monster of a snowstorm rolled through Camelot and trapped every soul in the kingdom indoors for six long and wretched days. It's been a freakishly brutal winter this year, and even after the storm clears the snow is still halfway up past their ankles and the wind numbs their fingers and noses—but the sky is a brilliant forget-me-not blue and they can feel the sun on their faces, so it's good enough.

Guinevere had talked them all into building a squat ugly little snowman earlier, an activity which Arthur wouldn't be caught dead participating in, thank you very much, but he found his own fun taking the piss out of Merlin for being so particular about which stones they used for eyes and skipping the ones he rejected across the frozen pond to impress Guinevere (having given up on impressing Morgana years ago). But it was idle work to be certain—so, whilst the three of them frolicked about, Arthur decided to make himself useful and lay down a few rabbit snares, hopeful he might be able to take home a bit of game to his father to replenish their dwindling supply.

Now Arthur, of course, is as humble and modest as any man can be—but in hindsight, he'd say it was definitely his unwitting decision to split the group that wound up saving their lives.

He'd kept their little group well within earshot, as he's the only one among them who knows how to properly use a weapon no matter what Morgana says, but he hadn't left the clearing long enough to finish even the first snare when Merlin appeared in the clearing behind him, pink-nosed and covered in snow. "Gwen and Morgana are trying to decide on a name for the snowman," he reported, as though such a thing would matter at all to Arthur. "I suggested Arthur, but he's a bit too tall and handsome—it just doesn't fit."

Arthur had been glad to be kneeling by the snare and facing away from Merlin, because his lips pulled up traitorously at the corners. "Well, we certainly can't name him Merlin," he replied lightly, returning the barb in kind, "he's far too intelligent to be mistaken for the likes of you, and his ears far too small." Merlin kicked some snow at him and Arthur tutted, "An attack on my royal person is treason, Merlin!" —but even as he spoke the words, he felt the smile slide off his face.

It's a peculiar kind of melancholy that steals over Arthur as of late: he'll be perfectly fine, going about his duties as usual, when the smallest of reminders brings his mind back around to one of the very worst days of his entire life. This time it was the thought of attacking a royal person; suddenly, Arthur was remembering how his father looked pinned to the throne in the council chambers, his eyes boring into Arthur's even as Arthur's sword pointed directly at his heart. It's always like that—for just a very brief moment, Arthur will be whisked away to a different time and place, as real to him as life itself, and he remains distracted and troubled after, sometimes for hours.

In that particular instance it didn't last long though; Merlin called Arthur's name from behind him and Arthur shook the image away and stood. "What is it now?"

"I was asking if you were all right," said Merlin. "Only you've been a bit quiet today, when you weren't threatening to throw me into the pond."

And it would have been easy to tell Merlin everything. Arthur's thought about it many times: for all of Merlin's many flaws, he makes a decent listener, and Arthur trusts him above all others. He was at Arthur's side through the whole ugly ordeal, and he saw and heard everything that Arthur did. But there's one thing Arthur knows that even Merlin doesn't, and however tempting the thought of unburdening himself might be, that's a secret Arthur intends to take with him to his grave.

Arthur opened his mouth, trying to come up with some witty rejoinder that would prove adequately distracting—because Merlin is an idiot, yes, but he has a strangely sharp sense about people sometimes—when he was saved from having to respond at all by arrows flying at them from the trees.

Arthur finds out later that they were outnumbered more than two to one, but he and Merlin were far enough away from the girls that a small part of the bandits' entourage had stayed behind to attack them, wrongly assuming that Morgana was unarmed and also that neither she nor Guinevere were brave enough to fight back. Unfortunately, that meant Arthur had to hold his own against at least half a dozen men with naught but poor Merlin for backup (which, in Arthur's opinion, is just about the same as having no backup at all, for Merlin loathes a fight and seems to vanish as if by magic every time anything even mildly threatening occurs).

Arthur had done as much before in training, of course, and it wasn't so different, even though he had forgone his usual chainmail in favor of furs so as not to freeze to death in the snow, and the bandits struck faster and harder than his knights, with every intention of killing. They were only bandits, and as such were simply incompetent: two of them were foolish enough to be under a tree limb laden with heavy snow and icicles just as it cracked, and they were knocked out—another seemed to trip over his own two feet in the middle of attempting to take Arthur's head off his shoulders, and Arthur was quick enough to run him through—

Really, Arthur was only getting a bit winded when one of the louts got lucky and landed a blow along the inside of his sword arm, over his wrist and up into his palm—and it wasn't that deep, it definitely didn't hurt, he only lost his grip on his weapon because of the cold. His fingers were still numb from laying all those rabbit snares, that's all. If he cried out, it was only surprise, not pain and certainly not fear; how could Arthur possibly be frightened by this dirty group of lowlifes?

Besides, by that point Morgana and Guinevere had finished up with their portion of the bandits and come barrelling out of the trees with stolen swords. They weren't half as good as Arthur put together, of course, but how could he deny them their moment of glory after they had—rather bravely, for women—dispatched two men all on their own? Arthur's not so insensitive as Merlin thinks he is. If he hung back and let the girls finish the fight off, well, that was for their benefit, and had very little to do with the blood pouring down his forearm or the pain shooting up to his elbow.

Honestly, that should have been that. The bandits that still lived were disarmed or wounded or both, Morgana and Guinevere had but one man left between them, and Arthur—out of long-held habit, and definitely not out of any real concern—was already looking around to see where Merlin had scurried off to this time. Merlin, true to form, was crouched behind a nearby snowbank, head just far enough over the top to peer out at the fight. And all right, perhaps the sight of his enormous ears poking out from under his hat did bring Arthur a little relief—but only for a moment, for unfortunately, there was one bandit they hadn't accounted for, and he had his crossbow aimed right at Merlin's heart.

Looking back it's hard to describe just how it happened, so quickly it came to pass. Arthur knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that even should he call a warning Merlin would not be quick enough to avoid the crossbow bolt. And he knew with equal certainty that should the bolt strike true, Merlin would die. And Arthur simply could not, would not, abide by Merlin dying—who else could he possibly stand to see first thing every morning? who else knew him well enough to remember to add honey to all his tonics?—hence, he was determined to do absolutely anything in his power to see it prevented. So he shouted his warning anyway, injured hand held out in vain, and Merlin turned in time to see the bolt but not dodge it, and then—

The crossbow bolt burned up. Midflight, the thing caught fire like kindling, and before it could reach Merlin it was naught but ashes.

Magic.

Everything stopped. Their snowy little clearing was as still and quiet as a held breath. Morgana and Guinevere were frozen, their swords at one bandit's throat; Merlin's jaw practically scraped the ground. The bandit's eyes bugged out of his head. Then he did the unthinkable: pointed one grubby finger at Arthur and hissed, "Sorcerer!"

Arthur drew back, offended. "I beg your pardon—"

Then all hell broke loose.

There was no chance to speak further before one of the discarded swords on the ground rose up and flung itself at Arthur. He ducked it and watched it sail into a nearby stand of firs, but Guinevere let out a little shriek, pointing down at the man she and Morgana had pinned. "He's the sorcerer!" she gasped, backing away from him. "I saw his eyes, they were like fire!"

Before Arthur could even begin to puzzle that out—if the bandit was the sorcerer, why would he save Merlin?—the bandit took advantage of his newfound space away from the business end of Guinevere's blade and scrambled to his feet, making a run for it. "Wait!" cried Guinevere, taking two steps after him and holding out her hand—and this time Arthur saw the sorcery himself, for it was Guinevere's eyes that flashed molten gold, as the roots of the trees all lifted themselves out of the snow to trip up the bandit and knock him out cold.

Morgana's eyes were huge and round; Arthur had never seen her look so stupefied. "Gwen?" she whispered.

But then the bandit who had nearly shot Merlin cried "Sorcery!" again and charged forward with a yell—a shock of fear ran through Arthur's very blood and then the bandit went up in flames, burning as merrily as any campfire, and fell to the ground in a shrieking, stinking heap, and all of the blood drained from Merlin's face as he looked at Arthur as though somehow it was Arthur's doing.

Then two of the bandits who weren't dead yet both got to their feet and pointed at Arthur and shouted and their eyes glowed gold and several of the longer and sharper icicles broke off of the trees to hover menacingly in the air—but before they could fling themselves at Arthur or his friends, those bandits were on fire, and when Arthur looked Morgana's eyes were glowing too, her hands were held out, and the men still on the ground who had not yet died began shouting, and the weapons began throwing themselves about, tree roots uprooting themselves from the ground—

And that's how it starts.

HOW ARTHUR GOT
HIS GROOVE BACK

Merlin is having such a very bad day.

Oh, it started nicely enough—the blizzard had finally passed them over, they all got to run about in the woods and play in the snow like children, and Arthur didn't throw one single thing at him, not even a snowball—but this? This?

Merlin isn't sure what the hell he's supposed to be feeling upon seeing Arthur—Arthur Pendragon!—and the rest of his friends using magic, but most of what he feels is terrified. They're all scared stupid too, most especially Morgana, he can tell, but now that the fight is over and all of the bandits are dead he's in too much shock to do very much about it. Merlin watches them argue as though from a great distance, a strange ringing in his ears.

"I couldn't have possibly been the one using magic," Arthur says again. "I've never studied it, I never would, magic is evil, I know that better than anyone—"

"But I saw you!" Morgana protests. "Your eyes flashed!"

"Just like yours, hm?" Arthur says, drawing himself up. His jaw clenches; his arm is still bleeding profusely beneath his white-knuckled grip. "How long have you been practicing magic, then?" he demands. "What were you thinking, don't you know Father would see you hung?"

Morgana recoils as if struck, but Gwen jumps to her defense. "It's not like that, Arthur! My lord," she corrects herself hastily, "Morgana used magic, yes, but we all did—the bandits, me, even you—"

"I did not—use—magic!" Arthur shouts, and on the very last word his eyes light up again, and a brilliant plume of fire shoots right out of the palm of his injured hand, melting a hole in a nearby snowbank.

There is a very long silence in which Arthur's face turns ash white, and everyone stares at the still-dripping snow. At last Arthur whispers, "Bloody hell."

Then he stumbles back against a tree as though his legs simply won't hold him any longer and clamps his mouth shut, swallowing hard. Merlin knows that look: it's the one Arthur wears when he's trying not to be sick.

"You see?" Gwen says gently, and with far more equanimity than Merlin would have been capable of, in her same position. "We all did it."

"All of us except Merlin," Morgana puts in churlishly, and very abruptly every head swivels in Merlin's direction.

And here lies the problem, the one Merlin foresaw from the moment he understood what was happening.

Somehow, his friends—and his would-be attackers—have all been afflicted with the same innate kind of magic Merlin was born with. And if three—thirteen, if you count the bandits—unpracticed, out-of-control magic users wasn't bad enough, all of them now also expect Merlin to use magic too. And Merlin does use magic every single day, has in fact just gotten through using it to save Arthur's royal hide again, but he doesn't use it like they do.

Wild, uncontrolled, in the open: Merlin broke himself of those habits as quickly as he could after his arrival in Camelot, because he prefers his head attached to his shoulders, thanks very much (and also because Gaius kept whapping him with the broom when he wasn't subtle enough). Merlin's magic is quick and silent, it comes on his command or not at all, and so when everyone else was busy losing their heads and lashing out, Merlin was busy getting scared and tamping it as far down as he could, because that's how you don't get your head chopped off by King Uther.

And now, in a horrible, cruel twist of fate, he is suddenly surrounded by magic users—and still somehow the odd one out.

Merlin holds his hands up in surrender. "I don't know," he offers, because he really, really doesn't. It has to be some sort of spell, surely. There's no way thirteen people—twelve, if you don't count Morgana—have all coincidentally been born with magic, a phenomenon so rare it's practically unheard of, and just come into it at the exact same time and place. But as for who could do such a thing, or how, Merlin couldn't even begin to guess. All he knows for sure is that if it's magical it becomes his mess to clean up, and he's not looking forward to it one bit. He needs to get back to Camelot and speak with Gaius—and bugger, what if this is happening back home, too? Camelot will be nothing but a great heap of rubble by the time they return!

Arthur is still gripping the wound on his arm. Merlin itches to get a bandage around it; it's a bad one, and if it isn't treated soon Arthur may never hold a sword again—or worse, bleed out before that can become a real problem. "Merlin," he rasps. Merlin can see the whites of his eyes. "Whatever's happening, it must have gotten you too."

"Must have," Merlin hedges, trying to sound only a little bit hysterical.

"So..." Arthur hesitates. "Did you—do anything? In the fight?"

Only cracked two of them over the head with a tree limb and tripped a third with a root and still nearly watched you die, Merlin thinks. "I'm not sure," he says aloud. "It all happened so quickly..."

"Well, try it now."

"What," Merlin says stupidly. Surely Arthur doesn't mean...

Oh, but Arthur does. "We should see if Guinevere's right," he says. He waves a hand, princelike. The effect is somewhat ruined by all the blood. "Go on, then. Do us a bit of magic, Merlin."

Really it is such a very, very bad day.

"I..." Merlin feels dizzy; his pulse rushes in his ears. He may pass out. Never in his wildest daydreams had he pictured Arthur actually asking him to do magic. That Arthur won't be sending him to the chopping block for doing so is implicit; he hasn't threatened as much for Morgana or Gwen or, impossibly, himself—

In fact, Merlin proving Gwen's theory right might actually save all their skins.

Do a bit of magic for Arthur. All right, he can make that happen. He does magic for Arthur all the time, doesn't he? Nothing to be frightened of. Merlin wets his lips. "What—what do you want me to do?"

Arthur's face screws up in confusion. "How should I know? It just happened for everybody else. Of course, we were in a battle, and we all know how you feel about those..."

Oh. Right. Merlin thinks fast, trying to remember what it felt like when his magic just jumped out and did as it pleased whenever it wanted, when it seemed to be an entirely separate entity from him rather than a part of his whole self. It wasn't so long ago really, but it already feels like a lifetime. Is it more suspicious to be able to use magic here and now at Arthur's command, even without the adrenaline of the fight, or to be the only one among them who hasn't been seen doing it? Of course he'll have to be seen doing it eventually, but if he's too good at it they may figure out it isn't exactly a new situation for him, and then Arthur will—

"Maybe he can't do it put on the spot like this," Gwen whispers, and Merlin's face flames.

"Might need to scare it out of him," Morgana agrees grimly, "like the hiccups."

Arthur's expression turns stormy. He pushes away from the tree and takes one unsteady step towards Merlin and yes, that's all the motivation Merlin needs, thank you very much, he is quite scared enough already without any further bullying from His Royal Highness. With a thought, he flings every last sword still left on the ground into the air one more time, and they fly so fast and so far it's a full ten seconds before they start raining down like meteors against the distant frozen pond, only just visible through the trees.

Arthur is so astonished to see Merlin's eyes glow that he actually staggers backward, and his jaw hangs open as he watches the swords crash through the ice. Merlin takes it in: commits every last detail to memory. He has imagined this moment in a thousand furtive daydreams, in a thousand different ways, and yet never, ever like this.

"Damn," Arthur says at last, and he's always getting onto Merlin about his language but that's twice in the same five minutes he's cursed, he'd better not think for a moment Merlin didn't notice, "I didn't think you had it in you, Merlin."

Has Merlin actually impressed Arthur? With magic? He never thought he'd see the day. "You know me, sire," he squeaks. "I'm always full of surprises!" He closes his eyes for a moment, fighting against a terrible wave of vertigo. All right, Merlin. Crisis averted, at least for now—time to start working on the cleanup. "Let's have a look at that arm, Arthur, and then I think we'd better head back as quick as we can."

Now Arthur is the one who looks like he might pass out. "What's your hurry?" he asks, even as he obediently holds out the injured limb. "We can't exactly go home with all of us somehow using—" Seems he can't get the m-word out, that's fascinating— "We'd be killed! We have to fix it first!"

Merlin sighs and takes Arthur's arm in his hands. "That's just the thing." He looks up and meets Arthur's eyes. "If all this happened here, to us—Arthur, just imagine what's happening back in Camelot."

Camelot is still standing upon their return, so things are not as quite as dire as Merlin feared, but they are close.

Merlin smells the smoke and hears the screaming before the city even crests over the hill. Upon reaching the gates, the first thing they see is half a dozen guards doing their level best to pull a little curly-haired boy barely out of his toddling years away from his mum, a wisp of a woman already clapped in irons. The child isn't having any of it: he's wailing at the top of his lungs, eyes gone golden even as fat ugly tears streak down his red screwed-up face, and the snow-covered cobblestones beneath him have been torn apart by tree roots that are all grasping the guards by various limbs and trying to pull them apart.

The scene hits Merlin like a gut-punch; how many nightmares has he had about someone ripping him away from his own mother just like this? He pulls his horse up short. "Arthur, you've got to stop them!"

"Don't tell me what to do," Arthur snaps, but he dismounts before his horse has even come to a stop, striding forward without so much as drawing his sword. "Guardsmen! Answer me at once, what is the meaning of this?"

As Merlin, Gwen, and Morgana dismount to stand behind Arthur, one tree root manages to yank a guard clean off his feet, sending him sprawling backwards until he is a wet undignified heap at Arthur's feet. "He is a sorcerer, sire," the guard says helplessly, looking up at Arthur from the ground. "The king decreed that we were to round them all up and put them in the square to be burned."

A muscle ticks in Arthur's jaw. "I'm afraid you'll have rather a difficult time with that." He holds a hand out to help the guard to his feet and raises his voice. "Let the boy go, immediately. For God's sake, unchain his mother."

Merlin rocks back on his heels, eyes closed against the sight. It's not true, it's not real, but Arthur seeing magic done before his eyes and still ordering that ones using it are to be spared from the pyre...

At Arthur's command the guards freeze in their efforts against the tree roots—but they do not obey. "Sire, King Uther said..."

"The king has yet to—" Arthur's eyes dart away. "Look, something's gone terribly wrong—it's everyone, Hebes. I've seen it with my own eyes. None of us will have been spared. Sooner or later you'll all wind up doing it too."

And suddenly Merlin understands: though Arthur's word carries a great deal of weight, it does not carry more weight than the king's. He must be very persuasive to convince the guards to disobey a direct order. It was clever, a distant part of Merlin notes, to address the guard by name.

The guard named Hebes hesitates. "Sire, our orders were to find all of the sorcerers. This boy is clearly using magic..."

"But he's not really a sorcerer, is he?" Gwen asks suddenly, and when everyone turns to look at her she claps her hands over her mouth. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have interrupted—"

"No," Arthur says quickly, "I urge you, Guinevere, speak."

"Well...we all did it," Gwen says, spreading her hands. "But just because we used magic doesn't make us sorcerers. I'm certainly not one, and neither are you—or Merlin or Morgana or those bandits—" She clears her throat. "Because you have to—to learn magic, don't you, to practice it? But none of us have done that, this boy isn't even old enough to know how to read! This has to be something else, some kind of—attack, or something? Under normal circumstances, he and his mother are as normal as you or me. They're victims, just like the rest of us."

Gwen falls silent; it hangs there for a moment. It's a rather vexing distinction, to Merlin—that it would matter more whether or not someone chose to have magic to begin with than it would matter how they used said magic—but if it saves the child's life—

After a moment Arthur's expression clears, and Merlin knows Gwen has struck the right chord. "She's absolutely right," Arthur tells the guard. "They're not sorcerers—and you must release them, before they hurt someone."

The guard looks very uncomfortable. "But, sire..."

Arthur lowers his voice and leans forward, attention focused solely on the guardsman. "Hebes, you're a good man, and I know you don't want to tear this child from his mother's arms and see them burned alive. Now I am giving you an out. I beg you, for the love of Camelot: take it."

Merlin watches with held breath. Come on, he thinks. Come on. He has been at the center of Arthur's attention before too. He knows better than anyone how Arthur looking at you like that makes you want to see his will done, make him proud. And he can see the moment the guard cracks, and the way his shoulders slump in relief.

"The prince's word is beyond contestation," he says at last. "If you say he is not a sorcerer, sire, then he is not, and it is not disobeying our orders to release him. Go on, then," he shouts at his companions, "let the poor lad go! Unchain the woman!"

The guards release the boy, and he flings himself into his mother's skirts. As soon as he's wrapped in her arms, the tree roots all slither back into the ground beneath the cobblestones, freeing the guards in turn. They stumble to their feet, looking upon Arthur with gratitude clear on their faces—and just like that, Arthur's made order out of chaos.

"Spread the word," Arthur orders. "Do what you must to protect the people from themselves but on my command no one is to be detained, let alone burned, until I speak with my father and we have made some sense out of this madness."

"Yes, sire," the guard says, and bows deep, even as his fellows go about unshackling the boy's mother. "And, Prince Arthur—thank you."

Merlin breathes a deep sigh of relief. Arthur's going to be a magnificent king someday—this is one of those times when he knows it right down to his bones.

As soon as the guards are out of earshot, Arthur addresses Gwen. "That was well done, Guinevere," he says, though his eyes are on the castle instead of her. "Now come along—we have to get to my father."

They all hurry to catch up with him. "What are you going to do?" Morgana asks. "Gwen's loophole worked well enough with the guards, but you know Uther as well as I—he'll never accept that these people aren't sorcerers."

"He has to," Arthur says, and though he walks with purpose Merlin can well enough read the fear on his face. "If it comes from me, he—he must! He can't just burn everyone in Camelot!"

Morgana doesn't look so convinced. "He can try."

And as it turns out, she's got the right of it. After picking their way through the chaos in town, they find Uther in the throne room proper, surrounded by his council and servants, half of whom are in chains, and quite a great deal of guards, who have all nervously turned their swords on one another.

"And that one!" Uther shouts, pointing. "I saw his eyes, I saw his magic! He must be burned with the rest!"

The guardsman in question can't be a day over eighteen; his knees are practically knocking together. "I didn't—I wouldn't—" And when his fellows approach him, wary, the thick red runner yanks itself out from under their feet and they all tumble down into a heap. The boy grasps his hair, terrified. "I didn't!" he wails again, despite the glow in his eyes. "I wouldn't! Not magic! Never magic!"

"Sire, this is madness!" cries someone from the back, and Merlin's heart drops when he sees Gaius is already among those to be sent to the pyre. "You must see that some other evil is afoot!"

"It is a coup," Uther snarls, twisting in his seat. "You're trying to overrun us from the inside, but I will not let it happen, I will not let you poison our kingdom, I will put every last one of you to the flame if I must—"

Merlin, Arthur, Morgana, and Gwen all stand beneath the huge wooden doorframe, as of yet unnoticed. "Arthur," Merlin pleads, wringing his hat in his hands. "Arthur, look, it's Gaius."

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur says, though quite without his usual heat. He looks nearly as frightened as Merlin feels, face white, his eyes wide. "I can hear him just as well as you can. There's no need to get so worried—I'm going to take care of it."

"How?" Morgana asks. She's looking at the scene before them with tears standing in her eyes, one of Gwen's hands clutched in both of hers. With a twist of guilt Merlin remembers she thinks that she's the only one among them with true magic, and that she's staring her very own future right in the face.

Arthur touches her shoulder very briefly. "Don't worry," he says again, forcing a smile, and then his hand drops. He takes a moment to steel himself as though before a battle, and then he strides forward. "Father!"

A hush falls over the throne room. From the back Gaius seeks Merlin out in the crowd and catches his eye. A look passes between them and Gaius shakes his head—he hasn't a clue either, then. They've really got their work cut out for them this time.

The people part like water to let prince and king face one another. Uther looks upon his son with open relief on his face. "Arthur," he breathes, and rises from his throne to step towards him. "You're safe."

Arthur inclines his head. "You must stop this, Father."

Uther's rage returns at once. "You would command me? We are being overrun!"

Arthur casts his eyes down—in deference, in supplication. "I would only counsel you, sire. These people are not sorcerers. Something's happened—everyone has been inflicted with magic."

"Impossible," Uther dismisses. "Such a thing cannot be done."

"But it has been," Arthur says. "It's evil at work to be sure, but the people are not to blame, and you cannot burn them all."

"Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do!" Uther shouts, and it looks as though it takes every effort for Arthur not to step back away from him despite the distance between them. "I am protecting our kingdom from the likes of evil such as this!" He waves a hand at the prisoners against the back wall.

Arthur swallows, hard. It's difficult to tell from this distance, but he may be trembling. "Would you protect our kingdom from the likes of me?"

Uther's eyes narrow. "What?"

He wouldn't, Merlin thinks blankly.

But he does.

There's about half a dozen paces between Arthur and his father, which means he has plenty of room. He widens his stance as if bracing for a blow. Then he lifts his bloodied, injured hand, still wrapped in makeshift bandages, holding his palm out towards Uther. He keeps both eyes open, so none can miss their glow.

And fire rushes forth from his fingertips, hot and bright as the sun itself.

Arthur is mad.

The crowd screams and falls back. And watching Arthur's silhouette, Merlin is struck by a nagging sense of familiarity. He had it back in the forest, too, when Arthur first called the flame, only there hadn't really been time to address it. But now that he's thinking about it, he wonders how he didn't realize before. The fire billowing from his hand, the gold glow of his eyes, the embers swirling around his feet, even the broadness of his shoulders, the spread of his cloak, the way his head is held high...

Arthur looks just like a dragon.

The flames dance for a long moment, reflected off the colored stained glass windows—then, at last, they die. Arthur sways on his feet. He's panting as though he just escaped death, real terror in his eyes. But Arthur is nothing if not brave, and he does not back down. "Well?" he asks Uther. "Are you going to kill me, too?"

Uther's mouth is hanging open; he looks as though he's just seen a ghost. Merlin's never felt such a kinship with him, frankly.

Then Uther spins around to face the prisoners on the wall. "You!" he shouts, pointing at the first person he sees—Gaius, unfortunately. Merlin despairs. Was it truly all for nothing? "You have enchanted my son! And you!" Uther spins back around to face Arthur, jabbing a finger at him on every second word. "Have I taught you nothing? How long have you been practicing—"

And then it happens. Uther's eyes glow gold. Arthur ducks, just in time. And a burst of fire erupts from the king's fingertip.

Arthur, it seems, truly is his father's son. The blood drains from Uther's face. He looks at his own hand in horror. Then he takes three unsteady steps and collapses into the throne as though his legs cannot support him and says, "Bloody hell."

"It would be fire," Merlin gripes to Gaius later, after the crowd in the throne room has been disbanded and the would-be prisoners freed from their bonds. He's seated at one of Gaius's many worktables in the physician's quarters, furiously dabbing ointment on the places where Uther's shackles cut into Gaius's skin. "All the easier to light a pyre with, isn't it?"

Gaius chuckles weakly. In the flickering torchlight of the indoors, he looks even older than he already is; too old to bear Uther's misgivings about magic. "I have to say, the sight of Uther Pendragon using magic is certainly not one I ever expected to see."

Why not? Merlin nearly asks. He used magic to create Arthur. But that was different, he supposes, seeing as Uther got Nimueh to work that magic for him, and anyway that's one of those things Merlin would rather die than bring up—especially as Uther did actually threaten him with a hanging for doing so. Sometimes Merlin still wonders if he did the right thing by lying to Arthur that day. He stopped Arthur from killing his father at the behest of Morgause, an act for which he would never have forgiven himself—but in so doing he also took away what Arthur desired most in all the world: a single memory of his mother. To add salt to the wound, Merlin allowing Arthur to believe it was nothing but another lying sorceress served only to further harden his already-hard heart against magic.

"It's a good job Arthur was brave enough to use magic in front of him," Merlin says instead, and with no small amount of admiration. "I don't think I could ever have done something like that, not in a thousand years."

"With good reason. It was very brave, but also very foolish. Arthur is the only one who could have done such a thing and lived." Gaius gives Merlin's arm a sympathetic pat. "There is one silver lining: until we get this sorted, you shouldn't have to work so hard to hide your magic."

"Oh, Gaius." Merlin blows out a sigh. "Don't you see? Now I have to work twice as hard! I'm going to have to pretend to be bad at magic when I've only just gotten good at it." Merlin has been able to move objects about and do a few other tricks since he was an infant, but actually directing magic more often than not requires an incantation, especially for new or powerful spells. The verbal command of the elements sharpens focus, compels them to obey; it takes a very practiced or powerful sorcerer to work with the elements instinctively, without having to speak that command aloud. Merlin has barely learned to do most of what he needs with incantations, but with everything happening now, he's going to have to, quite literally, keep his mouth shut—so that his magic looks just like everyone else's. "I have to act like I'm out of control like everyone else, or they'll start to suspect there's something amiss. I nearly gave myself away earlier today; it was awful." He tells Gaius about having to use his magic in front of the others back in the woods.

Gaius seems troubled. "I hadn't thought of it like that," he admits. He gazes out the window for a moment, watching the light fade. "I'm glad you showed up when you did. I feared Uther would put us all to the flame, down to the last woman and child."

"Maybe now that he's been forced to accept it, it'll knock him down a peg," Merlin grouses. "'Course, it's more likely that it just drives him mad." For Arthur's sake, he tries not to think And good riddance! It's been just over six months since Gaius's ordeal at the witchfinder's hands, and seeing him mistreated again already has Merlin in a very bad mood. He's just glad Gwen and Morgana were out of harm's way when the chaos started; they've both suffered more than enough at Uther's hands already. "If whoever did this is trying to hurt Uther, I can't imagine very many better ways to have gone about it."

"You're not wrong," Gaius agrees. "And the list of people angry enough to want to hurt him so badly is nigh endless—I couldn't begin to guess who our culprit might be. You didn't feel anything out of the ordinary while you were out in the forest today, did you?"

Merlin thinks back. "I don't think so," he says at last. The only unusual thing he'd noticed was that Arthur was a bit quiet for someone who had been going stir crazy for six days. The rest of them had been absolutely desperate to get out of doors, and somewhat manic in the process of burning off their energy, but Arthur hung back more often than not—hardly like him, when normally he so enjoys making himself the center of everyone's attention.

"No troubled dreams last night?" Gaius presses, pulling Merlin out of his thoughts.

"None," says Merlin, frowning, "But I did have a sort of—I'm not sure what it was. It woke me out of a dead sleep. " It felt a lot like being called by the dragon, actually. But the dragon's call doesn't leave Merlin feeling as though he is suffocating in his bed, his limbs limp and useless, certain he is only moments from death. It was the worst feeling in the world—but it came and passed so quickly Merlin wondered if he hadn't made the whole thing up. "I felt...something bad. But it was over in a second, and when I got up out of bed to look out the window, I couldn't see or hear anyone, so I thought it must have just been a bad dream. I didn't even think to wake you. As for real dreams—nothing of the sort." He has a thought and winces. "Buuuuut we could ask Morgana."

Gaius lifts his eyebrow.

Yeah, Merlin agrees with that sentiment. Morgana's magic is dangerous, and in point of fact just having magic puts her in danger so long as she still remains inside Uther's walls. It would hardly do for Merlin to bring it up when the best thing for her would be to forget she had magic at all.

But it doesn't usually work like that—Merlin would know. And a part of Merlin still wishes he had told her about his own magic; partly because he feels guilty she's having to go it alone, to be sure, but also because right now he's having to go it alone too. Life would be so much easier with a friend.

It's not that he doesn't trust Morgana. Whatever that stupid dragon says, he knows she has a good heart, and she'd never purposely betray his secret. But sometimes she gets an idea in her head to do something foolish with little heed paid to the consequences, and Merlin can't be sure she wouldn't be that reckless with his safety as well as her own—even one single slip could cost him his head, and then who'd look after Arthur?

It's a fucking good case I make, Merlin thinks dourly. Wish I could believe it. It's very hard to be around Morgana these days; the guilt eats at him every time he sees her smile fall.

They can't ask Morgana anything. They just have to trust that if she did have any unusual dreams, she'd come to them.

"Perhaps the druids," Merlin says, without much hope. "They're a magical people, they might have some idea..."

"They'll be well away from Camelot after what happened with Morgana," says Gaius. "Perhaps settled down somewhere remote for the winter. We'd need a miracle to find them."

Merlin sighs. "Damn," he says, and slumps back down in his seat.

"We could ask the dragon," Gaius says suddenly.

Merlin groans. "That's not actually better than asking Morgana, Gaius!"

"I know you're not the dragon's biggest fan, Merlin, but unless you can think of something better..."

Merlin sighs; as usual, Gaius is right. "We are in a bit over our heads. But with everything going on, I don't even know if I can get down there."

"Better chance of getting to the dragon than getting to the druids," Gaius points out. "Give it a day or two—sooner or later, things will have to settle down."

"Or burn down," Merlin mutters, thinking of Uther. "A day or two—ha! Mark my words, Gaius, we'll be lucky if the kingdom's still standing."

There is a very real chance that Arthur will burn Camelot to the ground before this whole mess is through.

This—this sorcery, this magic, whatever it is, Arthur doesn't have a handle on it, not at all. After Arthur's display in the throne room, his father finds one of his old lists of potential sorcerers and commands the guards to investigate to the last man. Unfortunately, that seems to be the exact opposite of what should be done with an already panicked populace that tends to summon lightning and errant flocks of birds when frightened.

It's slow and dangerous work, made all the worse by Arthur himself—who, at the slightest provocation, has fire flying from his own hands, or the flames from torches and candles leaping up to scorch the ceilings.

Every time Arthur uses magic, he feels it: a jolt of something running right through his bloodstream, a shock of terrible power that's much stronger than his own will. He can't fight it back or shove it down; it comes out of him whether he wishes it or not, an ugly demonstration of impurity and weakness. Really, Arthur thinks, the magic uses him—and isn't that a horrifying thought? It makes him feel as though he isn't even human anymore, just some conduit for a malevolent force that wants to swallow him whole. And if that's how magic feels to everyone, Arthur has no idea why anyone uses it at all.

There is a peculiar itch beneath Arthur's skin when he thinks on it too long, as though some foul taint lives in his bones now and no matter what Arthur does he can't rip it out or scrub it clean. It's enough to drive a man mad. The magic has made its home in him, but he doesn't want it.

No matter how he tries, there is nothing he can do to make it stop.

He's not the only one. Almost every man on the guard is having the same difficulty—though, Arthur notices with some reluctance, the type of magic involved tends to change from person to person. He and Morgana threw fire at the bandits, but Arthur hasn't, say, summoned wind or lightning, and those who have don't seem to call fire. If he's being honest with himself, Arthur would rather have gotten nearly anything other than fire. He remembers very well what happened to the bandits that were set alight, and he spends the entire day fighting the paranoia that at any moment he could accidentally burn someone alive.

An hour past when the shift would normally have changed, the work still isn't finished, and one of the guards—a man who was there when Arthur stopped them taking the boy from his mother earlier that day—seeks Arthur out in private. "I'm afraid it's a lost cause, sire," he whispers. "There's no way to tell the real sorcerers apart from innocent people who've been—afflicted."

He keeps his eyes low. Arthur resists the urge to sigh. He understands, of course—the guard presumes much, to tell Arthur what is and isn't working; Arthur would technically be within the law to have him tried for treason, if the mood struck. He just wishes the man didn't have to look so bloody nervous about it.

Arthur takes a moment to remind himself that he ought to be humbled by the guard's courage and by his trust. It's no easy thing to speak an unfortunate truth when it could cost you your head. That the guard is coming to Arthur at all means some part of him expects to be met with reason and mercy.

"If my own mother were a sorceress, sire, I don't think I'd know it," the guard says helplessly. "All we're doing is causing more of a panic, and I fear such panic could get someone killed."

He's right. Arthur hates it, but he's right. They're never going to get anything accomplished by going around and scaring half the city to death.

Unfortunately, that means Arthur must speak with his father. And why not, Arthur thinks sourly, as he dismisses his men and advises them to get a decent supper and a good night's rest. This is just how he wanted to end this day, playing envoy between his father and the not-at-all touchy subject of magic.

But better him than the guardsman. Arthur, ever-dutiful, is his father's right hand and he serves faithfully without question, a sword to use as the king sees fit. But to his people, Arthur must sometimes be the shield; his status as the prince and the king's only son protects him, and so it is he who must bring the guardsman's concerns to his father, so any ire or retribution is aimed at him and no other, even though it's miserable work and he really doesn't want to. There are few things Arthur wouldn't do to avoid risking his father's disapproval, but sometimes it must be done. At the very worst, Arthur might be locked in the dungeons. The guard, should he catch the king in the wrong mood, might well pay with his life.

That was why Arthur took it upon himself to use magic in the throne room earlier today. No matter how frightening it was, no matter what it cost him, there's not a single soul alive save for Arthur who could have performed magic in front of his father and lived. Even Morgana would have been sent to the pyre.

"It's impossible," Arthur pleads later, once his father has dismissed the guards and they may speak in confidence. His father paces back and forth, chin in his hand. "There's no way to test for real magic when everyone has had it forced upon them."

His father wheels on him so fast Arthur nearly ducks, expecting oncoming flame. "And what would you ask of me, Arthur? Sit back and do nothing? We must put a stop to all of this!"

"And Gaius is looking for the spell," Arthur says, trying to keep his tone placating and submissive, "but until we know what was done and how to reverse it—if we must lock them up to keep them from hurting themselves or one another so be it, but at the very least, Father, don't have anyone executed."

His father groans. "Arthur, be reasonable..."

Is no executions now an unreasonable demand? If so, Arthur despairs already. "That's all I ask!" he says, hands out. "Please. Until this is sorted, we can't be certain we aren't killing innocent people and doing the real sorcerer's work for him."

His father sighs, dragging one hand down his face. He sits heavily—in the same seat Arthur nearly murdered him in, Arthur thinks, and is hit with the terrible sense-memory of his father's chest heaving what could have been his very last breaths beneath Arthur's hands. Arthur forces the image away. His father pinches the bridge of his nose and says nothing.

Arthur shouldn't say anything either, but now that he's thinking about that day it's impossible not to think of the Great Purge, so he finds himself speaking anyway. "Doesn't that trouble you?" he asks. His voice sounds much smaller than he would have liked.

His father is quiet for a long time. Then at last he says, "There will be no executions."

Arthur's shoulders slump in relief. "Thank you." Sometimes it's easy to think his father has no heart at all, that everyone is right when they say that after his wife died he became too cruel and too hard and too unreasonable—but this proves just the opposite, doesn't it? "It's a wise decision. You won't regret it—"

His father waves him away. "Go eat," he says. "And I suggest you retire early. We have many long days ahead of us, Arthur. The people will look to you and I for stability, and there will be no more rest for us."

"Yes, Father," says Arthur, with a dip of his head, and then he takes his leave.

True to form, Merlin is absolutely nowhere to be found when Arthur has need of him; his chambers are empty when he retires, the fireplace cold and unlit. Arthur makes do by sending a passing serving girl for a light supper, and by the time he's finished eating he's so exhausted it's all he can do to divest himself of his chainmail and boots before falling into bed.

Arthur's dreams are troubled. Behind closed eyes he sees his mother as she was in Morgause's fortress, lit by candlelight, reaching out for him. There's a smile on her lips but tears streaked down her face. He wants so badly to tell her how sorry he is, aches to feel a mother's embrace one last time—but his lips are sealed shut, his feet rooted to the ground. As he watches, a shadow splits off from the wall behind her and comes close. The flames on the candles grow higher and higher, and when there is enough light he sees that the shadow is his father, and his father has glowing gold eyes.

"Strike me down," his father whispers, but Arthur cannot. His father lifts a gleaming black dagger Arthur's never seen before. "Strike me down," he says again, like an omen, a warning, but still Arthur cannot move. He tries to shout a warning, to reach for his sword, but it is too late—the knife comes down, and the flames leap forward to consume them all—

Arthur wakes with a gasp—and immediately he begins to cough, choking on the smoke.

His room is on fire.

Of course—the fireplace. There was no fire started this evening because Merlin had been absent, but now it's climbed so high as to catch on the wooden crests above it. Arthur draws his shirt up over his mouth and nose and yanks one of the blankets off his bed to smother it with. He can't draw enough breath to shout for the guards anyway, and—

This is shameful. Arthur doesn't want anyone to know he did this.

The fire gets put out in short order (Arthur has to dump the water in his washbasin on the embers) and he throws open all his windows to let out some of the smoke. The freezing air goes a long way towards waking him; he's grateful to still be mostly dressed. He collapses into the chair at his table, head in his hands, while he waits for the air to clear and his pulse to slow.

The dreams haven't bothered him for a long time—months, now. He thought he was finished with them. But he supposes it's to be expected, given the day's events.

Arthur has magic.

Magic, which is evil. Magic, which is corruption. Magic, which is responsible for all the ills of the world, which would tear his beloved kingdom apart to the last brick and nail, which has taken more from him and his people than he can possibly say.

Magic, which killed his mother.

And there is Arthur's terrible secret, the reason for his peculiar melancholies and his silences: he knows. He knows what his father did, and he knows his father lied about it.

Arthur knows he was born of magic.

Merlin, the poor fool, was at least smart enough to guess that as a sorceress Morgause is also a born liar. And he wasn't mistaken when he said that in all likelihood what she wanted was to turn Arthur against his father and destroy the kingdom—and that she wasn't above using his mother (or the illusion of her) to do it. But what Merlin doesn't know is this:

Arthur remembers every second of the day he tried to kill his father in perfect, vivid detail, but what he remembers most of all is the very last moment before he dropped his sword. He demanded, with his father's life in his hands, that his father swear he wasn't responsible for his mother's death.

And his father hadn't denied it.

Sworn that he loved Arthur's mother, that he would never hurt her: yes. But that isn't the same as swearing he had nothing to do with her death. Arthur knows his father better than anyone—to his father, a man's word is everything, and his father would not lie under oath. But neither did he want to die at Arthur's hand, and so he lied through omission; did not confess to or deny his guilt but instead assured Arthur that whatever other, uglier truths there were, Arthur could at least trust that he loved Ygraine Pendragon with all his heart.

Which means that what happened wasn't a deliberate betrayal, as Morgause would have had Arthur believe, but an accident. An unknowing and honest mistake. Perhaps there had been a misunderstanding, or his father had been tricked or lied to; perhaps he thought the life paid would be someone else's, or his own; perhaps he hadn't even known at all about what it would cost to have his wife bear him a son.

But it doesn't change the fact that he used magic to do it. It doesn't change the fact that Arthur was born of that magic.

And it certainly doesn't change the fact that his father spent the next twenty years killing every man, woman, and child even suspected of the same crime he committed himself—without caring to make absolutely certain they were guilty. Guinevere's father and Gaius suffered terribly for crimes they did not commit. What if they weren't the only ones?

Arthur's still not quite certain whether finding out the true circumstances of his birth snapped his mind and drove him into a sort of temporary madness, or if attempting to strike his father down was the first real moment of clarity he'd ever had. Six months hence and Arthur just can't make it fit: he knows in his bones that his father is a good king who would do anything for his kingdom, and knows with equal certainty that his father is a hypocrite and a murderer, and he cannot, cannot reconcile those two truths without committing treason or going mad or both.

And that is why he must keep his silence, even from Merlin: to speak of this, to acknowledge it, would leave him honor-bound to act on it. And for his father's crimes, for the murder of his mother alone, a quick death would be the kindest possible punishment. But—

You've lost one parent. Do you really want to lose another?

Arthur isn't capable of holding his father responsible for his wrongdoings, especially since those same wrongdoings are the only reason he's even alive at all. He was put to the test, and he failed: dropped the sword instead of finishing it. And Merlin's right, he could never have lived with himself for seeing it through, not really, but—he hardly knows how to live with himself for staying his hand, either. Both of his options were unthinkable; he doesn't know what the right thing to do was.

On the way to Morgause's fortress, Arthur told Merlin something he had never confided in anyone before, not even Morgana: that he had a sort of sense of his mother, almost as though she was a part of him. For so many years he relied on her for guidance and strength—she was a place of warmth inside his soul, his sense of mercy in the face of his father's ruthlessness, his courage to go his own way when he knew what was asked of him was not right. It's what she would want me to do, he used to think, when he went on fool's errands like seeking out the Mortaeus flower for a servant or freeing a druid child from the dungeons. It's what she would do if she was here. He used to while away hours trying to pick out her features in the mirror, in all the parts of his face that did not come from his father; though growing up he was never brave enough to ask to see her portrait, everyone who met her said he was her spitting image.

That was why he'd known her at once, when she appeared to him in the fortress: he looks nothing like his father. All of what he is came from her.

At the time, sitting by the campfire and on their way to an unknown challenge given by an unknown person, Arthur's confession embarrassed him—it seemed like a foolish child's fancy, for how could his mother be part of him if she was dead? Now he wonders if he wasn't more right than he realized. Perhaps it's literally her life force that flows through his veins and beats the heart in his chest.

The worst part of all is that Arthur can't sense her anymore; hasn't been able to since the moment she—or the illusion of her—whispered You were born of magic and turned his world upside down. That warm reassurance is gone, probably forever. All that's left now is the guilt, even stronger than it used to be, and the vague sense that he is tainted somehow, that his life has never really belonged to him.

And having magic forced upon him has hardly helped with that.

Arthur rests his forehead against the now-freezing table. His father's right about one thing: the kingdom is about to go through some of its hardest days, and Arthur ought to take what little respite he can before dawn. But he doesn't want to return to bed—he's fearful of more dreams and more fires, and anyway he's short one blanket. He'll stay here at the table just another minute, he thinks—he will count exactly sixty seconds and when they are finished he will move—

Arthur is fast asleep before he even reaches ten.

Chapter Text

Fast asleep with his cheek stuck to the table in his own drool is the dignified position in which Merlin discovers Arthur the next morning, and it nearly does them both in. The door creaks open, quite badly startling Arthur out of his sleep, and it's only sheer dumb luck that has him leaving two hand-shaped scorch marks in his table instead of a burnt-up corpse at his door. But of course it's no phantom or intruder; it's only Merlin, balancing a tray of food in one hand. Arthur can only hope Morgana didn't greet Guinevere similarly this morning.

"Arthur?" Merlin asks. "What on earth are you doing sleeping at the table? Cor, it's fucking freezing in here," he adds, setting Arthur's food down so he can rub his hands together and cross the room. "You've left your window open."

After the night Arthur just had, the dreams about his parents, he is so ridiculously, pathetically glad to see Merlin bumbling about as usual that he very nearly smiles. "Language, Merlin," he says, "we've talked about this. Multiple times."

Merlin finishes closing the window and turns. "And the fire's gone out!" he says, dismayed, and also completely ignoring Arthur's reprimand. "Didn't you stoke it at all last night?"

"Oh, I stoked it plenty," Arthur says, and pulls his plate over just so he has something warm near his hands. He's hardly hungry, but Merlin's right: it is wretchedly cold in here.

Merlin takes in the fireplace, the burnt crests above it. His eyes go very round. "Oh," he says. "I guess there was an accident?"

"Of a sort," Arthur says shortly, and reluctantly starts working left-handed on his breakfast. The sooner he's finished, the sooner he can get the hell out of this room. "There's no need to discuss it further." He sees Merlin reach for the flint and steel and flinches. "And don't bother with the fire, Merlin, I don't plan to stay in long."

Merlin lifts his eyebrows, curious. "Busy day ahead?"

Arthur certainly hopes so. "I'm sure we'll need every man available to keep order." Merlin's eyes slide over to the fireplace and he opens his mouth, probably to say something stupid as usual, so Arthur speaks over him: "Don't just stand there gawping, Merlin, make yourself useful! I need the day's outfit picked out and that burned blanket replaced before I'm finished eating."

Merlin, because he really is the worst servant in the five kingdoms, has the audacity to roll his eyes at his sovereign prince. "Yes, sire," he says, and then he's off to work, leaving Arthur a little lonelier for it but at least free of his questions.

Arthur wasn't wrong about the chaos in town. His father's methods of finding the sorcerer (or sorcerers) responsible for this whole mess proved to be somewhat...counterproductive yesterday, and though Arthur managed to talk his father into calling off the search in the city, his father still ordered Arthur to send scouting parties out into the hills instead, and Arthur had no choice but to obey.

Unfortunately, it was a conversation held through the solid oak door leading into his father's chambers. The great Uther Pendragon, responsible for the extinction of magic, is now a magic-user himself—and he refuses to be seen letting the magic use Camelot's king as its conduit.

Arthur can hardly believe it. His father has his faults just as any man, but he takes nothing more seriously than his duty to his people, and he is not normally one to cower behind closed doors when there is action to take and work to be done. Arthur would never say it aloud, but he is very nearly ashamed of him. His father can come up with whatever justification he likes, but there is no dignity in what he's doing, which is nothing short of hiding until the danger has passed. It's not as though Arthur enjoys being out among the people when he's constantly starting fires either, but he bears it because they need him. How could his father abandon them to face the curse without their king? It's behavior Arthur would expect out of Merlin, not the King of Camelot—but then, Arthur has learned an awful lot about his father's true nature since what happened between them six months ago, hasn't he?

"Are you truly going to stay in there until the curse passes?" Arthur asks the door, wishing they didn't have to do this in the corridor where some of the guards are sure to overhear.

"I must master it," comes his father's muffled voice. "I must master it before I am seen. I will not fall to this, I will not bow to this, I am king—"

"At least unlock the door and let me inside," Arthur coaxes. "It's shameful for us to speak like this."

"Away with you!" his father snarls. "Do not speak to me of shame! You can come in only when it's safe and not a moment before!"

So it goes. The people are panicked, terrified of their own king, abandoned by their own king, and they look to Arthur for protection and guidance.

But it's all Arthur can do to keep order. Half the townsfolk are good and properly terrified—Arthur sees many of his people barricading themselves inside darkened houses, praying for deliverance and becoming so agitated when confronted with any evidence of magic at all that they wind up using magic anyway out of sheer instinctive terror.

That's bad enough, but worse still is the other half, who seem to have decided the temporary chaos is an opportunity to practice magic openly and without restraint for all manner of mischief and personal gain. In the span of a single day Arthur sees magic used to conjure extra wine, cheat at gambling, play pranks on unsuspecting passerby and guardsmen alike, and, in a few horrid cases Arthur would prefer to forget forever, enhance...personal assets. One baker in the lower city got so carried away that once he was finally able to get it to stop growing none of his trousers would fit anymore. Arthur and Sir Leon wind up having to lug him to Gaius's on a stretcher with a blanket thrown over his middle, but even that does very little to hide his modesty. Ask Arthur before this and he would have said nothing short of death could get Leon to crack a smile when he was meant to be serious, but Leon fails to hide his chuckling all the way up to the tower.

To add insult to injury, it seems the affliction—the magic, that is, not particular bits and bobs of one's anatomy suddenly becoming overgrown, although that would be only a little better—is widespread. One scouting party returns with several bedraggled travelers from one of the outlying villages claiming they have the same problem back home, and refugees seeking aid trickle in all day. Before lunchtime Arthur is faced with the decision of whether or not he can risk dividing up the men here in the city so that they might go out and keep order.

There is but one silver lining: word from outside the city is that the neighboring kingdoms are also afflicted. Even in the lands beyond Camelot, magic is rare and often looked down upon, and so with it suddenly run rampant, they are all equally vulnerable. It's unlikely anyone will seek to exploit Camelot's moment of weakness.

Arthur cannot in good conscience turn any of his people away. He sends the men to the outlying villages, praying it is not a mistake and that his father does not think too poorly of his choice. Sometimes it's easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

And then finally there is Arthur's sword hand. It should hardly matter with everything else going on, but he cannot make a fist. And if he can't make a fist, he can't grip a sword—and if he can't grip a sword, he can't fight. And what is he supposed to do then? What kind of king could he possibly become, if he can't defend his kingdom? If he can't defend himself?

Arthur means to see Gaius about it as soon as possible, but it's not until he's carting in the baker that he even sees Gaius at all, and Gaius, even with Merlin's help, seems to have his hands full; the baker is far from his only patient today.

The room is full of people. There is hardly room to set their stretcher down. Merlin and Gaius speak urgently by the fireplace.

"...you have to, Gaius! There's no other way than magic!"

"I can't," Gaius says. "Curse or no curse, Merlin, magic is still against the law."

Arthur steps up to them and says sternly, "He's quite right."

They both jump like scalded cats. Merlin recovers first. "Arthur!" he says. "What are you doing up here?"

Arthur jerks his head back towards the door. "Got another one for you. I hadn't realized it was getting so crowded up here."

Merlin leans around Arthur to peer at the baker and does a double-take. "Good grief, look at the size of that thing!" he cackles. "How'd you even get him in the door?" But one look at Arthur's completely unamused face sobers him fast. "Seriously, I don't know if there's any way to help him except to reverse his spell. And since Gaius is the only one who knows anything about magic..."

"Merlin, I said no," Gaius says, at the same time that Arthur says, "Out of the question."

"Well, what do you expect us to do with him?" Merlin says crossly. "We can bandage cuts and splint injured limbs, but this is quite out of our hands." He smirks and can't seem to help adding, "Even with both wrapped all the way around."

"Merlin," Arthur snaps, flushing. "Look, I'm not the one who practices medicine. Find a poultice or something. But you are not to use magic. That's an order."

And so saying, he leaves the physician's tower to get back to work in the town below.

It's not that Arthur wants to see any of his people suffer, even the ones that seem to think better with their downstairs brains. It's just that Arthur knows now better than ever that, despite everything his father's done, he is right about magic: it is a terrible power, corrupting the soul itself, Arthur knows it, Arthur feels it. Even now, temptation hounds him. If he allows Gaius to heal the baker, well—if magic could be used to solve such a stupid problem for such a stupid person, why couldn't it be used to heal his sword arm too?

It's a dangerous thought. The accidental use of magic can't be helped—the fact that Arthur keeps setting things afire is testament to that—but using it on purpose is the first step on the road to ruin. No matter how harmless or well-meaning a sorcerer might seem at first, anyone who uses magic will eventually find themselves in a moment of weakness and use it for their own personal gain—and so begins the slow and irreversible descent into evil, because after they do it once, they will do it again and again, and they will not be able to stop. This is exactly why there can be absolutely no tolerance of magic whatsoever; anything less is leaving the door cracked open to even worse atrocities.

Arthur has not deliberately called for magic since his (unfortunately necessary) display in the throne room yesterday, and he's not about to start now. He will live with it. He will remain strong.

Arthur is in and out of the physician's tower all day. Patients come and go, but the baker is there every time he enters. Gaius, it seems, has found no remedy yet. And there are yet more people that traditional medicine is ill-equipped to help—a seamstress with feathers coming up bloody through the skin on her shoulders, a stable boy with vines growing out of his fingers and creeping down to the floor. But what can Arthur do? His father's decree is that magic is outlawed. Arthur was lucky to convince him not to execute everyone who used it on accident; even if he did want to (and he doesn't), how could he justify them using it on purpose?

And then he comes in to find that the baker is sitting up again, wiggling his way into a pair of trousers at last.

Merlin appears at Arthur's elbow, watching as the baker departs. "Can you imagine if Gaius hadn't been able to change him back? His poor wife!"

Arthur's face flames. "Focus, Merlin, this is serious! How did you fix him?"

Merlin shrugs, but he won't meet Arthur's eye. "I suppose Gaius found a poultice after all."

Liar, Arthur thinks, grim. He knows exactly what Gaius did, and so does Merlin. Arthur would be perfectly within the law to have them both executed for this. And yet—

He's been thinking about it all day. Since the business with the false and treacherous witchfinder, it's something of an open secret that, before the Great Purge, Gaius used to practice magic. There has been no shortage of gossip on the subject, and Arthur himself has always been quick to silence it when it fell upon his ears. For his father's stance on magic is a harsh one, and on some days it seems that there is literally no end to his suspicion; if even he trusted that Gaius gave the magic up and used his knowledge of it only to defend the kingdom, that was always good enough for Arthur, and it sure as hell ought to have been good enough for everyone else.

There's certainly no way an ordinary physician could treat a man trying to grow his own personal third leg. If not for magic, they may have all had to live with him forever. And on the subject of the witchfinder: Gaius has already suffered enough for what he didn't do. Arthur cannot bring himself to subject Gaius to even further punishment and rob his people of their only physician all in one fell blow. It goes against every instinct Arthur has, but while they're all still cursed, he's going to have to look the other way—and pray that his father lets Gaius live for a reason, that Gaius will continue to remain steadfast against the corruption magic so famously brings.

Because if he doesn't—

Well. Arthur will be watching. Arthur will be vigilant, no matter what.

"You'd better hope my father doesn't hear about these poultices," he mutters to Merlin. "He'd be much less pleasant about it than I."

Merlin glares; he is more protective of Gaius than anyone. "Are you going to tell him?"

Arthur grinds his teeth. The fire in the hearth crackles and pops. "Not unless I have to," he says. "But as long as nothing comes of it..." There's not much his father could do while refusing to leave his chambers anyway.

"Nothing will—at least, nothing like you're worried about." Merlin watches Arthur watch the fireplace with a wariness that is perhaps not entirely undeserved, and then abruptly changes the subject. "How's your hand?"

Arthur sighs down at it. "Been better," he admits. He lifts his arm, flexing his fingers as much as he's able, and confesses, "Merlin, I can't make a fist."

Merlin sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Has Gaius looked at it?"

"I was going to ask. But he seemed to..." Arthur nods at the baker as he exits the room. "...have his hands full. So to speak."

Merlin snorts. Arthur's glad at least one of them can find the humor in it.

"I could have another look," Merlin says. "Er, at you, obviously, not at him. I've seen more than enough of that idiot for a lifetime."

"You're one to talk," says Arthur. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Well, yeah," Merlin says, affronted. "Gaius has been teaching me! Sit down," he orders, with a lot of nerve considering he's a servant speaking to a prince, but Arthur does sit anyway, at one of the nearby worktables. Merlin gets a few things out of a nearby cupboard and joins him.

"Does that hurt?" he asks, poking here and there. "What about that?"

"No," says Arthur, "no, no, no—augh," he yelps, when Merlin hits somewhere particularly tender, and Merlin leans back just in time to avoid getting his eyebrows singed off by the fire that erupts from Arthur's palm.

Dead silence. Everyone in the room is staring at him. Wonderful.

"Are you all right, sire?" Gaius asks.

"Fine," Arthur says shortly. Nobody moves, though, so he snaps, "I said I'm fine, now carry on as you were!"

The room gradually comes back to life. Merlin applies some strong-smelling ointment to Arthur's wound that stings terribly and then eases the pain, and begins to rebandage Arthur's arm, expression sobering for real now as he works. "We can have Gaius double-check. I'm no expert."

Arthur can't say he likes Merlin looking so grave. "Merlin, what?" he demands. "Spit it out."

"It'll heal eventually, but..." Merlin hesitates, and then lets the axe fall: "I don't know if your grip will ever be what it was."

Cold dread settles in Arthur's stomach. This is what he was most afraid of. If he can't grip a sword, what has he got? If he can't grip a sword, he might as well die.

"You know, Arthur..." Merlin looks around to make sure no one is listening in. Then he leans forward. "Maybe this is lucky. Maybe, just this once, you could heal it with magic."

It's so close to what Arthur's been thinking all day that he jerks back as if Merlin's the one about to throw fire at him. "Are you mad?" he asks. "I can't ask anyone to do magic for me!"

"You asked me to do it yesterday!"

"And I shouldn't have," Arthur says furiously. "It's just your luck that you couldn't follow an order if your life depended on it." Arthur hadn't really believed it then, hadn't had time to let it sink in, but for Merlin to call upon the magic deliberately, especially at Arthur's behest, would have been a grave mistake.

Merlin rolls his eyes, because he has absolutely no sense of propriety or self-preservation, at least between battles. "You can also do magic yourself, you know," he points out.

"I'd rather lose the whole hand," Arthur says vehemently. "It only takes a single spell for the corruption to take hold, Merlin, and by my count I've already done over a dozen just on accident. I'd never do magic on purpose—ever."

Merlin flicks his eyes away, failing so utterly in his effort to look casual that it'd be funny if they were talking about anything else. "Did it on purpose for your father."

Yes, and Arthur was sure it would kill him. Every time the fire had come to him up til then, he had been afraid, and he thinks it only worked yesterday because he was afraid then too. Afraid of his father's reaction, certainly, but even more afraid that his father would make every effort to sentence all those people to a terrible death. Arthur is a warrior and a prince besides, and as such is used to mastering his fear—or, if he's being honest with himself, simply ignoring it. But letting it in like that, using the magic on purpose...it wasn't just frightening. It felt—ugly. Wrong. Like giving into something he couldn't come back from, signing his soul away to devils. Just remembering it puts him ill at ease. Arthur never wants to feel that way again.

"It had to be done," Arthur says. On this he has no doubt. "To save those people—there was no way around it. But there's not going to be a second time." He gives his head a short, sharp shake. "I'll master it or die trying. As for my hand..." Arthur trails off. Perhaps with time and physical therapy he will recover, or perhaps he can learn to wield the blade with his left like his father, and simply lash his shield to the crippled arm. His father always did say he should learn to fight with either hand, after all. If not, well...

Arthur can't imagine a life where he can't fight. It doesn't bear thinking about. But better that than fall prey to the corruption. Better that than use magic.

"I won't do it," Arthur says firmly. "I will not use magic."

Merlin sighs. "Well, let me know if you change your mind," he says, entirely too sulky much for Arthur's tastes. "Magic doesn't seem that hard. I bet I could do it myself."

"You?" Arthur asks incredulously. "You're an idiot, and we're lucky you haven't..." A thought strikes him and he frowns. "Merlin. What is it that you do?"

"Beg your pardon?" Merlin asks, but his gaze instantly shifts away from Arthur.

Hmm. "Your magic," Arthur says, and Merlin actually flinches. "What does it do? I keep setting things afire, some people turn themselves to stone or call animals—what do you do?"

"I, er—" Merlin clears his throat. "When my magic is out of control—it's a kind of kinetic energy. Objects move themselves about."

"Like the swords from yesterday," Arthur realizes.

"Just so."

That sounds nearly as bad as the fire, Arthur thinks, with no small amount of sympathy. At least Merlin doesn't spend too much time in the kitchen or armory; all those sharp projectiles, he'd be a lot more dangerous in there. Only— "I haven't seen you do it. Not since then. Everyone else is going mad, Merlin, and I've only seen you slip up the one time, and I had to half-threaten you to make it happen."

Merlin shrugs, but he still won't meet Arthur's eyes. "Ask Gaius, I've been making a mess of the place all morning. You know," he adds in a rush, "his thing is storms, like wind and lightning, so he's helped me mess it up once or twice, though I have to say his control is remarkable. And Gwen's thing is plants. Tree roots and the like. Little green things keep poking up through the snow at her feet when she's not paying attention. It wasn't what I expected from either of them but I suppose since he's so stern and she's got such a nurturing personality..."

"You're such a girl, Merlin," Arthur complains. "What's any of it got to do with personalities?" Arthur, for his part, is most certainly not wondering what Merlin makes of fire coming from his personality, especially as he seems to share that particular curse with only his father and Morgana. "And anyway, you're avoiding the subject. I was trying to ask you—"

Without warning, Merlin's eyes flash gold—the sight catches Arthur's breath in his throat—and a shelf behind him tips forward and right off the wall, sending all its contents spilling the floor.

"Merlin," Gaius scolds at once. "Really, some of those things are very hard to find!"

"Damn," says Merlin, and leaps up to pick the shelf back up and start cleaning. "Sorry, Gaius," he calls.

Arthur looks back and forth between them. Something's off. If he didn't know any better...

Arthur kneels to help Merlin clean, keeping his voice low. "Merlin. Did you knock that shelf over on purpose?"

"Of course not!" Merlin hisses. "What the hell would I do that for? This stuff is rare and expensive, you know, and I'm the poor sod who has to run around in the forest digging and gathering to replace it!"

Arthur supposes that's a fair point. "All right," he says. But when they're finished cleaning and stand, he catches Merlin's arm. "Merlin, I'm serious about the magic. Accidents like this are one thing, but you're not Gaius, and I don't want you calling it on purpose. Not for mischief, not for healing, not even to save your own life. I don't care how easy or harmless you think it is—a single spell could destroy you, and I can't—lose you, Merlin, not like that. Not to magic."

Arthur regrets it the second he speaks, for Merlin's whole face has changed, and now he's going to go and get stupid ideas about Arthur actually caring.

Arthur clears his throat, and lets Merlin go. "Don't look so smug. I told you once already a half-decent servant is hard to come by. I'd never find a replacement in all this madness—I'd have to polish my own armor and fetch my own meals."

Merlin looks entirely too pleased with himself for Arthur's liking. "And what a tragedy that would be," he says, grinning. "Hey—" He ducks his head, one hand suddenly gripping Arthur's shoulder. "It's going to be all right, Arthur. If you don't see me slip, it's because I've got it well-handled."

"Yeah," Arthur says, quiet. Better handled than he has, that's for sure.

"I promise you," says Merlin. "The last thing you have to worry about is the corruption taking me."

Merlin is going to burn this entire kingdom to the fucking ground, and good riddance.

"You can't just refuse to help me," he shouts up at the dragon, only just restraining from chucking his torch at it for good measure. "You're the prisoner, here!"

"I'm not your prisoner," the dragon points out, sounding bored. It lies with its front legs crossed on the great stone outcropping at the center of its vast prison, head not even lifted as it regards Merlin lazily with only one eye open. "Is this not what we have been waiting for, young warlock? Magic has returned to Albion!"

Merlin is momentarily distracted. "What, all of it? Has it really?"

"Hmm..." The dragon's tail twitches. "I an unsure. It is hard to tell from in here," it adds, pointedly. "Ohhh, but I would have given much to have seen Uther's face when his own son performed magic before him, or when he performed it himself. He must be suffering a great deal, to have the force he hates so much flowing through his very veins." The dragon chuckles, a deep and throaty sound of satisfaction. "I hope it drives him mad."

"You're horrible," says Merlin, even though he had thought nearly the same thing. At least Merlin has the decency to feel guilty about it. Uther's a tyrant and a murderer, sure, but he's still Arthur's father. Arthur would be devastated if anything happened to him.

"Am I?" asks the dragon, and lifts its great scaly head at last, regarding Merlin with a bit more interest. "But what of you? Are you not pleased as well? Now everyone must contend with the same struggle you faced to become the wise young man who stands before me now. You can't tell me you take no joy in finally being understood, in no longer having to hide your gifts."

"Why should I take joy in the suffering of others? Why should I celebrate magic being used to hurt people?" Merlin asks hotly. Yes, all right, he's had a bit of a laugh at some of the predicaments the townsfolk have gotten themselves into, but his mockery was gentled by the recollections of his own struggles with trying to control his magic, and fondness for the feeling of kinship those memories inspire. There's not a single soul in Camelot that Merlin would genuinely wish ill on, not even Uther—most of the time. "You don't understand anything at all. I'm still an outsider! I have to work twice as hard to hide my magic now, because if anyone knew what I was they'd think I was responsible for all of this and have me killed just to make it stop!"

The dragon lets out an unimpressed grunt and lies down again. "Anything new chafes at first," it dismisses, eyes sliding shut. "Remember how deeply you detested Arthur when you first met him?"

Merlin tries not to blush. His feelings about Arthur are none of anyone's business but his own, thanks very much. "That's different," he says, sounding more defensive than he'd like. He takes a moment to spare a thought for poor Arthur, who insisted on putting out his fireplace before bed and will almost certainly spend the entire night shivering beneath every blanket he owns. If only he'd gotten plants like Gwen or wind gusts like Gaius, maybe he wouldn't be suffering so. "This opens no one's heart to magic," Merlin says. "Least of all Arthur's. It isn't the right way, to let it be done like this. You said it was up to Arthur and I. Anything else will fail."

The dragon opens one great golden eye to regard Merlin. "You really are determined not to take shortcuts, aren't you?"

Merlin lifts his eyebrows and spreads his hands, what are you going to do. "You're the one who told me about my destiny. I'm just doing the best I can with what I've got. So help me—please."

The dragon blows out a huge gusty sigh, longsuffering. "I felt the spell, yes," it allows at last. "Surely it roused you from your sleep as well."

"Was that what that was," Merlin mutters, distracted again by the memory of jolting awake for no apparent reason, the night before the curse began. Did it wake Morgana too? Why did she not come to them?

"Cast at the stroke of midnight," the dragon continues, "it drew upon the combined energy of the winter solstice and new moon: a time of supreme darkness. I cannot be certain, but for the spell to have made use of such a rare and powerful celestial event, for it to have been effective over such a wide area—I can only imagine it was cast at the Isle of the Blessed."

"Great!" says Merlin, who hates the Isle of the Blessed with deep passion. "What...am I supposed to do with that?"

Can dragons shrug? If so, this one just has. "You could travel there and see what you find."

"A few problems with that," Merlin says, and has his torch hold itself up so he can tick them off on his fingers. "First of all, it's the middle of bloody winter, and the White Mountains are ever-so-slightly in our way. Even Camlann's practically impassable this time of year—the snow turns a three-day ride into eight at best unless you go around the mountains entirely, and that takes even longer. Secondly, I have no idea what I'd be walking into. The last time I went to the Isle of the Blessed, I had to literally kill someone to come back alive. Thirdly, I'd be leaving Arthur alone for who knows how long, and if he's even still alive when I get back he'll have me in the stocks or mucking out the stables for the rest of my natural life—"

"Quite the tragedy," the dragon deadpans, cutting Merlin off before he can finish his list. "Then may I suggest you scry? I understand Gaius used to be quite adept at the art; I'm certain he could teach you."

"Scrying?" Merlin asks, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Really? All that, and that's the best you can come up with? You're a thousand-year-old dragon! I was expecting you to spout some vague nonsense about how I'm doing everything wrong, or something I don't understand the true meaning of until at least six hours from now!"

"What more do you want of me?" the dragon complains. "I am trapped here in this tiny cave until you see fit to honor your promise to release me. Old I may be, but I am not omniscient. I gave you the spell's location. It is up to you to see if its location can give you more."

Merlin grabs his torch back out of the air. "Fine," he snaps, wheeling around to face the stairs. "Scrying it is! Thank you ever so much! Have a good night, Sir Dragon!"

The dragon chuckles from behind him, which does nothing to soothe Merlin's ire. "And you, young warlock."

But Merlin's night isn't over yet.

Even after he sneaks past the guards and out of the dungeons, he still has to make his way to Arthur's chambers—Arthur's devastation over his injury had been plain, and Merlin intends to see to it that he makes a full recovery. Under ordinary circumstances, Merlin would simply heal it all at once in the night, but with everyone on high alert he's going to have to give it a little at a time so that Arthur doesn't suspect the healing wasn't the natural sort. It'll be difficult—Merlin's magical healing is only passable at best, and the injury is quite serious—but for Arthur to rest easy knowing he can still swing a sword, it's worth it.

When Merlin gets close to Arthur's chambers, though, he's alarmed to see an orange glow coming from beneath the door. He spares hardly a moment to look around and make sure the way is clear before he barges in. The smoke chokes him at once; the fire in the fireplace has leapt up to consume what's left of the already-scorched wooden crests above it, reaches nearly to the ceiling. Instinctively, Merlin throws one hand out and hisses a spell to calm the flames; another spell, and with his other hand he's able to direct the extra smoke away up out of the top of the fireplace so he doesn't have to throw open the window—and risk the freezing air waking up Arthur.

Wait. Arthur, Merlin remembers in a panic, and nearly dies of fright—

—before he catches sight of Arthur still asleep in bed, none the wiser to the fact that Merlin knows incantations he shouldn't.

Merlin blows out a sigh of relief. Idiot he may be, but his head remains attached to his shoulders for another day.

He leaves the flames flickering low in the fireplace to keep the room warm and approaches the bed as quietly as he can. Arthur does sleep, but it's not a peaceful one; he's thrown off some of his blankets, and even as Merlin watches he tosses and turns, eyes rolling beneath their lids, a line of glowing gold light appearing beneath his lashes. "Father," he mutters, over and over, and the flames in the fireplace begin to climb again. "Father, stop!" It reminds Merlin of Morgana: how, in the middle of the night, her candle had begun burning out of her control, set fire to the room around it. Gwen said she was positively terrified to leave a candle burning after that.

Is this what happened to Arthur last night?

Merlin bites his lip. He should leave. His presence could rouse Arthur at any moment, and Merlin has absolutely no idea what stupid story will come out of his mouth if Arthur should discover him here. But he can't stand by while Arthur suffers and do nothing to help ease his pain. He isn't capable of it.

Merlin carefully lowers himself onto the bed. "It's all right," he whispers, and cards his hand through Arthur's hair, as his mother used to do for him when he was young. Arthur, he remembers, has never known a mother's touch. "Shh, Arthur. You stupid clotpole, it's only bad dreams."

At first Merlin fears Arthur will wake; he stirs, and his eyelids flutter. But after a moment he stills and relaxes, sinking back into the bed. The gold line of light beneath his lashes goes out. The flames in the fireplace die down again.

"See?" Merlin murmurs. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He allows himself to run his hand through Arthur's hair one last time before withdrawing. Then, as he intended to do all along, he pushes a little healing magic into Arthur's injury, so that one day he may hold a sword again after all.

"You need not fear, Arthur," Merlin whispers, as he draws Arthur's blankets back up. "You have many battles left ahead of you—so rest, so you may face them at full strength."

He leaves Arthur's windows closed and doors locked tight, but he can't bring himself to snuff the tiny flames left in the fireplace entirely. They'll burn themselves out soon enough.

Let Arthur stay warm a little longer.

Gaius is waiting up for Merlin when he finally makes it back to their quarters. "Well?" he asks, once Merlin has securely closed and barred the door behind him.

Merlin yanks down the hood of his cloak. "The dragon says the spell had to have drawn on the energy from the solstice and new moon, which means the sorcerer probably cast it at the Isle of the Blessed. Since travel's such a right pain in the arse this time of the year, his brilliant recommendation was a good scrying session. He said you could teach me the gift. Although," Merlin adds, walking further inside to fling himself down at one of the worktables, "since we've all got magic at the moment, you could probably just save time and do it yourself."

"For such a distant location, with whatever scrying font we can muster up ourselves?" Gaius asks. "No, I'm afraid it'll have to be you, even now. But teaching you isn't the problem—Merlin, you ruined all the ingredients we'd need to make a proper scrying font this afternoon! Why on earth did you knock over that shelf? That wasn't what we rehearsed at all! Do you have any idea how long it's going to take to replace those things in all this chaos?"

"I'm sorry," Merlin moans, rubbing his hands together in earnest to try and restore some feeling to his freezing fingers. Maybe Gwen will accidentally wind up growing them some more; she can't seem to stop herbs and things from springing up behind her wherever she walks."Arthur was asking me all these questions about why I hadn't been using magic, I just panicked!" A thought strikes him. "And speaking of Arthur..." Merlin tells Gaius about his conversation with Arthur this afternoon about magic and corruption, and the state he caught Arthur in just now, when his magic was ready to burn him up in his own chambers. "He said he'd master it or die trying, but it's not getting better—I think it's getting worse."

Gaius listens to Merlin with his eyebrow climbing higher by the second. "I feared it may come to this," he says. "It's all conjecture at this point, of course—you're a rare and special case, Merlin—but from what I have seen of innate magic like yours, it may be that it is Arthur's very strength of will that puts him in danger."

Merlin sits up a little straighter. Innate magic is now the sort that every person in Camelot possesses, if the dragon is to be believed. "What do you mean?"

"For non-magical people like me, who learned the art through books and study, the use of magic must be performed with only the greatest of vigilance," says Gaius. "It's far too easy to become addicted to having instant solutions to all your problems, all too tempting to use magic for personal gain and wickedness. But for someone like you or Morgana, well—" Gaius spreads his hands. "Merlin, you should know better than anyone—before you began channeling your magic for a higher purpose, you didn't use it so much as it used you. It was so ready to leap at your command that you revealed yourself to me unintentionally—as though you couldn't have stopped it even if you wanted to. And with Morgana, the magic, unused, began a fire in her chambers and shattered her window, even though she did not command it to do such a thing."

Now Merlin begins to understand. "So if the people can't or won't use their magic, get it out of them somehow..."

Gaius nods, grave. "I fear the same thing will happen to them. And that includes Arthur."

Merlin spent so much of his childhood fighting tooth and nail against his magic, and it was always a losing battle. When the magic wants to come out, there's just no shoving it down or ignoring it; he must use it, and regularly, the same way he requires food to eat and air to breathe. Because if he doesn't—well, the day he revealed himself to Gaius was far from the first time the magic had leapt to fulfill his whims without his direct command, but it was one of the most benign. Even for just one warlock, the damage he wrought was sometimes on the same levels normally reserved for bandit raids and natural disasters. Granted, he has been made to understand that he possesses an exceptional amount of raw power...but even that would pale in comparison to what would happen if every soul in Camelot tried and failed to suppress their new magical gifts. If all of them set their rooms alight as Morgana and Arthur did—

"But Arthur would never use magic on purpose," Merlin says. "I couldn't even convince him to heal his own injury; that's what I was doing in his chambers in the middle of the night to begin with. He's terrified of it. He really would let it kill him before he called for it deliberately." Merlin gazes into the fireplace, thinking of the flames in Arthur's chambers threatening to swallow him whole. "Oh, Gaius—it's so sad the way people here think of magic. I know better than anyone how difficult it can be at times, but it's an incredible gift. I wish everyone could see it like I do." He sighs, scrubbing at his hair. "I don't know, maybe I could—change Arthur's mind? Magic's done so much good for him and his people, he just doesn't know it. If I could just talk to him..."

"You'll talk yourself straight onto the chopping block," Gaius says, tone sharp. "Don't forget you can't tell Arthur about all the good magic's done for his kingdom without revealing who the magician in question is!"

"I know that," Merlin says, frustrated. He gets to his feet to pace. "But this is my destiny, right? To serve a great king who will bring magic back to Albion. He can't do that if he hates it! Now, I can't make Arthur king before his time, but maybe it is my responsibility to open his heart to magic." Merlin can't entirely fight down the wave of longing the thought brings him. "If I could do that, I could tell him everything."

"Arthur's not king yet, Uther is," Gaius reminds him, pointing a finger in his face, "so there'll be plenty of time to see to your destiny when the future of the kingdom isn't hanging in the balance."

"The future of the kingdom isn't going to be too rosy if Arthur's magic burns him to death in the middle of the night," Merlin grumbles. "I don't know, maybe—maybe the dragon was right about one thing. This could be what we've been waiting for. Normally I wouldn't dare bring it up. Anyone except Morgana or Arthur would be executed for even suggesting magic isn't evil. But right now it's all anyone can talk about. When will I ever get another chance to speak so freely?"

"Merlin—"

"Ever since I came to Camelot," Merlin says, "I've been biding my time. Waiting for Arthur to become king, waiting for Arthur to see there's good in magic, waiting for my destiny to fall into my lap. But I'm tired of waiting for the perfect moment. Perfect may never come. Now may have to be good enough." Merlin chances a glance at Gaius's expression to find that it is softening. "I don't want to be old and gray and still waiting, Gaius. I can't think of anything worse."

Gaius walks over to Merlin and places his hands on his shoulders. "Believe me, Merlin, when I say that I understand regret. But you cannot tell him. He'd have you killed, and you cannot fulfill your destiny if you are dead."

"I can't fulfill my destiny if he's dead either," Merlin reminds Gaius. "If he doesn't channel his magic, it'll consume him. But if I could convince him to try it, just once, I could save him." And he wouldn't just be saving Arthur. If the prince did it and came out the better, others would surely follow no matter what Uther decreed. It might, at the least, buy them the time they need to reverse this thing before the city falls down around their ears.

And thinking in the longer term...

One day, Arthur will be king. If he uses magic now and it doesn't hurt him—then one day, maybe, just maybe—

"I wouldn't have to tell him it was me," Merlin says. "He need never know I'm a warlock. Morgana spoke on behalf of magic-users and druids long before she realized what she really was. For all Arthur would know, I might simply be doing the same. And if he does see through me—well, if it saves him, then it was still worth it."

Gaius sighs, still looking reluctant. "I suppose if Arthur would listen to anyone," he admits, "it would be you."

"It certainly can't hurt to give it go," Merlin says. He tries to put on a brave face. "After all, it's only my life and my secret on the line—what's the worst that can happen?"

Chapter Text

"Rise and shine!"

Arthur wakes with a start. Daylight pours in through his open curtains, and the air in his room is warm. He squints. Merlin's here—setting his breakfast down on the table and bustling about as usual.

That's a surprise. Arthur expected to be woken again by his magic, had been prepared to fight the inevitable fire.

"How'd you sleep?" Merlin asks, as he sets a pile of laundry down to be folded on the other end of the table. "Any more of that business with the fireplace?"

"No," Arthur says, surprised to find it's true. He remembers a bit of his dreaming, in flashes—his mother's face streaked with tears, his father's whispered Strike me down—but they didn't wake him. He must have slept the whole night through.

"Good," says Merlin, and whistles as he stokes the—

"Oi," Arthur says, sitting up fast. "Have you lost your mind, Merlin? Put that fire out at once."

"If you keep avoiding fires you'll freeze to death before this is all said and done," Merlin says, far too cheerfully for someone disobeying a direct order from his prince. "Calm down, it's not going to go mad while I'm here."

"I'm perfectly calm!" says Arthur, voice cracking on the last word. "I'm only trying to see to the safety of my idiotic manservant, which will be severely compromised should I set him aflame. And anyway, what good could you possibly be against a magical fi..." He trails off. "Merlin."

"Hmm?" Merlin looks up.

Arthur points behind him. The laundry Merlin just set down hovers several inches above the table, arranging itself into neat little squares.

"Huh," Merlin says, regarding it with interest, and absolutely none of the alarm such a situation should inspire. "Well, Arthur, I know what you always say, but it seems the clothes do fold themselves. Rather convenient, actually. Imagine how much quicker I could get your armor polished and stables mucked out if it worked like this all the time. Guess magic isn't all bad, hey?"

It's too early for this. "That's not funny, Merlin," Arthur growls. "Make it stop, now!"

The laundry drops out of the air at once. Merlin sneaks a glance at his face, and Arthur gets the inexplicable suspicion that he's done something wrong. "We talked about this," Arthur says, feeling tense and wary. "You can't use magic on purpose."

"And who said that was on purpose?" Merlin demands, though Arthur notes he doesn't deny that it was. It would be just like Merlin to lose his soul to corruption over a bit of laziness. "But I see how it is—wouldn't do to save me time on my morning chores." He crosses the room and starts picking out Arthur's outfit for the day. "Come on, then, red tunic or white? We've got to get you dressed and your bandages changed quickly, and then I'm afraid you're on your own for a while."

Arthur gets out of bed, wincing at the cold stone floor beneath his bare feet. "Merlin, you're my servant. I'm the prince. You don't tell me when you get to take time off." He pauses. "Er—why are you taking time off?"

"Got to replace the things I ruined yesterday, haven't I?" Merlin asks. "With the state things are in, it could mean life or death. Besides, the more time Gaius spends trying to work without that lot, the less he spends trying to figure out what gave everyone magic. It's for the good of Camelot, Arthur, I swear!"

Right—Gaius's shelf. "Clumsy fool," Arthur murmurs, and cannot quite keep all the fondness from his tone. Even Merlin's magic seems to have two left feet. It would be rather charming, if it wasn't magic. "You're off to the forest, then?"

"That I am," Merlin says, and tacks on as an afterthought, "With your permission, sire, of course."

The Darkling Woods—where only two days ago, the lot of them were assaulted by magic-wielding bandits, and nearly paid for it with their lives. "Red tunic," says Arthur. "And when we've finished you're to prepare my horse; I'm coming along. Can't have you getting skewered by bandits."

"What?" Merlin yelps. "Arthur, please, I can manage just fine by myself. Besides, you can hardly defend me if you can't—" He winces. "You know, fight? Your hand."

Oh. Right. Arthur holds it up to inspect it. His bandages likely need changing, but...there's a little more movement in his fingers than he expected, a little less pain. "It feels a bit better today actually," he remarks, surprised. Maybe what he really needed was a proper night's sleep. He still can't make a fist, but he might be able to grip a sword for a short time should an emergency arise. Perhaps a dagger. "But if you truly feel I'm unfit, we'll bring a couple of knights along. Sir Leon knows the woods well."

"Really," huffs Merlin. "I'm not a child, Arthur, and they're needed here, as are you."

Merlin's got a point there, but he can't go off into the woods unprotected; Arthur won't allow it. He thinks a moment and hits upon a positively wretched idea. "We could ask Morgana."

Now Merlin looks truly distraught. "You want to spend time with Morgana? Willingly?"

"She and Guinevere did manage to hold their own last time we were out. The two of them together should be enough protection for a simple errand." Arthur narrows his eyes. "You're not still harboring that ridiculous infatuation, Merlin, surely. My father would have your head."

"There was never any infatuation," Merlin says, though interestingly enough his ears do turn quite pink. "Good grief, Arthur, I simply just think it'd be best if I went alone—"

"Out of the question," Arthur snaps. He's never going to understand Merlin, try as he may. He wears no armor, carries no weapon. Why wouldn't he want protection? "As soon as we're done here, you'll send word to Morgana and prepare the horses; I'll speak to my father. That's an order, Merlin," Arthur warns, as Merlin opens his mouth to talk back. Merlin, in thanks for his prince's concern, grumbles and curses his way through the rest of his tending to Arthur, and when he's finished departs in a very poor temper indeed.

That's perfectly all right with Arthur. Better an irritated Merlin than a dead one.

His father still won't come out of his chambers, but he does let Arthur inside—mostly, Arthur suspects, because Arthur agreed to go and get him breakfast first, and every man must eat eventually. It seems his father has also slept without a fire; the room is dark and frozen when Arthur enters.

His father is still in his night things, pacing around the room in bare feet. Does he not feel the chill? "Father," Arthur says, setting the breakfast down on the table just as Merlin does for him every morning.

His father must not have heard him come in, for Arthur must call to him twice more to get him to stop pacing, and once his attention is finally caught he starts, eyes going gold, and every candle in the room flickers to life. "Arthur!" he gasps, and then dashes to the nearest flame, blowing it out.

"Are you well, Father?" Arthur asks, watching him move from candle to candle. Clearly he has not reached the level of mastery he spoke of yesterday morning. Perhaps it's better he stayed in his chambers after all, lest his people see him like this.

"I dreamed of your mother," says his father, which does absolutely nothing to help Arthur's growing unease. He never talks about her. "How are you faring, Arthur?"

"Well enough," Arthur says cautiously. "I'm planning on aiding Gaius today—apparently there are some supplies in desperate need of restocking, so Morgana and her maidservant and I are accompanying Merlin while he gathers them."

If his father remembers that this was the exact chore Arthur more or less made up on the spot to get out of the castle two days ago, he doesn't show it. Nor does he mention anything about the potential danger—Arthur hasn't even had time to tell him about the bandit attack, or his own resulting injury.

"I meant your—" his father practically spits the word, "—magic." He looks up and meets Arthur's eyes with a startling intensity. "You have not called upon it deliberately, have you?"

Arthur would be offended at the very question if his father didn't seem so...out of sorts. "Of course not, Father. You taught me better than that."

"Good, good." His father catches sight of a candle he missed and hurries to blow it out. It's a losing battle; every time he gets rid of one flame, another appears behind him. "You mustn't give into it, Arthur. One spell, that's all it takes—a single spell can ruin a man forever."

Watching his father's neverending path from candle to candle, Arthur can't help but wonder, Is that what happened to you?

Even more disconcerting: Is that what's going to happen to me?

He may not have been the sorcerer who worked the spell itself, but the fact remains: Uther Pendragon used magic for his own personal gain, and then spent the next twenty years killing innocents in the name of waging war on it. It would be one thing if they were every one a sorcerer, but Arthur knows from personal experience that some were not. Guinevere's father was guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Gaius guilty of nothing at all, but both nearly died on the pyre; that Tom the blacksmith instead met his end at the sword was almost a kindness.

And they weren't the only ones. How could they be? When it comes to the subject of magic, the mighty King Uther loses all sense of reason—and mercy.

Arthur's heard it whispered of his father before, behind closed doors by people who thought he couldn't hear. But he didn't believe it until the curse. Arthur had to step in to stop his father from killing every man, woman, and child afflicted. He didn't care that it might not be their fault. Better to have them all killed, just to be on the safe side.

It chills Arthur to think about. There's no telling how many innocent people met their ends during the Great Purge. It could be a handful. It could be hundreds. And all of it came about because of his father's own use of magic—the magic he used to create Arthur.

So: corruption. Perhaps his father is more right about the use of magic than even he knows.

Perhaps Arthur is staring his own future right in the face.

Suddenly his father stands before him, gripping both his shoulders, eyes flashing gold as the candles reignite themselves behind his back. "Promise me, Arthur," says his father. "Promise you will not call upon the magic. Not for personal gain, not to help another, not even to save your own life. Trust me: it is never worth the price."

Whenever Arthur looks his father in the face, he is struck with a terrible double vision. He thinks I love you and You are a monster, and no matter how he tries he cannot fit them together well enough to see clearly.

It must have been such a hard-learned lesson.

Arthur lays one of his hands over his father's own. "Don't worry," he says. "You have my word—I will never use magic."

"Good." His father slumps in relief. The candles keep flickering to life behind him.

Arthur's irritation with his father yesterday morning is rapidly turning into outright concern, and he's beginning to wonder about the wisdom of leaving him here alone. If the burden of having magic weighs heavy on Arthur, he cannot imagine how terribly it must weigh on his father, who has used it before to ill effect, who hates it more than anything.

"Perhaps I'd better stay here today," Arthur says, eyes searching his father's face. "You don't seem yourself, Father."

"No, no," says his father, breaking away, "you must go, and take Morgana with you. The further away the both of you are from this wickedness, the better."

"But you, Father," Arthur presses. "Are you certain you're well?"

"I am tired," says the king. It's true; his eyes are sunken and dark, and when Arthur surreptitiously checks the mantle of the fireplace he finds it burnt just like the wooden crests above his own hearth. It makes Arthur all the more grateful he got a decent night's rest. "I am tired," his father repeats, "but I yet live. Go, Arthur." He catches sight of the lit candles and flinches, beginning his route around the room all over again. "Gaius must have whatever he needs. We must be free from this curse before it kills us all."

It's not exactly the reassuring farewell Arthur would have preferred, but his father isn't wrong. Before he goes down to the stables, however, he does find Sir Leon and take him aside.

"Two guards are to be posted outside my father's room while I'm away today," he commands. "If he leaves, have someone accompany him at all times. If he doesn't, I want meals delivered to him at midday and dinner whether he requests them or not."

Leon won't ask why—he's a stickler for propriety, that one—but his eyes are full of questions. "Of course, sire."

Arthur sighs, feeling a headache coming on. He's the prince, he doesn't have to answer to Leon, but... "Speak to no one of this," Arthur says, "but it seems the situation is taking its toll on him. You know his hatred of magic. To have it live inside him—" Arthur cuts himself off. If he thinks on it too hard he'll be tempted to claw off his own skin. "I fear he is not himself. He will not leave his chambers. I just want to be sure he has whatever he needs."

Leon bows, though he still looks troubled. "Understood, sire."

Merlin, for his part, would really have rathered he come to the woods alone.

The atmosphere is nothing like it was two days ago, even though the four of them are together again and more or less running the same errand. Last time they were only here to play, and this time Merlin really does have to find the things on his list as quickly as possible so he can go on ahead with the scrying, though it could be many trips before he replaces everything he ruined when he tipped the shelf over, since it's much harder to find proper herbs in the winter. There's no joy in the air at all; Arthur is distracted and quiet, Gwen keeps growing plants up out of the snow on accident and then apologizing ceaselessly when her horse stops to nibble at them, and Morgana—

Morgana is miserable, and that's most of the reason Merlin didn't want her along.

Merlin feels guilty for even the thought. After everything that happened with the druids, Gaius said it was their job to look after her, to keep her safe—and Merlin's tried, he's always tried to keep everyone in Camelot safe. But they haven't talked about it. Morgana hasn't opened up to him. She acts the same as always, except for the fact that her smiles are more forced, there is more age around her eyes. Merlin's kept her safe from physical harm, yes, and he's protected her secret, but he stays so busy that he hasn't had time to be a very good friend.

Not that he's been very motivated, he'll admit. He still feels bad about not telling her about his own magic, and the guilt has eaten away everything else—he can't even enjoy spending time with Morgana anymore for its own sake, because when he's around her the guilt is all he can think about.

Morgana hasn't made any extra effort to seek him out either, and part of Merlin wonders if she isn't a little frightened of him—he knows her secret, a secret that could get her killed, and she has no such leverage in return.

It's not—right. When Merlin was small, only his mother and Will knew about his magic, but that made them his favorite people to be around. He trusted them, and he could be himself around them, and the gift of Will's friendship was all that kept him going some days, a bright spot in what was otherwise a wretchedly lonely childhood. But it seems that Morgana doesn't trust Merlin any more than he has trusted her, and that rankles.

Merlin misses her company. He misses the brave, bold person she used to be, before her life was ruled by fear. He misses when the two of them were still friends. It's not fair; Morgana having magic should have brought them together, not driven them apart.

Merlin can only take so much of Morgana's silent misery, but there's no way to speak with her with everyone being so quiet. Fortunately Gwen seems to hate the silence as much as he does, and the chatter she fills it with eventually draws Arthur in. Merlin takes the opportunity to slow his horse a little so he can hang back and ride next to Morgana. "How've you been holding up?"

Morgana throws an alarmed glance ahead of her, but Arthur is barely listening to Gwen, let alone the two of them, and the sound of hooves trudging through the snow covers their conversation. Her shoulders slump. "How do you think?" she asks. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to pretend you—" Another wary glance forward. "To pretend you have something, and at the very same time pretend that you don't?"

Merlin does, in fact, have some idea, but he can't tell her so. It's going to drive him mad. "I can't imagine anything more difficult."

"No," Morgana says sadly, "you really can't imagine. No one can."

Merlin tries not to squirm. If he's really going to try and change Arthur's mind about magic, maybe he ought to just throw caution to the wind entirely and tell Morgana the truth too? As soon as he has the thought, though, his courage abandons him. She'll be so angry he didn't tell her before, and what if she tells Arthur? Maybe it's best if she never finds out at all.

Suddenly Merlin remembers something. He may yet live to regret this, but... "Morgana," he says, keeping his voice low, "you haven't had any nightmares recently, have you? Any dreams out of the ordinary, especially the night before the curse was cast? Perhaps they'll have contained a clue about who cast it or how to break it."

Morgana hesitates. Her left hand drifts to touch her right wrist, around which is a heavy bracelet Merlin sees her wear sometimes, when her sleeves do not cover it; an ornate affair of gold and silver with a crest he does not know that has always nagged at him with a strange familiarity. "I don't have the dreams anymore."

"Well, did you feel anything odd that night? Did you wake suddenly? I felt it myself, so I thought that maybe..."

Morgana shakes her head, eyes still on Arthur ahead of her. "I'm sorry, Merlin. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't help."

Merlin sighs. Well, it was worth a try.

"Here we are," says Gwen, and hops off her horse. As soon as her feet touch the ground, her eyes flash gold and more little green shoots spring up out of the snow beneath her feet. "I'm sorry," Gwen moans, for what must be the hundredth time today. "I just can't make it stop."

Merlin eyes the plants at her feet as he dismounts, Arthur and Morgana not far behind him. "Don't apologize," he says, "at least four of those are on my list!" A thought strikes him. "Say, can you conjure a lobelia bush? It's normally a springtime flower so I seriously doubt we're going to find any otherwise."

Gwen shoots a terrified look at Merlin and then Arthur, and right on cue Arthur says, "Absolutely not. Merlin, are you trying to get us all killed? Have we not had this discussion? The use of magic, especially for personal gain, is a sure path to wickedness and corruption. I'll not have Guinevere risking anything of the sort just to save us a little work."

"All the same," Merlin says, and grabs his basket, "waste not, want not." And he begins picking the herbs Gwen grew, in a poor temper already.

This would have been the perfect time to engage Arthur about this, if it were just the two of them. Merlin doesn't know if he can do it with Gwen and Morgana here.

I'm tired of waiting for the perfect moment. Perfect may never come. Now may have to be good enough.

Merlin closes his eyes a moment. Then he says, very carefully, "You know, if Gwen did conjure up some lobelia, we could all go home early. And it's not just for our own gain—Gaius would have what he needs to save lives. How is that a bad thing? How could it possibly be evil?"

Gwen and Morgana have gone very quiet. Arthur crosses his arms. "Merlin, I know you're stupid, but even you can't possibly be so dense. We must be careful. It seems innocent enough at first but once you're pulled in—"

"But you didn't always believe that!" Merlin says, heart pounding in his ears. He stands and waves a hand in Gwen's direction. "When Gwen was falsely accused of magic, you and Morgana pled her case side by side—but it was only Morgana that believed she was innocent, do you remember? You thought her to be a sorceress, and yet you still appealed to your father for mercy. You said curing her father was an act of love—that there was no evil in her heart."

"Arthur," Gwen says softly. "Did you really?"

"Don't be too impressed," Arthur mutters, looking away. He jerks his head at Merlin. "This idiot confessed to sorcery to try and swap your places. I had to do some awfully fast talking to keep his scrawny arse out of the fire."

"Merlin," Gwen chides, but she looks positively touched. "You shouldn't have done such a thing. You could have been killed!"

The tips of Merlin's ears are hot. He never intended for Gwen to find out about that. "You helped the druid boy escape Camelot," he reminds Arthur, eager to move on, "even though you knew he had magic."

Arthur looks away. "He was a child, Merlin. Would you have preferred I let him die?"

"The point is that you once believed there was a difference—between magic that is helpful, and magic that is dangerous."

Arthur huffs out a sigh, breath fogging in the air. "Well, I was wrong."

Merlin clucks his tongue, incredulous. "Can I get that in writing?"

"Merlin," Arthur warns, clearly not in the mood. If Merlin's not careful, he'll be ducking fireballs instead of the usual rubbish Arthur likes to throw in his moments of foul temper.

Merlin spies a blank spot in the snow against the base of a nearby spruce and starts shifting the snow around it with his foot, looking for any of the ingredients he needs for the scrying spell underneath. The others follow him, but they're relatively useless at gathering herbs—they've no idea what to look for, especially in the snow. It was a long shot anyway, looking at this time of year, and Merlin's not practiced at conjuring them. If Arthur did let Gwen do it, she really would be saving all their necks. "Look," Merlin says, coming up empty and moving to a new tree, "I'm apprenticed to Gaius, I've heard him speak on the dangers of magic quite extensively, I know as well as anyone how terribly it can be abused. But it's not like that for everyone. What we have, what we've been given—"

"Cursed with," Arthur interrupts.

"It's different than cracking a book and learning it like Gaius did," Merlin says. "It's innate. It's natural."

"There's nothing natural about magic."

"You wouldn't feel that way if you'd been born with it," Merlin snaps, quite forgetting himself. This isn't going nearly as well as he hoped. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Merlin's trying to think of something else to say, some other argument to make—wishing now more than ever that Morgana felt brave enough to speak, because she used to argue the subject with more eloquence than Merlin will have in a thousand years—when Arthur says, "You're not afraid of magic at all, are you?"

Merlin's heart skips a beat. He supposes it'd be useless to deny it now. "No," he says, trying to appear absorbed as possible in his work. "Some sorcerers, maybe—the bad sort. But not magic itself."

"I always assumed..." Arthur sounds like he's thinking very hard, which may be a good or bad thing, depending on what conclusion he comes to. "But no, you've never really made your opinion known before, have you? You have no trouble telling me exactly what you think about everything else, even when I order you to shut it—but whenever the subject of magic comes up, you go quiet as a churchmouse. More than two years I've known you, Merlin, yet I've not heard you speak the first word about it."

Morgana's doing a pretty good job of keeping churchmouse-quiet herself right now, Merlin realizes, guilt nagging at him again. She's watching the two of them very, very carefully, but she's not butting in to change the subject. Merlin isn't sure if he's grateful for that or not.

"You don't make any sense, Merlin." Arthur kicks at some snow. "You're afraid of everything. You're always telling me not to rush into danger, and you scarper off at the first sign of a battle. Magic's the one thing that should scare you above all else, but it doesn't. I'm not sure it ever has. So tell me—why aren't you afraid of magic?"

Merlin's pulse pounds in his ears. He opens his mouth and finds that he cannot speak.

It's Gwen—beautiful, wonderful Gwen—who steps in to save him. "It's because of your friend," she guesses, quiet. "From your village. It was—Will, wasn't it?"

Of course.

How, how, how, could Merlin be so stupid as to forget Will?

Easily, Will would say, stupidity's what you do best, Merlin, forget the magic—but Will's not here. Will's dead. Will died for Arthur, who he didn't even like, and he spent his final breaths protecting Merlin's secret to the last, saving not just Arthur's life but Merlin's too. Will was a hero, and anyone else who died for a prince would be honored, but because Will confessed to sorcery first, his only boon was that no shame was cast upon him after death, and he was allowed a proper funeral.

And Arthur, who he died for, was an ass at that funeral, scolding Merlin for keeping secrets while his best and only friend for all the years before he came to Camelot burned right before his eyes.

All the same...

Merlin hadn't even considered it til now, but being able to speak as though he's relating Will's experiences instead of his own may mean Will winds up saving him twice. Merlin can speak with relative authority, given that the two of them were all but brothers, and with relative freedom, given that speaking on behalf of someone else will direct suspicion away from himself.

Will would be none too happy about being used this way, Merlin's sure—Merlin can almost see him throwing up his hands, shouting I already died for this bastard, was that not enough? Merlin swallows a lump in his throat and sends him a silent apology. You got yourself into this mess, old friend. I never wanted you to lie for me.

Merlin can't tell them any stories about his own life—but he can tell them all about Will's.

"William," Merlin says at last, "had a hard life. He was always very angry—a right ass sometimes, if we're being honest." He finally finds one of the roots he needs and unhooks a small trowel from his belt so he can dig through the frozen soil. "But that didn't make him a monster, and neither did being born with magic."

"But I've never heard of anyone being born with magic," Gwen says. She finally kneels next to Merlin, helping him brush away loose dirt and snow as he digs. "I thought you had to learn it out of books, or with a teacher."

"It's rare," Merlin allows, "really rare, unless you're a druid I suppose—but it does happen. Gaius says the Old Religion—" and he does not dare look at Arthur here, for fear of reminding him of Morgause and his mother, "—Gaius says the Old Religion always has to have balance. Since so many magical people died in the Great Purge, and so many more stopped studying magic altogether, the magic had to find another way to exist. So the children born after—sometimes they're magical, even if they aren't druids. They don't choose it—it chooses them."

Merlin feels Morgana's eyes on him like a brand.

"Do you mind my asking," Gwen says, "I mean—how long did you know about Will? What he was?"

Merlin finally tugs the root free from the ground, his fingers stiff and numb. "I don't mind," he says, surprised to find it's true. He's not properly grieved for Will, didn't have anyone to share fond memories with besides his mother; Will's own mother passed on a couple of years before Merlin left for Camelot. Nothing he says can be true to the word, but in Merlin's heart...

Merlin toes through the snow, suddenly nervous. He can't quite meet their eyes.

"Will was a bit of an outcast. We both were—we were the only lads in the village without fathers. So we grew up together. I met him even before I could remember, and...when you're that young, and you spend that much time together, there's no such thing as secrets." Merlin smiles a little, though the memory makes him sad. "There was never a time I didn't know."

There. Now Merlin has outed himself as a lifelong ally to a sorcerer, right in front of Camelot's crown prince. Trying to calm his racing heart, Merlin sneaks a glance at Arthur to see how he's handling this little revelation. Like Morgana, he's watching Merlin in silence—but Merlin can see the silence means that for once he's actually listening.

It's a start.

Gwen's not one for silence, though, and she's also not one to idle while watching others work—so even though she has no idea what she's supposed to be doing, she's begun copying Merlin and brushing snow off the base of the trees so he can more easily size them up. "Will must have trusted you a great deal."

"Yes," Merlin says, "he did. Of course, Ealdor is in Cenred's kingdom," he reminds her. "Magic wasn't illegal on pain of death there. Frowned upon, though, especially so close to Camelot's borders. In the wrong village you could get dragged out by a mob and killed for having magic if the mood turned foul—poor harvest, bad weather, you name it. Growing up we couldn't even tell my—my mother," he says, stumbling, "or Will's, that anyone knew. It was too dangerous. So we played games in secret, to exercise his magic."

Gwen looks skeptical. "Games? What, like—like catch?"

"Sure," says Merlin easily. Here he comes to the true point of this tale. "Magic like Will's can be volatile sometimes—we've seen proof enough of that with this curse. When he got angry or scared, things would happen—he used to move objects about too, and they'd fly around out of his control, or the forces of nature would go mad. He had to exercise his magic as one would a muscle, lest it get the better of him. So he'd throw things, catch them—fell trees for lumber, tie laces with his eyes closed. Anything to work it out of him. He was always so terrified he'd accidentally hurt someone, or worse. And there were so, so many close calls. But in the end, no one died. The two of us, we made it work." Merlin smiles tremulously. "He always said he could never have done it alone, that our friendship—that acceptance, that trust, meant...everything. To have a confidant like that, I—he was so grateful. Because it can get so lonely, being born apart from the rest of the world, unable to truly be yourself around anyone. It can feel like you're cursed. Or worse—like you're a monster."

Gwen lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Merlin lays his hand over hers and squeezes back.

No one says anything for a long time. Merlin finally pulls away from Gwen and goes digging for another root. "He didn't care for many of the villagers," Merlin says at last. "They didn't know he had magic, but it was enough to know he was different. They labeled him a bastard, a troublemaker, a menace. He was bullied, never quite fit in there. But he still came to their aid when they needed him." This part of the story is true about Will as well as Merlin: Merlin came from Camelot, but Will made it clear he intended to leave Ealdor behind him for good before the raiders arrived. Merlin will never be able to ask him why he changed his mind. If he hadn't, he would still be alive—and Arthur and Merlin may well be dead.

"Will was a good person, at heart," Merlin says, now addressing Arthur. "He was a hero, even though he had magic. He died to save your life, Arthur, and he didn't even like you."

Arthur lets out a small, pained sigh, his breath fogging in the air, but he says nothing. Perhaps he, like Merlin, is thinking of his behavior at Will's funeral. Or perhaps he's already planning the details of Merlin's next stay in the stocks, or his fucking execution, for speaking on such a taboo subject with such an outrageous amount of open disrespect.

Well, too late to take it all back now. "Magic isn't good or evil," Merlin says at last. "It's a tool, just like a sword, and if it isn't used properly—"

Arthur cuts him off. "I've heard the argument before, Merlin," he says, but not with the usual level of dismissal; his voice is low, his tone almost apologetic. "Morgana's made the same many times."

Before she knew she was magic. Merlin has noticed she doesn't make such arguments anymore.

"But a sword can't level a battlefield in a single storm," Arthur says. "A sword can't infect the water and sicken an entire city. A sword can't turn a good man's heart to evil."

"Right," says Merlin, "because, you see, a sword is good only for killing; it's capable of nothing but bloodshed." He finishes digging and stands, facing Arthur now instead of seeing to his work. "But magic? Magic is capable of anything! Maybe right now all you do is light things afire, but if you worked at it you could use that same power to do what all kings should: protect the innocent, heal the injured, right wrongs."

Arthur scoffs. "And get consumed by it, in the end."

"That's not always how it ends," Merlin protests. "Look at Gaius, look at Will. Will always said—to him, the magic felt natural. Just like swinging a sword does to you. He couldn't imagine life without it anymore than you could imagine never being able to fight again." He won't mention the severity of Arthur's injury, not in front of the others, but he knows by the look in Arthur's eyes his point is understood. "He said there wasn't a bit of difference in picking something up with his hands or picking it up with his mind. It wasn't evil at all." Merlin quiets. "It was just part of who he was. Just the way he experienced being alive."

They're all staring at Merlin now, any pretense of work long abandoned. His heart is in his throat, and his pulse jackrabbits beneath his ribs. He is lying through his teeth, and yet he has never been so truly honest with any of them—these, his closest friends in Camelot. He has never before been able to confide in them like this.

Not even Arthur. Especially not Arthur.

"He could feel the magic in everything, you know," Merlin says, and looks skyward so he does not have to meet their eyes. "The earth, the sea, the sky, the living things all around us, even you and me—magic exists in everything there is. He said it makes the world so much more beautiful, so beautiful he wished everyone could experience it the way he did. And when he was loneliest—when he felt the most unwanted and unloved—that made him glad. It made every bit of pain and struggle worth it, because—" Merlin's throat works. "Because when you have magic, you're connected to everything. And that means you're never alone."

Here Merlin must stop and wipe his eyes. Stupid, he scolds himself. He should never have got so carried away. If Will were here, he'd never let Merlin live it down.

Merlin's afraid to look at Arthur, but when he sneaks a peek at Gwen he sees her eyes are bright too, and he has to give her a small smile of gratitude because it makes him feel a little less foolish. And Morgana—

Oh no.

Merlin's blood runs cold. Morgana was so quiet Merlin nearly forgot she was there, but she was listening the whole time, and she knows better than anyone else here what it is to have true magic. She looks at Merlin now with undisguised disbelief. And as Merlin watches she goes through the full range of emotion—hurt, horror, and—oh yes, there's the rage.

Merlin, it seems, has spoken a little too freely.

Morgana knows.

"Merlin," Morgana says tightly, "might I have a word?"

Well, that's it, Merlin's dead, he's fucking dead— "Um," he starts, but she doesn't give him much choice, catching him by the upper arm and dragging him deeper into the trees, "oh, okay—" He sends a pleading look over his shoulder at Arthur and Gwen, who both look utterly mystified.

"Oi," Arthur shouts after them, "where the hell are the two of you going at a time like this?"

"Trust me," says Morgana, "this won't take long."

Morgana, mercifully, pulls Merlin far enough away from the others that the thickness of the trees and snow will surely muffle the sound of their conversation. Then without preamble she spits, "You have magic." Merlin says nothing and she adds, "You were born with it."

Merlin cannot look at her; cannot speak. Is it too late to make her believe she didn't see what she saw, doesn't know what she does? "Morgana..."

"Don't you fucking lie to me, Merlin." At last Merlin drags his eyes up off the ground and to her face and finds that she is weeping; not with heartbreak, but with fury. "I begged you for help. I was so lost! And you sent me away to the druids."

"I thought they could help you. I thought they—"

"They died!" Morgana says, nearly shouts. She is momentarily overcome and covers her face with both hands. "Do you have any idea how that felt? I went to them for safety, for understanding, and just when I thought I might finally have a place where I belonged, Uther sent Arthur and the knights after me like hunting dogs, and they cut down every soul who dared show me kindness. I can't leave Camelot, because anyone who shelters me risks suffering the same fate—I'm as good as a prisoner here, and I thought I was in this prison alone! And then I find out all along you could have been my friend, but instead you let those innocent people die to keep your secret safe!"

This is everything Merlin feared, and everything he deserves. "I'm sorry," he gasps. His eyes burn with tears he cannot stop, because she is right; so many have suffered or died so that Merlin may live free from Uther's persecution. Sometimes it feels as though every choice he makes winds up with someone in danger, but he always comes through just fine, doesn't he? "Morgana, I'm so sorry."

"What right do you have to weep?" Morgana asks, wiping uselessly at her own eyes. Merlin has never seen her look so young. "What right do you have to apologize to me?"

Merlin shakes his head, wordless.

"All that time you had Will," Morgana says. "All your life, you had someone. And yet you looked at me and thought—what, that I deserved to be alone? That you couldn't trust me to keep your secret? I thought we were friends."

"I'm sorry," Merlin says again. "Morgana, I have lived with this all my life. There was never a moment I wasn't afraid—"

Morgana scoffs. "Arthur's right when he calls you a coward."

Merlin looks away, eyes wet and face burning.

Morgana won't let him escape that easily. She stalks around him so that her face is but inches from his own, when she says, "You had to live with your secret since birth, but I've met your mother, Merlin. I've met Will. They're good people. I was raised by Uther." Her left hand moves to grip her right wrist. "You were afraid? I was terrified."

It is then that Merlin understands that Morgana, in spite of her years-long and vocal defense of those who have magic, is just as frightened of it as Arthur is. Maybe not for all of the same reasons, but neither of them escaped Uther's upbringing unscathed.

Comprehension dawns on Morgana's face. "It was all you, wasn't it? The snakes on Valiant's shield...healing Gwen's father, nearly getting her killed...the windstorm in Ealdor...and Arthur has no idea."

True fear strikes at Merlin's heart, then; Morgana holds his very life in her hands now, and he has done absolutely nothing to warrant her mercy. "Are you going to tell him?" Morgana doesn't answer, and, terrified, Merlin falls to his knees in the snow before her. "Please, Morgana, I beg you—please don't tell him."

Morgana jerks away from him, disgusted. "I should." She rakes her eyes over him. "But it's mutually assured destruction, isn't it? Anything to protect your own skin. You'd tell too."

Merlin shakes his head in denial. "I would never—"

"I told you to stop lying to me!" Morgana digs the heels of her palms into her eyes until she is no longer crying. Then she says, "Quit groveling and get up."

Merlin's head jerks up as if on a string. He scrambles to his feet.

"I won't tell Arthur," says Morgana. "In fact, I won't tell anyone." She leans in close again, her eyes boring into his own. "And every day you wake up with your head still on your shoulders, Merlin, you'll know you owe your life to me."

That's fair. That's more than fair. That's exactly what Merlin deserves.

Morgana turns on her heel to make her way back to Arthur and Gwen. "Morgana," Merlin calls, his voice still unsteady, and Morgana stops. "If you wanted—I could teach you to control it. I could help you." It's the exact thing he should have offered all along.

Morgana turns her head but does not look at him. "I hate you, Merlin," she says, stated as simple fact. "I don't want anything from you."

When they finally get back to Arthur and Gwen, the two of them have their arms folded and aren't looking at one another. Arthur's jaw is clamped shut and he won't meet Merlin's eyes.

But there, reaching hopefully up through the snow beneath Gwen's feet, sprout the new beginnings of a bush of lobelia.

Chapter Text

As the week drags on, and the fight against the magic in Camelot becomes more and more futile, Arthur spends a great deal of time thinking about William of Ealdor—and even more time thinking about Merlin.

Merlin, in general, rambles a lot—and most of what comes out of his mouth is useless nonsensical rubbish at best. That makes it very easy for Arthur to forget that he has this...strange ability to assess things with such startling and ruthless clarity that his words cut as quick and deep as any sword.

He's right about Will: despite being a sorcerer, Will gave his life for Arthur's. No matter how you cut it, that's an act of total selflessness—there was no logical reason in the world for Will to want to die for Arthur, who was not his king, who was not even, as Merlin pointed out, someone Will actually liked. In point of fact, Arthur had been half-ready to put someone to the sword for such a dangerous display of power as that windstorm. Will would have been much safer if he let Arthur die.

But Will saved him anyway. Will, a sorcerer since birth, who had apparently had an entire lifetime for his magic to eat away at everything that made him good, still somehow breathed his last as not only a good man but a hero.

Will was a sorcerer, and Will was selfless. Both things can't be true—but, impossibly, they are anyway.

No wonder Merlin isn't afraid of magic.

And that's the thing that has Arthur truly shaken: all this time, all these years, Merlin has known and loved a sorcerer—and still he came to Camelot. He bore its harsh laws against magic and every foul thing Arthur and his father ever said about those who practice it without a word of complaint. It's utterly baffling. Merlin not being afraid of magic didn't make any sense at all until Arthur sat with it awhile, and now it makes so much sense, explains so many inexplicable things, that Arthur wonders at himself for not being able to guess at it before. And yet, were it not for the curse, he might have gone the rest of his life without ever finding out.

Of course, Merlin's always been like that—he is a genuine idiot, and to all outward appearances that's all he is. But if you dig just a little, he's also a bit of a puzzle, and despite all his best attempts Arthur has never quite managed to fathom him out.

And now he's gone and turned Arthur's world right over, shaken it up even more than it already was these past six months since that fateful meeting with Morgause.

Could Merlin actually be right about magic?

On the one hand, well—Merlin's no Morgana when it comes to the fine art of debate, but he makes his point most clearly. That's not always how it ends. Look at Gaius, look at Will. Gwen's hypothetical healing of her father, the little druid boy...it's true that there are rare exceptions to the evil magic is capable of, and if there is one exception, there will always be more. Even after learning his lesson about magic the hard way, with everything that happened with Morgause, Arthur has never condoned the indiscriminate executions his father favors. There has to be a better way, even if he's not yet sure what it is.

On the other hand, Arthur has only been alive for a short time, in a world where magic has been nearly eradicated, and he has still seen it used to do more harm than he can say. The famed singer turned assassin, the snakes on Sir Valiant's shield, the afanc that sickened his people, the sorceress who poisoned Merlin himself and left Arthur in that cave for dead, the false and murderous physician Edwin Muirden, the wraith that killed two of his finest knights, Cornelius Sigan's assault on Camelot, the druids kidnapping Morgana, the corrupt and wicked witchfinder who was himself a sorcerer, Morgause...

All Morgause did was tell Arthur the truth, but she made it even uglier and more perverse than it already was. She manipulated him, played on his deepest fears and insecurities, took the love he had for his mother and twisted it to suit her own dark and selfish purpose, to tear a rift between Arthur and his father that still has yet to truly heal—to, in some ways, take Arthur's mother from him all over again. Six months hence and Arthur still suffers from the terrible cruelty she put him through, is still utterly lost without his mother's guiding presence. Morgause used magic to do that to him. How can it be anything but pure evil?

And now magic is being used to hurt the people of Camelot—Arthur among them, but he isn't the only one.

It isn't just that his father still won't leave his chambers and continues to pace like a madman every time Arthur visits. It isn't just that Arthur spends every waking minute worrying the molten fire seething beneath his skin will leap out and hurt someone, and keeps blowing up candles and torches when he's startled. It isn't even just the various injured patients that show up in the physician's quarters, the people who have used magic to change themselves or pull pranks and just taken it too far. It's chaotic, but the kingdom has borne worse; very few of the injuries are severe, and all of them are set right within the day. Some of the mishaps that turn up at Gaius's are almost laughable.

No—the worst of it, the very worst, is that five long and fraught days after their little debate in the woods, Arthur gets word that the curse has taken its first life.

Merlin was the poor sod who found him—one of the stable boys, he said, gray with shock and choking back tears, a fellow he chatted with often who hadn't been seen out of his home in days. When Merlin grew concerned and went to check on him, he was hanging by his neck from the rafters, the noose of his own making. He wasn't, according to Merlin, very good with his letters, but he did manage to leave a simple note: Sorry, Mum—got to get the magic out. Love always.

Arthur spends most of that morning overseeing a sweep of the houses that have gone dark and quiet, barricaded against the chaos, and he and his knights find eight more bodies.

Merlin takes it hard. They argue about it, in Arthur's chambers during lunch, the fireplace cold and lifeless as it always is, these days. "Can you truly not see the harm magic causes now?" Arthur demands. "Nine people are dead!"

"Magic didn't kill them," Merlin argues miserably, and oh, how Arthur misses the days when they didn't talk about magic every waking bloody minute of the day. "Down to the one, they either were or lived with fanatics, zealots just like—"

He catches himself with an angry little shake of his head and Arthur feels nearly dizzy from the shock. He suspects he knows exactly how Merlin meant to finish that sentence, and while Arthur may permit Merlin a great deal of leniency—to slack off when he's meant to be working, to practice insolence when he should remain humble, to speak up in defense of magic when he should really, really keep his silence—he isn't sure if he could overlook a direct insult to their king, whether there was truth in it or not.

Arthur's father hadn't been nearly so broken up when Arthur told him. He called it a necessary sacrifice.

"The doctrines against magic, the misinformation that magic is always evil, the fear," Merlin is saying, "that is what killed them. Even you're afraid of it, going on about how we can't use it on purpose—"

"I'm not afraid," Arthur snarls, and with a sickening lurch feels the fireplace leap to life behind him. He clenches his teeth together and resolutely ignores it. "I'm concerned," he says, jaw tight, "and rightfully so. Now, Merlin, your completely backwards personal beliefs are your own, and I know better than to think harboring those beliefs makes you treasonous, but I had better not catch you using the magic deliberately, or so help me—"

"Oh, believe me, if I were using it on purpose you'd certainly never notice!" Merlin snaps. "Honestly, it's almost like you approve of them doing what they did, if they truly felt they couldn't control it—"

"Of course not!" Arthur says. "They didn't deserve to die. They're not even really sorcerers—"

"Oh, but real sorcerers can all just go and hang themselves then, is that it?" Merlin asks hotly. "Unbelievable!"

That is not what Arthur said at all, but their rowing keeps Merlin in a terrible temper all day, until Arthur (who, though he wouldn't admit it even on pain of death, normally quite likes Merlin's company) is terribly sick of him. Arthur would be well within his rights to throw Merlin in the stocks for being so utterly wretched to be around, but is in fact a magnanimous prince despite what Merlin thinks. Once he can no longer stand to be around Merlin, he simply gives him the rest of the evening off. If Arthur's pity over the manner in which Merlin found his friend played into it, well—Merlin need not know. Later Arthur finds out that Merlin paid a courier half a week's wages to get a letter out to Ealdor; he spent the time, it seems, writing his own mother.

Arthur puts himself to bed that night, keenly aware that Merlin should be there with him and isn't. He, quite uselessly, douses the hearth before lying down. It won't help; the dreams haven't stopped, and he always wakes with the embers in the fireplace hot and ready to burst into flame. The dreams don't wake him in the middle of the night anymore, but he still remembers them in bits and pieces, flashes of his mother's face streaked with tears or his father gripping the black dagger. Arthur wakes in the morning feeling unsettled, a shout in his throat, magic simmering like fire under his skin, with a sense of foreboding so real and terrible it's a wonder he can't reach out and touch it.

Not for the first time, Arthur considers asking for a sleeping draught from Gaius. He has the sneaking suspicion, though, that it wouldn't help—that should he sleep more deeply, he would only risk being unable to wake at all should the fire burn out of control again. Besides, it's shameful—Arthur doesn't want anyone to know he's having nightmares, let alone that they involve his mother. How would he be able to explain it without getting too close to the truth?

It's all such a terrible mess that it makes him feel sorry for Morgana, of all people—sleeping should never be this stressful, but she's been having nightmares for many years now. If this is what it's like, Arthur can't say he blames her for always being such a brat; he'd be tempted to make a nuisance of himself too in her position.

Morgana, though, hasn't complained of dreams in a long time, and she hasn't come to dinner in nearly a week, preferring to eat in her chambers. She seems a shadow of herself these days—she barely speaks, takes long naps multiple times a day, and she avoids them all, but especially Merlin, and Merlin now goes out of his way to avoid her too. Whatever little lover's spat they had in the forest that day (while Arthur and Guinevere were having a spat of their own, one she is still cross with him over), it seems to have taken its toll on them both, and neither of them will speak about the matter to anyone else, even their crown prince. Arthur is terribly curious; if there weren't more pressing matters at hand, he would be sorely tempted to abuse his power to lock everyone in a room together until he got the whole sordid story out of them.

The sixth day after the forest, the king finally decides to address his people.

To Arthur's memory, it's the most unusual address Camelot's ever had. For one thing, he finds out about it exactly the same way as everyone else, via one of the town criers running through the streets. For another, his father hasn't left his room once since the day the curse began.

Arthur feels guilty for even thinking it, but his father's self-imposed quarantine has been almost convenient—if Arthur must shoulder the responsibility of seeing them through this curse alone, at least he isn't having to fight his father too. His father hardly sees reason when it comes to magic, and there's no telling what drastic measures he may have taken by now if he hadn't confined himself to his chambers. In a way, it's almost better that he did; the last thing they need now is his father's infamous lethal paranoia.

Unfortunately, it seems today they're getting some anyway. When Arthur hears the crier he immediately starts jogging for the square, with Merlin (who is now back to work and so back to bothering Arthur) at his heels. When they arrive, he's shocked to see that his father—actually dressed and present, looking just like himself—is already partway through his speech, speaking with as much calm and regal authority as he ever has. Unfortunately, he's speaking about the very subject Arthur had hoped to avoid today: the suicides.

"...magic is a force of great evil," his father is saying. "Not everyone can hope to control such a power, but we can all aspire to the noble example set yesterday." Now that Arthur has a moment to look, he can't help but notice that something's off about him; his cloak is ever-so-slightly crooked, his hair sticks up oddly in the back. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and, Arthur notes, a kind of gauntness in his face, even though Arthur has made it a point to bring him meals during his daily visits. He doesn't normally pace, either, and the way he moves back and forth along the balcony puts Arthur ill at ease. "Those we have lost were brave souls," his father says. "Not lords or knights, yet they willingly laid down their lives for this kingdom and her people, and their sacrifice will be remembered forever..."

Arthur hasn't officially addressed the people yet because he was hoping to at least bring them some good news. It's clear now he should never have waited so long. What the hell is his father doing? Is he trying to get more people to take their own lives?

Arthur sneaks a glance over at Merlin. Far from looking as furious as he was at Arthur yesterday, he looks no more unhappy than he does when Arthur gives him extra chores or drags him out hunting. When did he get so good at concealing his true feelings? But it's nothing new, Arthur realizes—Merlin has always secretly supported those with magic, and he has always listened to his king speak against it without letting on that he disagreed. It's only that Arthur didn't know about it before. Merlin must—really trust Arthur, actually, to speak so freely in front of him, right? Arthur has gotten to see a side of Merlin that Merlin will not show here in public. A rather stupid side, a side that annoys the absolute life out of Arthur—but that's Merlin for you. It's just that much closer Arthur has gotten to finally figuring Merlin out.

Someone bumps into Arthur on their way out of the square. When Arthur looks up he sees it's Morgana, and she's nearly in tears. She gives him a betrayed look and jerks away before he can say anything, which makes no sense because how is any of this Arthur's fault, and then rushes off into the streets. As Arthur whirls to go after her, Guinevere speeds past him without so much as a glance in his direction.

"Gwen's got it handled," Merlin says flatly. "Arthur, I think we ought to—oh, fucking hell—"

Arthur hears shrieks from the crowd and turns, and his heart drops to his knees. His father still paces, still addresses the people, but now he has climbed up onto the parapet that separates the balcony from the open air, and his balance looks precarious at best. "The evils of magic," he says, sounding quite distracted, "cannot be ignored...no, no exceptions for anyone...from commoner to king...we must all do our part..."

Good God, he's gone mad. The magic's finally done him in. Normally Arthur would take the time to admonish Merlin for his language, but no—fucking hell about covers it.

Arthur isn't quite sure until later what happens next. He, of course, makes a run for the stairs so he can pull his father down off the ledge and get him inside already. He's so used to having Merlin literally at his right hand that it doesn't occur to Arthur to dismiss him, keep him off of the platform where only royalty may stand when such an audience is assembled. Once they reach the door, though, he feels rather than sees Merlin hang back. And as Arthur finally makes it out to the balcony and makes to pull his father down—

His father startles, overbalances, and begins to tip over the edge.

And then, as if by magic, his trajectory is reversed, sending him into a rather undignified heap on top of Arthur instead of plummeting down to his doom. And when Arthur, lying flat on his back, looks up—

He sees Merlin peering down at him with wide eyes, the last traces of gold only just leaving his irises.

It's up to Arthur to save the moment, of course. He's the one who must get his father to his feet, wrap an arm around his shoulders, try and pick up mid-speech from all that rambling and finish it in a manner that he hopes conveys (without sounding too treasonous) that not a single soul in Camelot is to even consider following the footsteps of those who died yesterday, and also, impossibly, that his father is not mad.

Later, after his father has been escorted back to his chambers and put to bed with one of Gaius's sleeping draughts, with the door to his chambers closed safely behind them, Arthur says to Merlin, "You saved him, didn't you? You moved him—like the swords, and the shelf."

Merlin shrugs, avoiding Arthur's gaze. "It was just a lucky accident. I suppose people count as objects too, if you're frightened enough." He can't seem to resist adding, "Guess magic's good for a thing or two after all."

Arthur claps Merlin on the shoulder and decides that just now, he's grateful enough for Merlin's timely loss of control that he won't point out that magic is what caused the problem in the first place.

The next morning, a week to the day after their debate in the forest, Arthur, quite tired of being useless, decides to try and use a sword again. His hand is still healing, but he has more grip in it now; he's hopeful it's enough to at least practice for a while, lest any skill he ever had with the blade atrophies from disuse.

Merlin, who is in a marginally less wretched mood than he has been these past two days, and as such is marginally more bearable company, warns Arthur, "This is a bad idea." He trots out to the training yard after Arthur anyway, of course, perpetually a second pair of footprints in the snow behind Arthur's own. Sometimes it seems as if there is nowhere Arthur can go that Merlin will not follow. "Your injury's still too severe. It needs more time."

"I don't have time. Gaius is no closer to finding a solution, our scouting parties have come back empty-handed, the druids are nowhere to be found—I need to be out there."

"You need to be resting, you stubborn prat."

"Shut up, Merlin, and hand me my sword."

Merlin shuts up and hands Arthur his sword.

But as much as Arthur hates to admit it, Merlin is right—Arthur can barely grip the blade enough to lift it, and when he tries to swing it a sharp pain shoots from his wrist to his elbow, and he drops the sword in the snow. "Damn it!"

Arthur pays for his moment of lost control; in his burst of anger, he has set the practice dummy afire.

"Language," Merlin jokes lamely, but at Arthur's glare he wilts.

Arthur regards the flaming mess with mounting dread. What is he supposed to do if he can't swing a sword at something and make it bend to his will? The sword is all Arthur knows. Without his sword, how is he supposed to fight against this fire trying to burn him up from the inside?

"The left," Arthur says at last. "I'll train with the left."

He's not giving up, and he's not giving in—least of all to magic. He's the Prince of Camelot, and he's better than that.

As it happens, his father can fight with either hand, though most often he winds up using a two-handed grip. He's more naturally skilled with his left; he writes left-handed, and performs better in a duel when fighting left-handed. It's a strange curiosity—Arthur has never met another who prefers the use of their opposite hand, though he has been assured he has several great uncles who share the affliction—but most of the time it is useless, as traditionally duels are fought with the blade in one's right hand. A left-handed swordsman is at an unfair advantage if he is skilled and at an unfair disadvantage if he is not.

For this reason his father took great pains to learn to wield a sword equally well with either hand, and often nagged Arthur to do the same, growing up—but Arthur had always blown him off, more concerned with becoming the greatest warrior he could in one area rather than switching around. As a prince he has had to dabble in many things—crossbows, lances, maces, the like—to acquire at least a base skill, but his true area of expertise has always been the sword and shield. To Arthur, training with his left hand was about as useful as training with a niche weapon such as, say, the javelin; useful for only very particular situations, and so not of much value.

His father would have been the perfect teacher for this task. But his father, locked away in his chambers as he is, doesn't even know Arthur's right hand has been crippled. Arthur's on his own.

As a result, the training is slow going. Arthur's worked with his left hand a few times, but only on the basics, and that was a long time ago; most of the physical skill, unpracticed, has left him now. He's as slow and clumsy as he was the day he first picked up a blade, when he barely reached his father's waist. His head knows all the right moves, has had basic sword drills memorized for most of his life, but his body's got none of the training, and it frustrates him so much that he sets two more dummies on fire before he's forced to give up and go back inside. He has to leave a bit of the training yard for the others, after all.

The frustration triggers the magic, but Arthur can't get the frustration out if he can't work it out on the field. His hand is getting better, he can feel it, but it isn't fast enough, and the persistent clawing anxiety that it'll never be back to what it once was only makes the magical outbursts more and more violent. They just keep getting worse—first it was candles and torches lighting themselves in the halls, but now it's sparks flying from his fingers when he's trying to read or write and scorching the parchment, the fireplace going mad all hours of the day even when he's awake.

Every hour that passes brings the magic simmering closer to Arthur's skin and he can't get it out of him. It's going to consume him. It's going to eat him alive. He's in over his head, and he needs help, but who in the kingdom of Camelot could he possibly ask? Everyone who ever knew anything about magic is dead save for Gaius, and Gaius—he learned all his magic from a book, and he's busy besides. Part of Arthur fears if he goes to Gaius it will eventually get back to his father, and Arthur can think of few things worse than his father knowing his only son poses a magical risk to his kingdom.

Arthur could ask Merlin. Merlin knew Will, after all, a sorcerer from birth who had somehow managed to keep himself from going mad or worse. He thinks about it a lot—when Merlin has to write a letter for him later that day because Arthur keeps burning up his parchment, when Merlin puts out the fires in his fireplace, when Merlin changes the bandages Arthur's wound and proclaims that it is coming along nicely and needs only time that Arthur cannot spare.

But he doesn't ask Merlin. He's too ashamed. What would Merlin think, to know the danger Arthur poses is rapidly becoming more concerning than a few rolls of scorched parchment and out-of-control fires in the hearth? What if it says something about him only someone who lived with a sorcerer would understand: that he's weak, or that he's losing himself to it?

Besides, what's Merlin going to do anyway, give him magic lessons? The thought is laughable. Yes, Merlin's keeping his own magic in check—he's the best in Camelot, actually, and isn't that ironic, that he's finally found something he's actually good at—and it's true, Merlin did know Will. But he's not a sorcerer, and no matter how much he's trained with Will and spoken of magic Gaius, he isn't an expert either.

Merlin never keeps quiet, though. He offers his opinions unsolicited whether Arthur cares to hear them or not, and no force on earth, magic or not, seems to be able to shut him up.

Eight days after the forest, midway through putting out the fireplace for the second time since Arthur began his evening meal, Merlin says, easy as you please, "Perhaps you should try using it on purpose."

Arthur nearly chokes on his spiced wine. "Merlin."

"What? I'm just saying, maybe you just need to work it out of you. I told you that's what Will had to do."

Arthur remembers the throne room, the way it felt to invite that power in, to let it take control and throw fire all around him, heedless of who might be close enough to get burned. It makes him ache for soap and hot water, but of course this particular taint runs further than skin deep. "Never," he swears. He will let it burn him alive first; a fitting death for one who cannot control their own magic. "Everyone is counting on me. I gave my father my word. Not for personal gain, not to help another, not even to—"

"—save your own life," Merlin finishes, subdued. "Arthur, are you sure I can't change your mind?"

If Arthur lives to be a hundred, he still doesn't think he'll ever completely understand Merlin. "Why in the world would you want to change my mind?"

Merlin opens his mouth, closes it, and then shrugs—and in the end, says nothing.

And then, nine days after the forest, Arthur tries to kill him.

Arthur has dreamed about his mother many times since his fateful meeting with Morgause over six months ago. For the first few weeks, those dreams plagued him nightly, but gradually they began to drop off. It had been months since his last one when magic was suddenly forced upon Camelot and those dreams made their violent return.

They are just as the nightmare he had that first night, when he woke to his room burning around him: his mother in the fortress, his father with golden eyes, the fire taking them all just before he wakes. But since the curse, there is a new element: his father's knife. It's the same one every time—a small dagger the length of a man's hand, pure obsidian from end to end, a single pearl embedded in the hilt—and always it appears in his father's hand just before the dream ends.

Just before Arthur is forced to watch his mother die right in front of him. Each night she stares at him with wide and terrified eyes, and there is nothing Arthur can do to save her. It seems he is doomed to lose her time and again.

Arthur can make sense of the rest of the dream, foolish as it is to put too much stock into such things—his father's use of magic is what ultimately ended his mother's life. That explains the golden eyes, the menacing nature of his father's silhouette, the all-consuming fire. His taunt—strike me down—is what he said to Arthur right before Arthur attacked him in the council chambers six months ago, beginning a duel that nearly ended with Arthur killing him. But Arthur's never seen the dagger before, and he has no idea where it came from—only that each night he sees it come down between his mother's shoulderblades, draw across her throat, plunge through the fine pale silk of her dress.

Arthur really hates that knife.

Arthur hasn't woken himself up out of a nightmare since that first night. He only remembers the dreams in bits and pieces, and he no longer throws himself out of bed to a room full of smoke and flames. And so he thought he had them under control. And if he didn't, so what? He is not Morgana; he doesn't need a sleeping draught. If someone should stumble into his room while the fireplace was raging out of control, well, it'd hardly be more embarrassing than having nearly singed Merlin's eyebrows off in Gaius's clinic when Merlin was checking his hand. Arthur wouldn't like it, but he'd survive.

Unfortunately for Arthur, it isn't just his own survival he has to worry about now.

Merlin, just like he does every morning, is the one to wake Arthur. Only this morning Arthur is still in the middle of the nightmare.

Merlin startles Arthur right out of a dead slumber, and Arthur's still addled with sleep, half-expecting to see his father standing there, with that awful dagger raised high, daring Arthur to fight back—all he knows in that terrible moment is that more than anything he wants for his mother not to die. So it's completely instinctual when, instead of cuffing Merlin round the head like he normally might have done when startled, he lashes out with magic.

"No!" Arthur cries, and his fire throws itself at Merlin before Arthur even realizes what's really happening, who he's actually aiming at, before he can even try to stop it.

Flames fill Arthur's vision, in the vague shape of a man. Merlin is burning.

Arthur scrambles back with a horrified cry, unable to tear his eyes away from Merlin's burning form. "Stop!" he shouts, "stop it, stop it—" But it won't stop. He's never been able to make it stop. Just like in his dreams, he's powerless to do anything but watch as the flame takes someone away from him. He looks around for something, anything to put it out with, but he has used up all the water already—each second that passes is endless, for Merlin must be in agony, and Arthur is killing his only real friend in the worst way imaginable—

—but then, through the fire, Arthur spies twin spots of gold. The flames recede like water, and Arthur sees now that they cling to some sort of round invisible force that surrounds Merlin like a bubble, the only shield standing between him and certain death at Arthur's very own hand.

The gold in Merlin's eyes snuffs out, and now he just looks shaken and scared, eyes very round, and says with his tone somewhere between pitying and hurt: "Arthur, it's only me."

So it is.

"Merlin," gasps Arthur, flooded with relief, and he doesn't apologize to anyone for anything because he's the prince but he's on his feet, the words tumbling out anyway, "Merlin, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

To Merlin's credit, he manages to pull himself together before Arthur does. "Of course not," he says briskly. "If you had meant to, you'd have been much quicker than that. All that rubbish you throw at me really has done wonders for my reflexes—"

Arthur, to his horror, has to blink back tears. "It's not funny, Merlin!" Because yes, all right, Arthur can be a bit of a bully sometimes, he likes to roughhouse and engage in horseplay here and there, but there is nothing in him that wants to cause Merlin actual harm. That has to be proof, surely, that the magic itself is what's evil—Arthur doesn't want that, would never want that, but it seems that his magic does.

"It was just an accident," Merlin says, and then he frowns. "Are you all right?" He reaches out for Arthur as if to calm him.

Arthur knocks his hand away. "Don't," he says sharply, thinking of hand-shaped burn marks on his table and smoking bandit corpses. "Don't." Dread rises in his throat. He nearly killed Merlin—who knows who'll be next? Morgana? His father? Some innocent passerby who happens to startle him on their way through the castle? The more he thinks about it, the more he panics—and the worse his panic, the more heady the magic becomes. It roils beneath his skin, greedy and dangerous, already hungry for the next thing to burn.

Arthur's a menace. He's a danger. He can't be near anyone.

"You're not going to burn me when you're awake," Merlin dismisses, but when he gets close Arthur leans away. "Arthur—"

"Get out," Arthur says. His hands are shaking. He can barely look at Merlin, whose face has gone slack with surprise. "Go on. Find somewhere else to be today."

"Arthur," Merlin says again, "I don't think—"

"I said leave!"

The fireplace comes roaring to life behind Arthur on the last word, and Merlin's eyes go wide. There's nothing for it: Arthur uses the moment of distraction to take Merlin by the shoulders and bodily escort him out of the room. He slams the door behind him and locks it for good measure. The fire climbs higher and higher, but Arthur has nothing to put it out with.

"Arthur!" Merlin shouts, pounding on the door. "Let me in, you can't deal with this on your own!"

"I'm the prince, Merlin," Arthur snaps. "I can do whatever I want!" He paces around his room, dragging his hands back through his hair. It ought to be freezing in here since he left the hearth unlit all night, but already the heat is suffocating. This is the fire, surely—the magic, come at last to have its due. Arthur let it in, that day in the throne room. Now he's going to have to pay the price.

Merlin is still banging on the door. Arthur raises his voice. "So help me, Merlin, if you keep on making a ruckus outside my chambers I will call the guards and have them drag you to the stocks, snow or not!"

There's a pause, in which Arthur can practically hear Merlin's silent frustration. "I'm getting Gaius," he says at last, defiant.

"You do that," Arthur sneers. The further away Merlin is from Arthur, the better off he'll be. Arthur intends to be dressed and gone by the time Merlin gets back anyway. Where he's going, he has no idea; he only knows he needs to get away, get out, keep away from people until this all blows over or swallows him whole.

It's near-impossible to dress himself with one hand crippled. Arthur throws on a pair of boots and a long coat over his sleeping attire. It'll be warm enough. He's so hot already he can barely breathe. He leaves the fireplace roaring behind him.

Arthur's a prince, so he's well used to people lowering their eyes when he passes. But today something of his distress must show on his face like an oncoming storm. People scurry to get out of his path, make way for him well ahead of time. It isn't until he reaches the first flight of stairs that he understands why: with every step he takes, tiny flames he can't feel dance to life beneath his feet. His bootprints are scorched into the floor behind him.

Arthur sucks in a breath and quickens his pace, even knowing it can't save him now. There's no outrunning magic. You cannot lose what you are.

He finds that his feet take him automatically towards the outer training yard, the one they sometimes use to practice jousting and ranged weaponry in the warmer months; it's big and open, and for it to be of any practical use, it has to be some distance away from the castle and the surrounding buildings, lest a misfired arrow or badly thrown lance harms someone by accident. If Arthur—if something happens—he'll be less of a danger there.

Of course, the best place for Arthur would be away from Camelot entirely—but the liquid fire running through his veins warns him he won't make it that far.

Arthur's had a few brushes with death in his lifetime, and this feels the same. His heartbeat has quickened, his breaths come shorter, and his vision's gone funny at the edges. A sense of impending doom all but overwhelms him; wherever he's going, whatever's about to happen, Arthur's out of time.

So it'll have to be the training yard: God, if he's about to die, at least let it be with a sword in his hand—even if his foe is not something that can be faced with a mere blade. He'll do it left-handed if he has to. The training yard has always been something of a sanctuary, a place to safely let out his aggressions after a hard day or a row with his father. If Arthur can't save himself there, then maybe his distance from the castle will at least save everyone else.

The frozen air and swirl of snowflakes do little to calm the heat clawing at Arthur's insides; his footprints melt themselves into the snow as he strides outside, and when Arthur chances a glance down he sees that he is actually on fire. Little flames sprout from his fingertips and coil up his arms like snakes, scorching the sleeves of his tunic. His skin remains unburned, but his clothes are ruined. The magic has doomed him to be as King Midas of old; the flames will take everything he touches.

Sir Leon is the only one in the yard when Arthur shows up, looking nearly at ease until he lays eyes on Arthur, who must look a frightening sight indeed. "Sire! Are you...?" But he trails off. Fair enough: it really is a stupid question.

Arthur dismisses Leon with a short sharp shake of his head. "Get out of here," he says, his voice nearly unrecognizable to his own ears for how low and dangerous it sounds, how far away. "No one is to come near me. Please give my love to my father and Morgana, and tell them to look after one another. Tell Guinevere I'm sorry. And tell Merlin—" Arthur's throat closes. He'd never prepared for this possibility: that someday, without any warning, there would be the very real chance that he and Merlin might never see each other again. There's so much he wants to say, and not nearly enough time to say it. How can he explain in just a few seconds how much Merlin's steadfast loyalty has meant to him? How sorry he is that their last few days together have been marked by bitterness? How much he wishes he could have gotten to know Merlin a bit better, tease out just a few more of his secrets?

Arthur thinks of Ealdor, and what he said to Merlin before that last battle. "Tell Merlin," he says at last, "that it's been an honor."

Leon looks alarmed. "Arthur, if you're in danger, it's my sworn duty to—"

"You can't help me, not with this." Arthur gestures to himself—the fire climbing its way painlessly but quickly up his arms to his shoulders, the melted snow beneath his feet. "You're the finest knight I've ever known, Sir Leon, and I was proud to fight for this kingdom alongside you. But now you've got to protect everyone else from me."

Leon, normally so straight-laced, looks distraught. "But, Arthur—"

"That's an order," Arthur bites—and Leon hesitates, but he obeys, loyal to the last. Arthur watches him shrink into the distance and vanish into the snow, relief warring with dread.

Now he's on his own.

Arthur hasn't put on any armor and he barely pays attention to which sword he picks up. He's got to get it under control—the magic, the fear, the pressure under his skin. All he knows to do is fight: like he has done every time he was too angry to bear since he was a child, he will come out here and practice using this sword until he's ready to drop, and the exhaustion will drive out everything else.

Or, if it doesn't—

Arthur's left hand closes around the grip of his sword with white knuckles. There are no practice dummies out here, only targets set up for arrows and the like, but Arthur's well-versed in basic sword drills. He can make do.

Arthur takes a deep breath and swings.

He feels it jolt through his blood and knows before he sees: sparks race eagerly up the blade, the sword leaves an arc of fire trailing behind it, and embers pelt the snow like rain. The fire is here, it's here for him, and he can't stop it. Standing still or swinging the sword, it doesn't make a difference. The idea that he could come out here and do a few sword drills to work out his aggression seems laughable now, in the face of this kind of power.

But it did ease some of the pressure, so Arthur swings again anyway.

He's not giving up that easily. He's the prince. If every second he holds the fire off is another victory, he'll endure. If he must die, he'll do it on his feet. If it's a lost cause, then he'll go down fighting. And if magic wants to kill him—

Well, Arthur's going to make magic work for it.

Merlin skids a stop just inside Gaius's chambers and doubles over, winded.

Gaius glances up from some remedy he's brewing with what Merlin considers much less distress than is appropriate, and asks with one eyebrow lifted, "Aren't you supposed to be tending to Arthur?"

Merlin is still panting. "We've hit a bit of a snag."

"How do you mean?"

"He's just tried to kill me."

Merlin tells Gaius about what just happened in Arthur's chambers. "And he saw me use real magic, Gaius. I can't just explain away that shield!"

Gaius has long since put his work aside, attention focused wholly on Merlin. He looks as though he is seconds away from ordering Merlin to pack his things and run. "Merlin! Did he say anything?"

Merlin shakes his head. "He was too spooked. He kicked me out and locked the door behind him. Threatened to throw me in the stocks if I didn't leave. Gaius," he says, plaintive, "he's going to be all right, isn't he?"

Gaius is not one to sugarcoat anything. "I hope so." He pats Merlin's shoulder. "It sounds like out-of-control magic to me, but I'm hardly the expert—in my studies, the difficulty was always in calling the sorcerer's magic forth, not in subduing it. What happened to you when you didn't use your magic? You struggled to control it once—did anyone ever get hurt?"

Merlin winces. "No, but then my problem was never with fire." He remembers it all too well; standing in the middle of a room full of things tossing themselves about as though some giant had picked his house up and given it a good shake. A whirlwind of chaos and danger with Merlin at the center all alone, the eye of some horrible cursed storm that would never end.

And trying to force it down always made it worse. At first, the magic would wait for an opportunity: if Merlin so much as thought about, for example, reaching for an object or closing a door, the magic would send the object careening towards his head or slam the door so hard it would fall off its hinges. But if he let it get too bad, things would move themselves while he slept, and then while he was awake, with no rhyme or reason at all—just to be moving. Sometimes little things, harmless things, but sometimes the objects were heavy or sharp—on one memorable occasion, he nearly took out his mother's eye with a short paring knife.

It was after that incident that he and Will began their secret games in the forest. Working the magic out of him—that was Will's idea.

Since then Merlin has learned the only way to survive is to embrace it. It was a hard thing because no matter how loved his mother and Will made him feel, the rest of the world looked upon his kind like monsters—to this day Merlin still struggles sometimes to make his peace with what he is, instead of sinking into self-loathing and despair. It's only better for him now than it was when he left Ealdor thanks to Gaius, thanks to his new higher purpose.

But for Arthur? Arthur, who hates and fears magic with every fiber of his being, who would not call upon it even to save his own life? For Arthur, having magic must be hell.

A hell Merlin is only too familiar with, which makes him the best possible person to help—but he can't, not without revealing to Arthur what he really is, and certainly not if Arthur won't even let him into his chambers.

The door slams open. Merlin jumps, startled out of his thoughts. "Sir Leon?"

"Merlin," Leon gasps, "Gaius, thank goodness you're both here—I'm not sure what's happening to Arthur but if anyone knows how to help it must be you, Gaius—I fear for his life, I've already sent a runner to the king—"

Merlin stands. "His life? Slow down, what are you talking about?"

Leon lifts a hand and points to the window. Merlin and Gaius rush over, working as one to throw open the shutters. And there below them, in one of the outer training yards—

Arthur would cuff Merlin immediately for the string of curses he lets out, if he were here. But Arthur, it seems, is otherwise occupied.

It looks a little like the whirlwind Merlin summoned in Ealdor, but made of fire—and bigger, so much bigger, as wide as the training yard itself and reaching almost eye-level even from way up here near the top of the castle. It swirls with menace around a spot that Merlin can only guess is Arthur. The snow all around it has melted, and many places on the ground, despite having surely been damp before, have caught fire. Even from here, Merlin can feel the heat of it, and it grows larger and larger right before Merlin's eyes with no signs of stopping.

"I do not know how he stands at the center and lives," Leon says. "Only that he must, for if he were dead the fire would surely have put itself out." He approaches the window. "Please, Gaius—isn't there anything you can do? He's a danger to more than just himself now."

"I..." Gaius's mouth hangs open in shock. "I'm afraid this is rather beyond me, Sir Leon. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

Looking down at that fire, Merlin's throat closes. Arthur doesn't often speak his feelings aloud unless he's expressing something stupid like enthusiasm for a good brawl or disdain for some perceived slight. The serious matters, he keeps close, and he often keeps his silence, even from Merlin. But that's magic for you: it's personal, and it's expressive. This horrible turmoil laid out below Merlin is something Arthur must have been keeping inside him, a fire carefully tended until it was stoked beyond his control. What's happening here speaks of great suffering—a suffering that Merlin understands better than anyone.

Gaius wouldn't know where to begin, no. But Merlin would.

Leon said he sent a runner to the king. If that's true, Merlin won't have long—in fact, he may be out of time already. He has to move now—or risk losing Arthur forever.

Merlin whirls away from the window and dashes for the door, ignoring Gaius and Leon calling out behind him and taking the stairs two at a time.

Something of an audience has gathered in the lower town. They're at a moderately safe distance, pointing and shouting, some even running away, but the storm has grown in size even during Merlin's short run here, and they won't be at a safe distance for long. If Merlin can't help Arthur somehow, the whole of Camelot could burn to the ground in a matter of hours. Merlin squints. From down here he can catch fleeting glimpses of Arthur's distant golden-eyed silhouette through the flames, a sword still clutched in his left hand. Damn it all. How is he to get to Arthur with all these people looking? Maybe he can go around the edge of the fire, approach from the other side—

As Merlin scans the terrain he notices that Gwen and Morgana stand apart from the crowd, watching. Merlin has barely enough time to hope they don't spot him before— "Merlin!" Gwen calls, and jogs over, Morgana not far behind. Double damn. "Is it true what they're saying, that it's Arthur doing this?"

Merlin's gaze flicks to Morgana and away. Her arms are crossed and her face is as stone; he couldn't read her right now for all the riches in the world. "I'm afraid so."

"But why?"

"It's not deliberate. The same thing happened to—to Will, back in Ealdor." Merlin sneaks one more glance at Morgana—silent, looming, perfectly aware he is lying through his teeth—before seeking out Arthur again amidst the flames. "Arthur's as good as his word. He said he wouldn't use magic and he hasn't. So now the magic's using him. It won't stop unless he channels it on purpose."

"So he's doomed," Morgana says, tone flat.

What's wrong with her? Does she care so little for Arthur that the prospect of his imminent demise elicits not a single sign of sadness from her? Or does she simply care so little for Merlin now that she refuses to show her distress where he can see? "He's not doomed," Merlin says, and sets his jaw. "I'm going to help him."

"Are you?" Morgana asks archly. She sweeps Merlin over with her gaze, and he feels transparent, suddenly, like she can see all the way through to his bones. "You're just going to stroll on through all that fire right here in the middle of town?"

Merlin lifts his chin, defiant. "If I have to."

Gwen shudders. "Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. I know you care for Arthur as much as any of us, but that's suicide. What would we do if we lost you both?"

Merlin nearly forgot she was there; he cannot tear his eyes away from Morgana. "Maybe I'll get lucky."

"I doubt that," says Gwen, and takes a few more steps towards the chaos, biting down on her lower lip.

Now. Merlin has to go now. He has already wasted precious minutes here, talking, and the king could arrive at any minute—

But just as Merlin makes to depart Morgana catches him by the upper arm, her grip like iron. She leans in, so Gwen, further away as she is, cannot hear them over the noise of the fire and the crowd. "And what if someone here realizes you're more than just lucky?" she asks. "What if Arthur realizes?"

Merlin has considered that. The only way to get through the fire is to use his shield again, and magic that advanced is not something that can be explained away by Camelot's curse. And of course it scares him, but...

"It doesn't matter!" Merlin says. "I can't leave him there suffering when I could help, just to—" His voice falters. "Just to save my own skin."

Morgana jerks away, unprepared to have her own words said back to her, and then her expression hardens. "You can't possibly think that's going to make me feel better," she hisses. "Watching him get everything you denied me."

"No," Merlin agrees quietly. "No, I imagine it would make you very angry."

"Then don't pretend you're doing this for me when we both know you're doing it for him."

It's true that Merlin would do things for Arthur he would do for no one else, but that's not all this is. He all but abandoned Morgana to her own magic to keep his secret safe, and while at the time he thought it was the best choice he could make, he never stopped living with the guilt of not doing more for her. Morgana hadn't been wrong to call him a coward. Why should his secret matter more than hers? Why should it matter more than the lives of the druids who died because she found refuge among them? The kind of person who would let others sacrifice and suffer, and offer nothing in return—that sounds like someone who values their life more than the lives of others. It sounds like Uther. It sounds like no one Merlin wants to become.

Merlin doesn't want anyone to suffer for him anymore. Not the druids, not Morgana, and not Arthur. And if he can't get to Arthur before Uther arrives and sees him—

So be it.

His cowardice and failure to help Morgana is one of his deepest regrets. Merlin can't go back and change that no matter how much he wants to—but he can see that he doesn't repeat those same mistakes again. He can be better than that. He must be better than that.

He can't wait any longer. Arthur needs him.

"I'm not doing it just for him," Merlin says. "I'm not even doing it just for you. I'm doing it for me. Because it would be wrong not to." For the first time since their argument in the forest, Merlin sees the age and hardness around Morgana's eyes soften; sees a flash of the girl who once called him her friend. "Someone I know once said: sometimes you've got to do what you think is right, and damn the consequences."

And, so saying, Merlin closes his eyes so they won't give him away, squeezes his fist and summons his shield, and throws himself headfirst into the fire, and doesn't care who sees him disappear into the flames.

If Hell is real, Arthur is standing in the middle of one of his own making.

The training yard is gone. The rack where the lances once stood, the jousting divider, the resting benches along what once was the edge of the yard, even the fence around the yard itself have all turned to ash. The snow has long since melted, and the flattened grass beneath turned dry and then burned up. Embers drift through the air, bright against the black smoke behind them. The very ground is on fire. Despite the earlier snowfall, heat presses in from every side, and sweat pours down Arthur's brow; if the fire were not magical, if it did not belong to Arthur, it would have already burned him alive.

Arthur does his sword drills for as long as he can. A futile effort, perhaps, especially when each arc of his blade leaves a trail of fire behind it, but the fire is infinitely worse if he stands and does nothing, creeping up his arms and legs, singeing his clothes and heating the grip of his weapon. But eventually a moment of exhaustion and terror takes him by surprise, and in the few seconds he takes to pause and catch his breath, the grip of his weapon heats anyway, past his tolerance, and Arthur drops it.

Arthur would swear if he had breath, but as it is every one he takes seems to sear the fire inside of his lungs. When he tries to pick the sword up—right-handed, just on reflex—the hot metal scalds his fingertips and Arthur jerks away, hurt and frightened.

That's it, then.

The fire's not going away, try as Arthur might to be rid of it; it is, in fact, getting worse by the second, especially now that he's unarmed. He let the magic in once and thought he could control it, but now he sees what a foolhardy thing that was to do. He's doomed the whole kingdom: he's going to kill everyone.

Just like Father, Arthur thinks, struck suddenly by the image of his father moving from candle to candle, the fires springing up faster than he could put them out. Try as he might to stomp out magic it has still infected Camelot like a cancer, rotting her away from the inside, and now it will take them all—everyone says that magic requires a balance, that the Old Religion demands a life for a life—they'll all pay for their king's crimes now—crimes he only committed because Arthur was born—

That knowledge sends Arthur to his knees in the ash. He's thought before that sometimes it would just be easier to disappear, but he's never truly meant it as he does now. Arthur longs to go away, to restore the balance, to pay the price magic demands and save his people from his own failure and just be done with it all. What good is his life if it causes so much suffering and pain? Let him disappear, let him never have been born if that's what it takes—to set it right, to let the purge have never happened, to let his mother still be alive and well—

Arthur squeezes his eyes closed, but the tears streak down through the soot on his face anyway. Maybe, if he wants it badly enough, the magic will give it to him.

Or maybe he'll die first.

Arthur sucks in great heaving gasps now, but it's getting harder and harder to breathe; even though the fire itself won't harm him, the heated air and the smoke will. He can't see the sky or the people in the distance through the smoke and fire. He is well and truly alone here, without even a straight back or a weapon in his hand to comfort him in his final moments. What would his mother do? He reaches for her as reflexively as he would reach for his sword, but the place he used to turn to for guidance is the one thing long gone empty and cold.

Is this what it's like to burn on the pyre? The sweat and soot on his skin, the heat clawing at him like a living thing, the smoke branding him a dead man from the inside out every time he draws breath? Is this the fate his father dealt out so easily to so many? The fate Arthur dragged prisoners to, under his father's command? Can anyone, even those who practice magic, really deserve this?

This sorcerer's death—it's fitting for a man who can't control this curse. Arthur's going to burn just like the rest of them, and good riddance. For what he's done, for what he's caused: good riddance.

At last Arthur finally has something in common with those who have magic: helpless and forsaken, they all die alone.

Then, in the distance, over the roar of flames, Arthur hears a familiar voice calling his name.

Arthur looks up, hardly daring to hope, because there's no way, it can't be—

But it is.

Merlin, disheveled and golden-eyed, emerges from the flames. Is there nowhere Arthur can go that Merlin will not follow? How on earth did he fight his way through all this fire? But another look and Arthur sees that Merlin uses the same shield now as he did back in Arthur's chambers to keep from being burned alive. The fire isn't touching him. How is he doing that? "Arthur," Merlin gasps, relieved.

Arthur's answering burst of relief lasts only for a moment; Merlin cannot help him. The most he can hope to do is die at Arthur's side, and Arthur will not have it. "Get away," he rasps. "Merlin, you have to go before it's too late—"

"You're mad if you think I'm leaving you here like this!"

"Look around you!" Arthur says over the fire. "You'll die, Merlin! The fire won't stop until it kills me."

Merlin drops to his knees next to Arthur, so he can look him right in the eye. "You think you can still scare me, after I've seen what you're like before breakfast? If I leave you now, I'm out of a job! And I'm a shite servant, Arthur. No one else'll have me but you."

It shocks a laugh out of Arthur, even as he still weeps. "Merlin," he says in wonder, in despair, looking into his friend's face for what may be the final time, golden eyes and all. With all this magic, Arthur's own eyes must be gold to match. "I told you, I can't—I can't lose you, not to magic. Not you." He slumps forward as if bowed by wind. "This is my fault! I let it in, in the throne room that first day. I called for it, I cursed myself, and this is the price. I must own up to my mistakes. I was glad to see you one last time, Merlin, but now you must go. Leave me, I beg you, before it takes you too."

Arthur knows what the answer will be even before Merlin speaks. "No."

"Damn it, Merlin," Arthur swears, still hunched over with his head in his hands. If there is anything worse than dying alone, it's knowing he's taking Merlin with him. "Don't you understand? I can't make it stop!"

Merlin grabs Arthur by the chin, forces him to look up, straight into his glowing eyes. "Then don't try."

He's not suggesting—

"It's just as I keep telling you," Merlin says slowly. "Use it."

Arthur draws back. "I can't!" he says, frightened. Not even to save your own life. "No—I gave my word. I'd rather die!"

"Like this?" Merlin waves a hand, and Arthur winces—but whatever Merlin's doing to keep the fire away holds, and the flames do not burn his skin. "Arthur, you're the prince! Camelot needs you!" Merlin swallows. "And I need you."

Arthur gave his word, he gave his word—but the longer he looks into Merlin's face, his strange golden eyes, the more his resolve crumbles. "How can you be sure it will work?" he asks. "What about the corruption—"

"You are good," Merlin says fiercely, taking Arthur by the shoulders. "You're not cursed. You don't deserve to die. You are just and selfless and truehearted, and there is no power on earth that could corrupt you! Trust me," he begs, "Arthur, please."

And Arthur, even in the face of a lifetime telling him to do otherwise, does. He is wavering on the brink of a terrible dark abyss, and all he has left to hold onto now is Merlin. But he doesn't know how to do as Merlin asks. He doesn't know anything about magic. "Even if—" Arthur succumbs to a fit of coughing. "Even if I wanted to, I can't do anything but call fire!"

"Yes you can!" Merlin squeezes Arthur's shoulders. "You can do or have anything you want. Magic can give it to you."

Arthur swallows down nausea. For what price?

Merlin takes Arthur's right forearm in both his hands. "You could heal this."

His battle wound. And oh, Arthur does want that, more than anything. He aches to be able to use a sword again, feels like only half a man without one. But he cannot, will not, use magic for his own selfish gain. He will not repeat his father's mistakes. If he must do this, it can't be for himself. What can magic do for his people, right here in this moment?

And then it comes to him. "Something else," he tells Merlin. "But I don't—I don't know any spells."

"Perhaps I've heard Will use it," says Merlin. "What is that you want?"

Arthur tells him. And Merlin says, "I know the spell."

Merlin's hands are still on Arthur's arm, gripping tight. "Say it after me, now," he instructs, "and do your best to picture it in your mind's eye. Then let it come. It's aching to get out—if you command it, it will obey." And he leans forward to speak the spell into Arthur's ear.

Arthur tries to remember what it felt like in the throne room, how very afraid he was then: of that sickening rush of power, of being so small before a force that was so impossibly great. He is afraid now too, so how can it fail? "T—tídrénas," he gasps, hoping, waiting—and yet the fire burns on, because fire is all that's in him. "Tídrénas..."

"Come on," Merlin murmurs in his ear, "come on, Arthur, remember, it's a part of you now, it's just like swinging a sword, you control it—"

Just like a sword...maybe Arthur's going about this all wrong. Fear called the fire in the throne room, yes. Fear called the fire here today too, grew it and grew it until it threatened to destroy everything. But it's not fire Arthur is trying to call now—and it's not fear that drives Arthur to take up the blade.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks of the throne room again, but this time remembers the moment he attempted to comfort Morgana before stepping forward, how he wanted to ease her terror. He remembers Guinevere and her beautiful green lobelia bush, covered in flower buds that bloomed before their very eyes, even in the depths of winter. He remembers Merlin and his strange inexplicable shield, rebuffing his flames like water, and the relief in knowing Merlin yet lived. He remembers the little boy with the tree roots they met on the way into Camelot the day the curse began, keeping half a dozen fully grown men at bay just to save his mother.

He remembers how it felt, to watch that boy throw himself back into the safety of his mother's arms.

One more time. If Arthur can learn to command a blade, he can learn to command this. For his people, there is nothing he will not do. Arthur thinks hard on what he wants, tries to imagine it coming to pass. Thinks of the easy swing of the blade, that can defend as well as kill. Then he lifts his head and shouts, like he means it this time: "Tídrénas!"

And the elements obey.

The world recognizes Arthur's authority and at once it bows to his whim. All that power inside him, everything it took to make this living nightmare—in an instant, it is redirected to his own design. Somehow, Arthur feels it: that the fire around them is no longer magically sustained, that it would burn itself out, given enough time. But there isn't enough time—

For above Merlin and Arthur, there is a great crack of thunder—and then the sky splits open and pours.

A summer storm in the depths of winter: that should be impossible. Magic, it seems, really can do anything.

After so much heat and smoke, the fresh cold water feels heavenly. Merlin whoops with laughter, turning his face up to the storm. As the fire begins to die down and the light grows less, the gold flickers out of his eyes. The shield is gone; he doesn't need it anymore. The downpour gutters the last few little flames, douses the embers on the ground, sends thick clouds of smoke into the air that the wind then clears away.

It's really over. The people are safe.

And, impossibly, Arthur still lives.

"You did it!" Merlin says, grinning from ear to oversized ear, face so close to Arthur's own. "Arthur, that was incredible!"

Arthur feels entirely undeserving of such praise. He used magic. He used it deliberately, and broke the solemn vow he made to his own father. Selfless though his intentions might have been, he can't help but feel he's going to pay for it later, and that the price will be too steep to bear. Heart sinking, he whispers, "This is going to be the death of me."

"No." Merlin gets to his feet and holds out a hand to Arthur. "This is going to save you."

Arthur sighs, but he takes Merlin's hand to pull himself up—and then immediately overbalances and staggers, Merlin's quick reflexes only just saving him from landing face-first in wet ashes.

"Easy!" Merlin says, one hand pressed against Arthur's sternum to keep him from falling forward, the other wrapped securely around his shoulders. "Big magic like that is—well, Will always said it was hard on the body. I can't believe you summoned an entire thunderstorm. You certainly don't start small, Arthur."

Arthur's limbs feel as though they weigh a thousand pounds. He loops one arm around Merlin's shoulders too so that Merlin can help him walk, and feels Merlin shift his own arm down so that it is firmly around Arthur's middle. And as the smoke clears, as they close in on the edge of the training yard, figures emerge from the smoke and gloom—Morgana, Guinevere.

His father.

Not even to save your own life.

Arthur is gripped by a terror so stark and sudden that he's surprised the ground does not reignite itself beneath his feet. "Merlin," he says through numb lips. "What I did—you can't tell them." He stops walking, leaning hard against Merlin. He's afraid he's going to pass out. "Please don't tell them."

Merlin looks at Arthur sideways through the rain, and gives him a crooked smile. "Don't worry, Arthur." He grips Arthur a little more tightly to him. "Your secret's safe with me."

How Merlin makes it through the next ten minutes, he will never know.

First come the reassurances. There's a crowd of people wanting to know what happened and whether or not they're safe, there's Gwen and Morgana who saw him vanish into the flames, and Gaius and Leon who have finally caught up after Merlin's mad dash from the tower, and of course even aside from all of them there's Uther, out of his chambers again, desperate to see his son alive and well.

"What happened?" the king asks, over and over. It's odd to see him now after all the time he's spent in his chambers. His hands flutter over Arthur to check for injuries, and the torches on the wall glow dangerously. "All that fire...I thought we'd lost you!"

Even after Merlin helps Arthur limp inside out of the rain, he does not let go of Arthur entirely; this is because Arthur will not let go of him, clinging to him with a kind of desperation that Merlin usually only sees when one of them is injured. Arthur's a bad liar on his best day and looks nearly mute with exhaustion now anyway, but Merlin has had plenty of practice fast-talking his way around the use of magic. "He's got it well-sorted, sire," he says, keeping his gaze low and tone deferential the way he never does with Arthur.

"Then who summoned the storm?"

Arthur stiffens, but Merlin came up with an answer to that question three sentences ago. "No one summoned it deliberately, my lord. After I made my way through the fire, when Arthur saw one of his subjects was in danger, it came out of him like a reflex as all magic does lately—and then he got ahold of himself and put a stop to all of it. I saw it with my own eyes: Arthur's will is stronger even than magic."

If the pride in Uther's eyes makes Merlin uncomfortable, he can't even imagine how Arthur must feel. "I knew it," Uther says, and briefly rests a hand on the side of Arthur's head. "I'm so proud of you."

"Th-thank you," Arthur says, through chattering teeth. He has begun to shiver, and no wonder; he's soaked, and it's literally freezing outside.

It's as good an excuse as any to get him away from all these people. Merlin finds Gaius in the crowd and meets his eye, and he doesn't have to say a word for Gaius to understand the urgent need to get Arthur away from prying eyes after what he's just done.

Gaius nods once and steps forward. "Forgive me, sires, but with your permission I would see that the prince is well."

Arthur's grip on Merlin tightens briefly, but then he allows himself to be lowered to a nearby windowsill while Gaius does a cursory examination—mostly a formality, a show for Uther, as any fool can see that he's merely exhausted and freezing to death.

"So," Morgana says from behind Merlin. "You saved him after all."

Merlin turns. Morgana's tone is cool and impassive, but her eyes are calculating. The distance that has opened up between them is huge and impassable; once they were close friends and Merlin could have guessed what was on her mind, but he can't read her like he used to anymore. "It's as I said," Merlin tells her, folding his arms close to his body. They feel strangely empty, now that he is no longer holding Arthur. "Arthur's got it sorted. He saved himself."

"Did he now," Morgana says softly. It's not a question. Merlin won't give away Arthur's secret, not to anyone, but Morgana's smart enough to have figured it out. She must know what Arthur had to do, to make it all stop. "And how does he feel about that?"

Merlin tries to make himself stone-faced. He's not very good at it. "I imagine you'd have to ask him."

Morgana's eyes drift over Merlin's shoulder to where Arthur sits, and there it is again: a flash of something softer, something that seems at once both very fond and very sad.

I helped him, Merlin wants to say. Why won't you let me help you?

But before he can speak, Gaius announces, "Arthur has suffered a great shock, and he's wet and cold. It would be best to get him to his chambers—and you, as well, your majesty. In fact, I would advise that everyone caught outside in the storm warm up immediately, lest we have to fight widespread sickness as well as magic."

It's enough to disperse the biggest part of the crowd. For a moment it looks as though Uther might just follow them up to Arthur's chambers, but in the end he heeds Gaius's words and dismisses everyone still lingering. Just before he leaves, Uther puts a hand on Merlin's shoulder and says, "I know what you did."

Merlin's heart hammers double-time; he has started to shiver just like Arthur. "Y—you do?"

"I saw those flames. Thicker than any forest fire—it's a miracle you found a way through and survived. This isn't the first time you've risked your life for my son." Uther's hand squeezes, briefly. Merlin really wishes he wouldn't. "You have my gratitude."

It's a quick dismissal after that, but Uther's words have reminded Merlin of something else: twice now Arthur has seen Merlin use his shield, magic that does not involve throwing objects around. He hasn't said anything yet, but to anyone who's smart enough to stop and think on it, it's a dead giveaway that Merlin has more magic than what was granted by the curse. Has Arthur put it together? What's he going to do when he realizes?

"Up we get, sire," Merlin says as he helps Arthur up from the windowsill. Arthur's shivers lessen a little at the contact, but his teeth are still chattering. Merlin starts, "Arthur, about what happened—"

"Don't," Arthur says, voice rough from exhaustion. "N-not until we get to my chambers—w-with the door locked behind us."

And for once, Merlin sees fit to obey.

Arthur's room is icy cold when they enter, and dark and gray like the sky outside, save for when the lightning flashes. Rain still drums against the windows, but the thunder is growing more distant; loud enough to be heard, but no longer the deafening, earth-shaking force it was down in the training yard. It seems Arthur's rainstorm has a few hours yet before it blows over. Merlin, as requested, locks the door behind them and helps Arthur to sit at one of the chairs by his table.

And then, finally, finally, they are alone.

"G—give me a moment, I'll get a f-fire going," Merlin says, through his own chattering teeth. Then he risks, "Unless you f-feel like—?"

Arthur gives him an incredulous look, and Merlin lifts his hands in surrender.

Merlin kneels by the hearth and picks up the flint and steel, but he's wet and cold too; his hands shake dreadfully, and he can't get the fucking thing to light. "H-hold on," he says, "nearly—"

Arthur briefly tips his head back to let out a humorless laugh through his teeth. "Y—you're useless as always, M-Merlin." He looks upon Merlin and sighs deeply. "Do I h—have to do everything myself?"

"You think you can do better, be my g-guest." Merlin holds out the flint.

Arthur raises one eyebrow. Then, without warning, his eyes flash gold and the fireplace leaps to life, filling the room with a warm orange glow.

Merlin jumps. That does get a shadow of a smile out of Arthur, and a huff of breath that might've been a laugh on a better day. "I th-thought you weren't frightened of magic, Merlin."

Merlin puts the flint and steel down, wary. Is this the moment where Arthur tells him he knows? Is he about to be banished or worse? But Arthur says nothing, so Merlin answers, "You startled me. I wasn't expecting you to actually—" He cuts himself off, and says again, "You startled me. But I'm not afraid. Not of you."

There's a long silence.

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes," Merlin says at last. He has a few of his own things in the antechamber for occasions just like these, but the fire has warmed the room enough that his shivers have subsided, and after what Arthur's just been through, his comfort must come first. Merlin hangs his sopping jacket and neckerchief by the fire so they don't get the rest of Arthur's things wet, and crosses the room to the wardrobe. "White tunic or blue?"

It's slower going than usual; try as Arthur might to hide it, there's still very little strength in him, and he has to do quite a lot of leaning on the chair for the pair of them to get the job done. Merlin makes sure he's seated by the fire with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders before going to change himself, and when at last they're finished and all their wet things hung to dry, he begins turning down Arthur's bed for him—it's early in the morning yet, but having used big magic like that himself and being only too familiar with the feeling of exhaustion that comes after, Merlin is certain Arthur will want to sleep for a year.

But Arthur says, "Leave it. I don't want a lie-in."

Merlin hovers by the bed, uncertain. Does that mean he's dismissed? He doesn't think Arthur should be alone right now.

Arthur sighs. "Get a blanket and a chair," he orders, making himself plain. "Come sit with me awhile."

So Merlin does.

They're quiet for a long time. Merlin's not used to silence between the two of them; usually he fills it with idle chatter, and if he doesn't Arthur will demand to know what cat has his tongue. Now, though, Arthur is looking into the fire, thinking. There's no sound except the distant roll of thunder and falling of rain, and the occasional popping of wood from the hearth. Merlin watches Arthur watch the fire and waits.

At last Arthur says, "Merlin, how did you create that shield? That's not—it's not moving objects about. It's not your thing."

And Merlin just doesn't have a good answer. Has Arthur truly not put it together? But then how can Merlin tell him, knowing the hellstorm they just endured outside only happened because Arthur hates magic so much? In his mind's eye Merlin sees Will glaring at him, chin stuck out, saying You're living a lie—otherwise you'd tell him. He sees Morgana in the snow with murder in her eyes saying Arthur's right when he calls you a coward.

Part of Merlin is so tired of lying, but the other part of him gets better at it every day. The longer he keeps his secret, the easier it will become.

And the more difficult it will be to tell, when the time is finally right.

Arthur walked a mile in Merlin's shoes today. Maybe the time is right. Or, Merlin thinks with a chill, maybe Arthur already knows, and he's only waiting to see if Merlin will be honest with him. And maybe Merlin should, if he could only find the right words.

Merlin takes a deep breath—

And Arthur says, "You've been using magic on purpose ever since we got cursed, haven't you?"

That draws Merlin up short. "What?"

Arthur looks sideways at him, jaw working, and oh dear, he is angry. "Well you aren't afraid of it, and it's what you and Will did, so why wouldn't you? That's why you're the only one who doesn't lose control over it, right? That's why you've been telling me to do the same thing this whole time."

He's not worked it out after all, then.

"You promised me you wouldn't," Arthur says. "I didn't think you were the type to go back on your word, Merlin."

"Actually," says Merlin, stalling for time because he has no idea yet what to say to keep his head off the chopping block, "what I promised was that you didn't have to worry about losing me to corruption or whatever nonsense, and you don't—"

"I'm not convinced of that at all," Arthur says darkly. "The point is you lied to me, Merlin—you've been lying this whole time!"

"I've been telling you the whole time to use it on purpose!" Merlin sputters, outraged. "As usual, you refused to listen—"

"You didn't tell me you were doing it," Arthur protests. "You made it sound like guesswork! 'This is what worked for Will, so it'll probably work for you' is entirely different from 'This is what I'm doing behind your back to keep my magic from tearing Camelot to the ground in front of the king'—was it funny to you? Were you having a laugh behind my back at how stupid I was, that I didn't see what was right in front of my face?"

"Of course I wasn't laughing at you! I know you're not a fool, Arthur!" Merlin's disoriented, thrown by this unexpected turn. He's getting some kind of dizzying double vision. This is somehow both exactly the conversation Merlin was expecting to have and its complete opposite; they both are and aren't talking about his magic. He's not sure if he can keep up. "Do you have any idea how many times I was sure you had figured it out? How badly I—" His throat tightens dangerously. None of that, Merlin. "How badly I wanted to tell you, and couldn't?"

Arthur turns full in his chair to face Merlin. "And why not?" he demands. "If I had known you were doing it, it might have been different!"

Merlin's taken aback. "Truly?"

"For reasons beyond my understanding, I happen to trust you," Arthur snaps. "You know more about me than anyone, save perhaps Morgana. It seems I was mistaken to believe that trust was returned."

And the thing is: Arthur looks genuinely wounded. As though Merlin has been keeping his mouth shut this whole time just to be cruel, when that couldn't be further from the truth. And this—this isn't real, Merlin reminds himself firmly, they aren't really talking about his real magic because if they were Merlin might already be on his way to the pyre, but he can't stand the thought of Arthur believing he's betrayed him when Merlin would rather die than do such a thing. "Come on," Merlin says, struggling to keep his tone light. "You've made it quite clear how you feel about magic. If I had told you the truth, what would you have done? Would you have listened to me? Would you even have believed me?"

Arthur looks away. Merlin sees his anger leave him like the last vestiges of heat leave embers dimming after a fire. In this moment, there is very little he would not give to know what Arthur is thinking.

"Merlin," Arthur says at last, "if something should happen, and I should be consumed by this—"

"No you don't," Merlin interrupts. "If you're trying to say goodbye, forget it. I don't want to hear your last words. Nothing's going to consume you. I wasn't lying when I said you've got it sorted."

Arthur tells Merlin, as though Merlin is in dire need of a reminder, "Magic is evil."

Merlin sighs, shoulders slumped. "Do you really still believe that?"

Arthur looks into the fire. He starts to speak and then stops. He struggles with himself for a very long moment in which Merlin's entire heart hangs in the balance. Finally he settles on, "I have to believe that."

Is that progress? Merlin isn't certain, and he's afraid to hope. "When used selfishly," he says, "any power corrupts, not just magic. It brings out the worst in men who already live with evil in their hearts. But some men wield power with mercy and kindness—and that's the kind of man you are. The man you'll be as king someday. You may think magic evil, but I know that you are good." Softer, he repeats, "You are good."

Arthur looks over at Merlin. The flickering light of the fire leaves odd shadows around his eyes, making them look sunken and strange. "How can you be so certain?"

Oh, but how Merlin sometimes aches to have Arthur know the truth—he can't say even half the things he'd like to without embarrassing himself or giving away his secret or both. He thinks back. "Do you remember the fight with the bandits, the day the curse began? You were outnumbered, you were injured, you nearly died more than once—"

"I had it handled," Arthur protests, half-hearted.

His stubborn insistence in the face of objective fact should be utterly annoying, but instead it makes Merlin smile. "You could've set them all on fire whenever you wanted," he reminds Arthur. "But the first time you used magic wasn't to save yourself. It wasn't because you were angry, or wanted to hurt someone. The very first time you used magic—Arthur, you saved me."

Arthur's answering smile is tentative at first, but strengthens when Merlin nudges his shoulder. "Yeah, well," Arthur mumbles, but then quiets. They go back to looking at the fire, and listening to the rain, but this time their silence is a companionable one. And unless Merlin is very much mistaken, it seems that whatever turmoil warred inside Arthur before—

For the moment, at least, he is at peace.

Chapter Text

The dreams don't trouble Arthur as much that night. He remembers seeing his mother's face only in the smallest of flashes: for the most part he sleeps like a dead man, and when he wakes the next morning he feels more rested than he has since the curse first struck Camelot.

Nor is Arthur bothered by any of the other nonsense—when he wakes, the hearth is as cold and empty as he left it, there is no terrible sizzling beneath his skin, no sparks flying from his fingers...

No, the one thing that does trouble him is that to all appearances Merlin was right about everything all along. Merlin being who he is—a clumsy fool who can't find his own backside on a good day—it's a rather unsettling state of affairs.

But the fact remains: Arthur using the magic made it all stop. He's been more or less cured, at least for the time being. He eats breakfast with no incidents in the hearth, sees to the duties left to him in his father's absence without burning up any scrolls of parchment, runs into Guinevere on his way out of the castle and startles without setting any candles alight, and even gets in half a day's hard practice in the training yard without scorching any of the dummies. Along with relearning the basics his body forgot, he masters a few new techniques as well, and he feels his left-handed fighting has rather improved by the end of it—that there's hope, after all, that someday he will be a formidable fighter again. He can still feel the fire in him, it hasn't gone, but no longer does it attempt an escape every time he stops paying attention and lets his guard down. For the moment, at least, it seems content to wait for his command.

Unlike Merlin. Lazy sod—Arthur's barely seen hide nor hair of him today. He woke Arthur this morning but then vanished as if by magic, and Arthur hasn't heard from him since. He had to have someone else bring him dinner. So, after he's finished eating and has little else to do with his time before bed, he decides to head to the physician's quarters to see what, exactly, has kept Merlin from his duties.

He wishes he had worn a cloak; it's not so uncommon to wear them indoors this time of year, and when people catch sight of him they sometimes stare or scurry away. His loss of control yesterday was frightening, Arthur knows that, it was terribly dangerous for the whole of the kingdom, but it still rankles to know his own subjects are terrified of him now. It was a little different, when he was younger—before he met Merlin—but Arthur's grown up since then. He's not so much like his father that he still enjoys people fearing him.

Even at this hour Gaius's chambers are full enough that Arthur goes unnoticed when he enters, though most of the patients seem to be lying down. It's a rare day that heads don't turn when the Prince of Camelot walks into a room, and after the looks he got on the way up Arthur is reluctant to bring attention to himself prematurely. He hangs back in the shadows to watch the room instead; Gaius is by the fireplace, heating some ointment or other while simultaneously looking through a book and keeping an eye on a fellow with heavy bandages on his left leg. Merlin is at the worktable nearest the door, speaking with a tired-looking woman with puffy red eyes, and her young daughter, in pigtails and also crying, so small she must sit on the table itself to be close to eye-level. The cause of their distress makes itself readily apparent: the girl's hand is solid stone nearly up to the elbow.

"...can fix it, not to worry—but I'm afraid a magical ailment requires a magical solution," Merlin is saying. "Are you all right with that?"

The mother grasps his arm. "Are you sure there's no other way?" she asks, hushed. "The king would have us killed. Magic is dangerous. I don't want her to get hurt."

Merlin lays his hand over hers. "Not to worry," he says again. "No harm will come of it here. This is a place of healing."

"Then—whatever it takes."

"Of course." Merlin glances up at Gaius, whose back is still turned. Arthur expects him to call out—but to his utter astonishment Merlin leans down and takes the girl's arm in his hands and whispers, "Ge hailige."

Arthur's jaw nearly scrapes the ground. Merlin doesn't have one bit of self-preservation, does he? Gaius using magic, out of sight, and only when absolutely necessary, is one thing. Gaius has his father's trust. But to everyone aside from Arthur, Merlin's just another servant. If Merlin using magic in the open like this got back to his father, he would be executed for it. Is this what he's been doing all day? Where on earth did he even learn that spell?

More shocking still, it actually works. The stone begins to recede, leaving fresh unblemished skin in its wake. Merlin doesn't appear to be terribly skilled in what he's doing—he has to repeat the spell quite a few times before all the stone is gone, and by the time he's finished, he looks wan and exhausted the way he does after helping Arthur with target practice—but in the end, the stone vanishes entirely. The girl gets her arm back.

"And one more thing," Merlin says. He wiggles his fingers, eyes wide, and then lays them both on a scrape on the girl's knee. He repeats the spell one last time and when he lifts his hands the wound is gone. The child laughs, wiping away her tears with her newly healed hand. "There we are," says Merlin, "right as rain."

"Thank you," the mother says, "thank you—"

"You want to thank me, don't tell anyone," Merlin says. He looks down at the girl and winks, putting a finger to his lips. She mimics him with clumsy motions, smiling all the while.

It's strange, seeing Merlin like this. Arthur is aware Merlin has taken a minor interest in Gaius's work and acts as an informal apprentice when he isn't attending Arthur, but Arthur's never actually seen Merlin at it before. Merlin is a terrible servant, easily the worst Arthur's ever had, but this...Arthur can't put his finger on it. Despite the many attempts it took to heal the girl, Merlin seems to be something of a natural. Perhaps his interest in Gaius's work was stronger than Arthur realized.

Merlin doesn't notice Arthur lingering in the doorway until the woman and her daughter are on their way out. The woman herself shoots Arthur one terrified glance before making herself scarce, and Merlin's reaction is not much better; his eyes go very round and his face goes bloodless, as though he's been caught red-handed sneaking food from the kitchens. "A-Arthur! Fancy seeing you here! I was just—that is—"

"So," Arthur says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded casual-as-you-please, "I come looking for my wayward manservant after he fails to bring me dinner and find him here practicing magic instead. Where'd you learn that little trick, Merlin? Did Gaius teach you?"

"Well—" Merlin twists around to glance at Gaius, who is far enough away that he has not yet noticed them. "Well, I—he—" But Merlin can't seem to find a good answer. His jaw clamps shut.

Arthur thinks back to their conversation yesterday morning. Come on. You've made it quite clear how you feel about magic. If I had told you the truth...

Is Arthur truly so unreasonable in the eyes of others? Perhaps this is what comes of a lifetime spent comparing himself to his father. Anyone looks sane and sensible next to Uther Pendragon, especially as of late. But maybe Merlin sees things differently. Why else would he feel the need to lie?

"No need to soil yourself, Merlin," Arthur says at last, more than a little dour. "It's not as though I could drag you or Gaius to the pyre even if I wanted to, not after—" He casts a look about to make sure no one else is listening. "Not after yesterday. What I—did." He lifts one eyebrow. "You might call it mutually assured destruction."

For some reason that makes Merlin flinch. But he does, at least, speak: "Gaius didn't teach me the spell on purpose. It's just something I've seen him use."

"If you don't know what you're doing..." Arthur starts.

Merlin folds his arms tightly to his body. "I got the job done, didn't I? And he's not exactly in the position to ask me to stop."

"What do you mean?"

Merlin looks him up and down, cagey, and then relents. "Magic requires balance. To give someone back their life force, you must give up a part of your own. That's all healing is, really. But you have to want it—and you have to be prepared to pay the price."

Arthur quiets, thinking of his mother. "Does that mean you could die? I told you magic was dangerous—"

Merlin scoffs. "Over a stone arm and a skinned knee?" he asks. "Of course not. Small injuries like that are nothing. But things like that add up, and Gaius is only one man, with only so much to give, so I've been pitching in. Trust me, he doesn't approve any more than you do." He eyes Arthur warily. "Do you want me to take a crack at your sword arm? I'm getting better every day."

Is he? That's worrying. Reflexively Arthur wriggles the fingers of his right hand. He's regained all of his lost movement, but very little of his strength. And there is nothing he wants more than to have it back, but... "Not a chance."

Merlin sighs, arms dropping. "Come on," he says, and at least his exasperation is familiar, a tone he takes with Arthur often, when things are normal between them. "You're doing all right now, aren't you? There's nothing to be concerned about. It's harmless!" Arthur gives him a doubtful look, and Merlin adds, "You can't still be worried about corruption."

"Oh, I very much am," Arthur assures him. He's been trying not to think about it, actually, but the idea won't leave him completely. "Perhaps this was the whole point of the curse. To torture us until we give in or die, and then..."

Merlin gives him a despairing look. "Are you so determined to blame magic for everything?"

"Are you so determined to blame it for nothing?" Arthur counters. "Why else would I have—exploded like that? Only me, and no one else? Morgana throws fire too, as does my father, and neither of them nearly burned down the kingdom. Is it weakness?"

"I think it's strength," Merlin says. "Or perhaps just stubbornness." He crosses to a nearby worktable and makes himself busy, putting little vials back on their shelves, checking on some green mixture simmering above a flame. "You told me you'd resist it or die trying. You had it locked down so tightly, more tightly than anyone else, even your father. All that self-control...exploding was the only way it could get out."

Merlin's answer does only a little to mend Arthur's wounded pride. "Strength, perhaps, but not enough."

"You lived to fight another day," Merlin points out. He takes the mixture off of the flame and adds a few drops of something foul-smelling. "Not all have been so lucky. You do feel better today, don't you?"

"Much," Arthur admits, but the reminder that nine people chose to die rather than live with the magic leaves him subdued. Arthur is only too familiar with that kind of desperation, now; for a few minutes there out on the training field, surrounded by fire, he was certain he was going to die and had been glad. What if they had known then what Arthur knows now? Could they have been saved?

Of course, even if they did, the decree his father made during that mad speech up on the parapet was that no one was to use the magic deliberately. But it's not fair to have one rule for Arthur and another for all the rest, not when the curse puts them all in equal danger. What if someone else has trouble like Arthur did before the curse can be broken? Arthur almost died a terrible death yesterday. Decree or not, he cannot bear the thought of his people needlessly suffering the same fate.

Arthur cannot possibly go against his father's explicit orders in the eye of the public—his word does not carry more weight than the king's, and to speak openly against his decree would be treason. But perhaps...

"Merlin..." Arthur casts another glance around. Gaius is tending to the fellow by the fire, now, and he has certainly spotted them even if he can't spare a moment for a greeting just yet. There are a few more patients, but all of them are lying on cots, snoring. "People will come to Gaius, I hope," Arthur says finally, "if they have trouble with magic. Like I did. If that happens, I w—" Arthur can't quite meet Merlin's eyes, suddenly. "I want you to advise them as you did me."

Merlin has abandoned his potion entirely; he looks as stunned as if Arthur had struck him across the face. He whispers, "You want—?"

"Discreetly," Arthur stresses, thinking of Merlin's alarming lack of caution when it comes to anything to do with magic. "And only if they're like me, you understand?" Only the ones struggling with control, the ones at risk of taking their own lives just to find relief. Magic is a terrible, dangerous power, but surely using magic is still better than being dead. "You must be careful. My father doesn't know I'm asking this of you, and I can't protect you or anyone else if he finds out. Not to mention we've no idea what's to become of people who call on magic willingly in the long term, and that includes me and you." He fixes Merlin with a pointed look. "But we can hardly stand a repeat performance of—of—"

Merlin lays a hand on Arthur's forearm—the injured one, is he doing that on purpose? "No one blames you," he says, earnest.

That's not true at all. "I blame me."

"A good scare and a bit of property damage, that's daily life here in Camelot," Merlin jokes. "But no one was hurt."

You could have been hurt, Arthur thinks, but doesn't speak the thought aloud. Merlin, for once, had clearly been unconcerned for his own safety. Shield or not, he walked through fire to get to Arthur. It was a very brave thing to do.

"Plenty of people are getting hurt," Arthur says aloud, waving a hand around. "With all this going on Gaius is never going to find a means to break the curse."

Merlin brightens. "Actually, I've been helping, and we—" And then his eyes go very round, and he clamps his mouth shut again.

Merlin's endless chatter is often irritating, but his silence is much worse. "Merlin," Arthur sighs, utterly vexed, and then stops. Squints. Lately, Merlin only gets this squirrely about one subject... "Merlin," Arthur says again, incredulous. "Have you—have the two of you been using magic to try and figure this out?"

"Shhh," Merlin hisses, glancing around nervously. "All right, look, the less you know the better, but any means to the end, eh? We're making progress. There's something we're going to try later tonight after everyone's gone that may help."

Arthur eyes him, suspicious. "Is that really all you're going to give me?" Merlin shrugs. "You mustn't use it so carelessly, Merlin." Truthfully, if it weren't for the fact that using it is the only thing that seems to stop it from swallowing people whole, Arthur would forbid Merlin from doing so at all.

"I'm using it for the good of Camelot," Merlin protests. "What could be more important than that?"

That's a fair point. Still, the image of Gaius and Merlin doing unknown magic deliberately here in the cover of darkness and solitude makes Arthur uneasy. It's too much like breaking the law, too much like treason. Arthur's seen flashes of himself in windows and mirrors when he does use magic. The way his eyes glow makes him look like a demon. It's even worse on Merlin. It makes him look like he's not even Merlin anymore—and it reminds Arthur that they're all playing with a power they can't ever truly trust or hope to master. Merlin may not fear it, but Arthur does.

Which is exactly why Merlin had been planning to do the whole thing without informing Arthur at all.

Arthur doesn't like it.

King Uther, both terrible and great, rules from high atop his throne—or lately, from inside his chambers. But rarely does he deign to step foot on the ground he shares with the common folk, and less often still the older he gets. Arthur is not treasonous, but there are many things he has kept from his king. For his father's peace of mind, or because his father could not be relied upon to see reason, or even for something so petty as competing in a jousting tournament under false pretenses—the why of it doesn't matter, only that Arthur felt compelled to do it and was able to get away with it. It's almost laughably easy sometimes, when Arthur's luck runs right.

But that's not the kind of man Arthur wants to be. It's not the kind of king Arthur wants to be. He needs to stay informed, especially when it concerns the safety of his kingdom. And—

There's so much Arthur didn't know about Merlin before the curse began, and he suspects there is much more he could learn still—pieces he has been trying to slot together since the day they met, if he could only uncover all their hiding places. He will never find them all, if Merlin insists on keeping him at arm's length.

So then.

"Later tonight," Arthur says, "when you try this—whatever it is you're doing. I want to be there."

"You what?" Merlin squawks. Both Gaius and his patient by the fire turn; even one of the sleepers stirs on his cot. Merlin gives them a nervous and completely unconvincing smile that somehow convinces them to carry on as they were anyway, and then he lowers his voice. "Arthur," he says, "you must be joking—"

Arthur crosses his arms. "I am deadly serious," he informs Merlin. "If the two of you are doing magic vital to the safety of the kingdom, I insist on overseeing it."

"But—but—" Merlin splutters. "That's what we have Gaius for! Don't you trust him to do it?"

Arthur smiles with absolutely no merriment. "Don't you trust me to observe without interfering?"

That draws Merlin up short. He must be remembering their conversation from yesterday too, for he looks as though he's thinking hard, face pinched, eyes sliding back and forth over nothing. "Yes," he says slowly, and at least his deliberation speaks of an answer thought-out and given honestly. "Of course I do."

Arthur lifts his eyebrows. "Then there's no need to run around behind my back, is there?" Seeing Merlin hesitate makes his jaw clench and dread knot up in his stomach. "For better or worse, Merlin," Arthur grinds out, "I am not my father."

Arthur thought Merlin knew that—but maybe it's something he's going to have to prove.

Merlin bites down on his lip, glances over at Gaius working by the hearth one more time. Is he going to ask for Gaius's opinion...? But no: he turns back to Arthur. "All right," he says at last. "Come back in a few hours—after last bell. We should have emptied out by then, and if you can resist the temptation to pile me on with chores, we'll have plenty of time."

Arthur lets out his held breath, shoulders dropping in relief. He could have forced the issue, but he's glad Merlin didn't make him. "You're just trying to weasel your way out of work, Merlin," he dismisses with mock haughtiness, pleased to see a smile curling at the corner of Merlin's mouth too. He's curious, suddenly: "What would you have done if I hadn't asked about it, and piled you on with chores anyway?" Would he have let Arthur's armor languish? What excuse would he have come up with? Or, worse, would he have put Arthur's needs above the needs of Camelot?

But Merlin tips his head back to laugh, a sudden flash of teeth and mirth breaking apart the seriousness from before. He leans in close, like he's telling a secret, and whispers, "I'd've finished them with magic."

Arthur grins back, shoving his shoulder. "Sure you would have."

Hearing their laughter, Gaius looks up from his work at last. "Forgive me, sire, but if you've finished with Merlin, I could use a second pair of hands over here..."

"Of course." Arthur jerks his head. He can find his dinner elsewhere. "Go on, Merlin, no need to be as lazy with Gaius as you are with me."

Merlin pulls another face, this one much funnier than the last. "Sire," he says with a little flourish, and crosses the room to go and help Gaius.

Arthur means to leave, but instead he lingers by the doorway, watching. The two of them converse a moment, then Merlin kneels and unwraps the man's leg—it's swollen and positively covered with scales—so he may lay his hands on it. Arthur hears Merlin's voice go low as he utters the same spell he used on the girl.

The flash of his eyes doesn't startle Arthur so much this time, since he was expecting it. And so Arthur is able to pay more attention to the way Merlin moves his hands up and down the limb, as if to seek out the ailment, as if he can feel where it's gone the most wrong...

Arthur is struck again by the sense that Merlin is a natural, but he realizes now that it's not the healing—it's the magic. He's entirely unafraid of it, and wields it as easily as Arthur once wielded his sword.

There is truly no end to Merlin's general uselessness: he's maddeningly slow to finish chores, only a passable cook on his best day, far too noisy and wrong-footed to be of any use on a hunt, late to everything with alarming predictability, all but defenseless in battle, and so brazenly insolent that a less patient man than Arthur might have had him beheaded simply to put a stop to his tongue. He is, without a doubt, the most abysmal servant Arthur has ever had.

And yet, somehow, impossibly—

It seems that Merlin is a very good sorcerer.

Perhaps in another world, a world which his father had never seen fit to purge of its magic, sorcery would have been Merlin's true calling. He could have been one of the good ones. He might even have been one of the great ones.

But in that world, Merlin wouldn't need Arthur. In that world, where King Uther had not felt compelled to take up the fight against sorcery—a world where his mother was alive and well and happy—a world where so many innocents had not died on the blades of Camelot's knights after having been falsely accused—a world that was good and just...

In that world, Arthur and Merlin would never have even met—because Arthur wouldn't exist at all.

Arthur shakes the thought away. Much as he wished it there on the ground yesterday morning, no man can undo his own birth. This world is all there is.

And it's selfish, maybe, Arthur thinks, watching Merlin work his magic, but he can't be entirely sorry about that.

There is one silver lining in Merlin choosing to invite Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot And Second Most Dedicated Hater Of Magic, to their little scrying session later. He shall never again have to worry about Arthur putting his head on the chopping block because Gaius is going to kill him.

"How could you be so reckless?" Gaius shouts, after their quarters have emptied for the night. He's sitting up by one of the worktables while Merlin, with his younger knees, copies a circle of sigils from the book Gaius holds open onto the floor with chalk. "Bad enough that Arthur knows you can perform a simple barrier spell to get to him through the fire. Worse that he knows you're not afraid to call the magic deliberately. But to call him here to witness you performing a scrying spell well beyond the capabilities of any normal sorcerer? Do you want to die?"

"No," Merlin says in a very small voice, looking down at his knees and feeling good and properly foolish.

"The more of the truth you tell Arthur," Gaius warns, "the more information he has to work with, and the harder it will be to keep the rest a secret. Arthur is young and inexperienced and often overlooks the details, but he's not a fool, Merlin! You can only be so obvious before he takes notice!" Gaius shakes his head and declares, "I am too old for this. Oh, Merlin, after all we've both done to protect you. I don't know how on earth you've managed to stay alive this long!"

Merlin's finished with the sigils, but has no interest in getting to his feet; he wishes he could sink right into the floor. Gaius is too good to mention it outright, but he knows they're both thinking of the false witchfinder, and the terrible ordeal Gaius went through at his hands just to spare Merlin and Morgana from suffering the same fate. He felt so sure of himself earlier today. Remembering what his recklessness could cost Gaius makes him doubt. "I'm sorry," Merlin says into his hands, "you're right, of course you're right, I'm a complete idiot and I don't know what I was thinking."

Gaius lets out a very long and very displeased sigh. Then he closes the book he's holding and places it beside him on the bench. "Merlin," he says, and waits for Merlin to look up at him. "What were you thinking?"

Merlin hugs his knees to his chest. "I don't know," he mumbles, and feels his throat begin to close. He swallows down the emotion; no good if Arthur shows up and finds him crying. "I just keep forgetting that it isn't real. That he doesn't really know. It's so easy to talk to him now, even when we don't agree...it's so easy to be honest with him, to be myself. I used to think it could never happen. That if I was lucky, and I served Arthur well, maybe there would be just a small chance, years and years from now. But this curse—as strange and mad and awful as it's all been, I've never felt closer to him. And after being so alone with it for so many years...I suppose when the temptation came along to speak freely..."

Gaius squeezes Merlin's shoulder. Old hands, gnarled with age, but his grip is still so strong. Merlin's so lucky. He's never really alone with Gaius here to hold him up. "Merlin," Gaius starts, "I know how difficult it must be..." But then he stops. "Well, no. Of course I don't. I can't."

Merlin brings one hand up to cover Gaius's and squeeze back. That's something, at least.

"I want to make him understand," Merlin says at last. "I think he could sometimes, I swear I see it in him—I think that's why he wanted to come here tonight. Somewhere deep down he must be open to the possibility that Uther is wrong." There was something in Arthur's eyes when he told Merlin he was not his father. Arthur respects his father more than anyone, and there's nothing he wouldn't do to please him—but that doesn't mean they see eye-to-eye on everything. The druid boy, Gwen's father...Merlin's witnessed firsthand how Arthur struggles when he wants to obey and knows he cannot. It would take time, of course it would take time, but perhaps eventually... "There's so much goodness in Arthur, and so much goodness in magic, if I could only make him see..."

Merlin trails off. Even to his own ears he sounds desperate. Is he just fooling himself? Arthur didn't stop to reconsider his thoughts on magic all on his own, after all; it's the curse that forced him to use magic to keep it from consuming him, the curse that allowed Merlin to speak so freely on the subject. Maybe this wasn't the right way—maybe it can't last without a solid foundation to build on. Even now, Arthur is still so suspicious and mistrustful of magic. And why shouldn't he be, after all the times magic has been used to hurt him, after it nearly burned him alive?

"Arthur trusts me with so much," Merlin says at last. He has seen Arthur sick and wounded, angry and frightened; he was there when Arthur's magic was out of control and even stood witness the day Arthur spoke with his mother and then tried to kill his own father. Arthur has allowed Merlin to be at his side when he was at his worst and lowest—but for all Merlin's indirectly confided in him since the curse began, it still feels as though in comparison, he barely knows Merlin at all. "I just want to trust him in return."

Gaius gives Merlin's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "I know you do, Merlin. But it is unwise. Arthur cannot change what he is anymore than you can."

Merlin looks up at Gaius at last. "And what is he, exactly?"

Gaius gives Merlin a sad look and stands up. "Someone who hates and fears magic. Someone who has struck down those that use it without pity or remorse. He is Uther's son."

But he is not only Uther's son, Merlin thinks, remembering Ygraine Pendragon—or the illusion of her—and the kindness in those blue eyes, identical to Arthur's own. "He can change," Merlin says. "I know he can change. It's our destiny."

Gaius pats Merlin's shoulder again and starts gathering the ingredients for their spell from the shelf Merlin knocked over not so long ago. "For your sake, Merlin," Gaius says, "I hope you're right."

There is a knock at the door.

Merlin scrambles to his feet and rushes to let Arthur in.

Arthur slips inside and twists around to peer out of the crack in the door. Seemingly satisfied that he wasn't followed, he shuts it and pulls down the hood of his cloak, blowing on his gloved hands to get warm. "Merlin," he greets with a nod. "Gaius."

"Sire," Gaius returns, shuffling back from beside one of the bookshelves along the far wall. Merlin realizes with a pang of belated panic that he hadn't even thought to hide the very definitely illegal magic book they got their spell from—but as usual, Gaius covered him; the book is indistinguishable from its fellows on such a dusty and crowded shelf.

Arthur waves an arm at the sigils on the floor. "What's all this, then?"

Gaius bustles about, opening and closing cabinets as he gathers what he needs. "It's for this," he says, setting down the largest wooden bowl he owns in the center of the floor. It's very shallow and around two feet wide; about double the size of Gaius's medicine bag. "What we are attempting here tonight is a scrying spell. Now, the art of scrying is a simple one, but for all sorcerers except the most skilled or powerful, it does require a scrying font."

Arthur squints, suspicious. He's slipping out of his cloak, lying it on one of the worktables. "And what is this—scrying?"

Merlin can't stop the surprised lift of his eyebrows. Arthur really doesn't know anything about magic, does he? "You just look into a reflective surface," Merlin says, "a mirror or water, perhaps even a well-polished helmet would do—and then you can see things. Past, present, maybe even the future." Gaius shoots Merlin a sharp look, and Merlin realizes that he's doing it again, speaking to Arthur about magic without a second thought. He's supposed to be the uneducated one, here; Gaius should be explaining all of this. Too late he looks to Gaius and adds, "Right?"

"Not quite," Gaius says. He grabs a small folded blanket and lies it on the floor to kneel on, adding various ingredients to the bowl and using a pestle to crush them together. "Any reflective surface is certainly a candidate, but it cannot actually be used to perform the scrying unless it is first enchanted—hence the scrying font. We can enchant this bowl here, and then any water poured into it can be used to scry with." He pauses, hands suddenly stilling in their work. "There used to be quite a nice scrying font in the palace," he recalls. "An enchanted mirror as tall as three knights, ringed with gold and jewels; hundreds of years old, by my estimate, and as a result very powerful. I used it a few times myself at King Uther's bequest—usually to locate game in the lean winter months when our stores of meat dwindled. The children were always so excited to see the moving pictures."

Seems Merlin's not the only one tempted to speak too freely these days. Gaius almost never talks about what life was like before the Great Purge, and suddenly Merlin is hungry to know more. He can't even imagine such a world.

"My father really asked you to use magic for such benign tasks?" Arthur's brows knit together. "Why not use that scrying font? Why wait so long to make this one?"

"...your father smashed it himself, during the Great Purge. He had the pieces ground into dust and cast into the sea." Gaius shakes his head and goes back to mixing ingredients. "And I believe you were here the day Merlin knocked over that shelf." Gaius nods in its direction. "There were some vital ingredients for this spell there that were ruined. It's taken this long because we had to replace them."

"Merlin, you clumsy sod, you should have told me," Arthur complains. "If I had known it was for something so important, I could have sent men out to gather the supplies."

"For magic?" Gaius asks, his judging eyebrow raised high. "Right under your father's nose?"

Arthur falls quiet; Merlin tries not to squirm. He did knock over the shelf on purpose, but panicking as he was, didn't realize which one he was aiming at. Gaius says there's nothing they could have done to prevent those nine people killing themselves, that most of them showed signs of having died the very day the curse began—but what if it hadn't taken so long to perform this spell? Maybe the curse would have been broken faster. Maybe at least one of them could have been saved.

"While I am capable of using the magic needed to create the scrying font," Gaius says, breaking the silence, "it is Merlin that shall be doing the scrying. Our target is some distance away, and he's younger, has more energy to put into it. At my age, even with a background that involves magical study, I will be less likely to succeed."

This, of course, is a load of horse dung. Sorcerers only grow more powerful with age, for magic is a tool of the mind; physical fitness has no real bearing on the outcome of the spell. But to Arthur, well-used to an art where an older and less physically fit opponent is at a disadvantage, it is hopefully a likely-sounding load of horse dung; it's the only story Merlin and Gaius could come up with to explain away the real reason that Merlin must be the one to cast the spell. His natural abilities far exceed anyone's in Camelot, even Gaius's, even now, and with a small and plain scrying font aged only a few minutes, it will take that kind of power to reach such a distant location as the Isle of the Blessed. It's too bad they don't have the mirror Uther smashed during the Great Purge—for the older and larger the scrying font, the more power it contains. It would make this much easier.

Arthur is frowning in thought. "Are you sure you're up for this?" he asks Merlin. "It sounds like—like big magic." That's a phrase he got from Merlin yesterday morning, Merlin realizes with a thrill, and he says it like it doesn't quite fit in his mouth. "You have no idea what the risks are."

Merlin shrugs, refusing to meet his eyes, and gives Arthur the only possible honest answer. "I'm not afraid of magic, remember?"

"All ready," says Gaius. "You two—out of the circle, if you please." Merlin and Arthur step back and make themselves comfortable on a bench at one of the nearby worktables, but Arthur shakes his head at Merlin the whole while.

The creation of the font itself is rather uneventful; even the novelty of seeing Gaius perform magic has worn off a bit after nearly two weeks. To Merlin, it's typical magic: a few words, a bit of light, and done. No, the real show here is Arthur's face. His eyes get huge and his jaw goes slack, and he looks back and forth between Gaius and Merlin as if to ascertain whether or not they're somehow having him on.

"...what are we scrying for, exactly?" Arthur asks, as Merlin helps Gaius to his feet. "The sorcerer?"

Merlin and Gaius exchange a look. "In a manner of speaking," Merlin says. "We believe the spell may have been cast at a particular location, so—"

"Details," Arthur presses. "Do not speak around that which you think I can't or won't understand. Make me understand it. What place? How did you come by this information?"

There's a long pause. Merlin's hope wars with dread. Arthur has never asked so many questions before; it's probably the only reason he hasn't found Merlin out yet. An Arthur who asks for details, especially details about magic, is going to be a lot harder to lie to. At the same time, Merlin can't entirely quash the longing that comes with hearing Arthur say things like Make me understand. Merlin wants so very, very badly for Arthur to understand.

Gaius has gotten up to to rinse the ingredients out of the bowl so that they may fill it with clean water, and from behind Arthur's shoulder, he gives Merlin a very stern look that means no and also you will die horribly, and then just to make certain his point is crystal clear, he draws a finger across his throat.

Merlin shoots him a pleading look in return. Arthur whips around to see what Gaius is doing, but by then Gaius has begun to scrub at the bowl. Merlin spreads his hands and gestures wildly, well what else do you expect me to do—but by the time Arthur turns back, Merlin's hands are clasped behind his back.

"Merlin," Arthur warns. "You're trying my patience."

Ugh, fine. "The spell was cast on the winter solstice," Merlin says at last. "There was a new moon that night. If the spell was cast at the stroke of midnight, well—it's the ultimate darkness, celestially speaking. Harnessing that much elemental energy is probably how the sorcerer managed to affect such a great many people. But we think such a huge and powerful spell may have also required a powerful location, and the most sacred location in the Old Religion is a place known as the Isle of the Blessed. So that is where we scry."

Arthur leans back in his seat, looking almost—yes, he's actually impressed with Merlin. "You really worked that all out on your own?"

"I did have help." Merlin turns before his expression can give away the fact that he doesn't mean Gaius.

The three of them put out all the lights in the room and then gather around the table Arthur sits at—now that the font has been created, there's no need to suffer the chill of these stone floors. Merlin sits at Arthur's right hand as usual; Gaius sits across from them. The bowl is so wide it takes up more than half the table, and it's about halfway full of water. Merlin places his hands on the sides as Gaius instructed, feeling nervous. He's normally not at all intimidated by practicing new magic, especially if it's under Gaius's tutelage, but then normally he's not doing his magic in front the fucking prince, is he?

Merlin chances a glance over at Arthur, and his heartbeat stutters. It's a small table, and Arthur is sitting so close to him, watching the proceedings with thinly veiled curiosity. What if he realizes Merlin shouldn't be able to scry such a distant location? What if they see something in the bowl that somehow gives away Merlin's secret? What if...

"Do you remember the incantation?" Gaius asks, snapping Merlin's eyes away from Arthur and back to the task at hand. "Diegol cnytte, gewitte me yst—"

"—ætíe mec hwa ic séce," Merlin finishes. "Don't worry, I've got it." He takes a deep breath and looks into the bowl, willing himself to forget Arthur and even Gaius, and focus only on reaching down for the power inside of him and using this font to connect it to the Isle of the Blessed. He tries to remember what it was like the last time he was there: the mist and the water, the old rowboat, the dreaded altar where he tried twice to bargain his life away...

The Isle of the Blessed was where Merlin first heard the incantation for rain—the same spell he taught Arthur only yesterday morning.

When Merlin's ready, he begins to chant the incantation. He feels Arthur flinch just a bit when the bowl begins to glow, and it throws him off, that glow flickering dangerously before steadying out again. But then Arthur settles, and so too does Merlin. It takes him a few tries—his pronunciation is perfect, thanks very much, but his nerves are killing him—but eventually the glow begins to brighten, and the water swirls vague shapes into being. The more Merlin chants, the brighter the glow becomes, and when the shapes begin to solidify Gaius lays his hand on Merlin's arm and Merlin knows that he can stop.

The three of them lean in. At first it's nothing but different-sized blurs in varying shades of white, but then the picture begins to solidify. The shores of the lake are blanketed in several inches of snow that still falls even as they watch, the lake itself frozen solid, but there is the vague shape of the old rowboat next to the dock, half-submerged in the ice. The moon is not yet full, but nearly, and it outlines the silhouette of the island in the dark.

The picture changes, the island coming closer. Something moves in the shadows—

"That's a cockatrice," Gaius says, surprised. "I thought they only lived around the Forests of Balor."

"Speaking of Balor," Arthur says grimly, "look at the spiders crawling up that tower. They were in the caves I sought the Mortaeus flower in."

Ugly buggers, Merlin decides, warmed by the memory of Arthur being willing to put himself through such danger to save a mere servant. That's why he'll be a good king.

But a cockatrice and a few dozen spiders don't help them figure out how to break the curse. Merlin squeezes the sides of the bowl, willing the spell to search every nook and cranny of the island if it must. The picture changes again and again, but each time it shows only a different manner of beast; the island is crawling with them. Merlin sees serkets, griffins, and even— "Is that a dragon?" Merlin asks, of a scaly winged creature about double the size of a horse.

"Can't be," Arthur protests. The blue-white glow of the bowl lights his face from below, making his eyes look bluer even in the dark. "My father had them all killed."

Merlin and Gaius exchange a look. "It is a wyvern," Gaius says grimly. "The dragon's distant cousin, so to speak. They're still creatures of magic, but they do not live as long, and they are not sentient the way dragons are—were." Gaius sounds sad. "They are but beasts."

Merlin's glad now that he didn't try to go out to the island alone despite the weather—or, worse, drag Arthur along with him. They wouldn't have lasted five minutes against this lot. "This makes no sense," Merlin says. "The last—" Merlin cuts himself off before he can say something foolish like the last time I was there and covers his slip with, "the last thing I'd expect would be for this island to be covered with creatures like this. It should be...dead. Uninhabited." He meets Gaius's eyes. Like it was before, he doesn't say.

Gaius seems to understand. "They may have been summoned by the sorcerer. If the sorcerer is capable of inflicting magic on all of Camelot, it should come as no surprise he is also capable of this. Keep looking, Merlin. We must be getting closer." He chances a wary look at Arthur, and adds, "I visited this place once, before the Great Purge. I recall there was an altar...perhaps if you can find it..."

Of course, Merlin thinks, and feels a proper fool for not trying to direct the scrying spell there to begin with. "Altar, got it," Merlin mutters, only too aware of Arthur's eyes on him as he squeezes the bowl tighter. He pictures it in his mind, tries to imagine the scar left on the land where he struck Nimueh down—

"There," Arthur says suddenly. "Do you see—"

Merlin does see. A dark hooded figure, silhouetted plainly against white snow. Merlin cannot make out his identity; he is turned away, and his face is hidden in the shadows of his cloak.

The figure stills. If Merlin didn't know any better, he'd think the sorcerer aware of being watched.

Slowly, the figure's hands come up to their hood. Long, slender fingers—a woman? The hood comes down—there's a tumble of long hair—the woman turns her face to the side—

Nimueh, Merlin thinks on reflex, but of course it can't be. Then for one mad moment Merlin thinks Morgana, because in the dark there's something familiar about the stranger's profile, the curl of her hair—

But it's not Nimueh, or Morgana. It's someone Merlin had never expected to see again. It's someone Merlin had prayed never to see again—because of the sheer hell she put Arthur through, just six short months ago.

Arthur is as still and pale as death itself, his eyes wide like he's just seen a ghost.

"Morgause," he whispers.

For all that Arthur has suffered since his ordeal with Morgause, it has not once occurred to him that all this time, she was still out there—still plotting against Arthur and his people, still using her magic to strike at them where she can do the most harm.

Arthur's on his feet without even realizing it. He's getting tunnel vision; his pulse pounds in his ears. He used to think finding out he was born of magic was the worst experience of his life, but coming a hair's breadth away from being burned alive by his own magic in front of the entire kingdom is a close second. To know that Morgause is responsible for both events—

Arthur can still hear his mother's voice, feel her touch. He can still see the way his father stared up at him with a sword at his heart and lies on his tongue. Morgause did that. It was all her.

"I'll kill her," Arthur says senselessly. Rage courses through his veins the likes of which he has not felt since he walked into the council chambers with every intention of seeing his father dead on the ground before he walked back out. The room flickers oddly; he can't seem to catch his breath. "That—that wretched, cowardly snake—that vile, loathsome witch—" Five guards dead on her way into Camelot the first time. Nine people dead because of this curse. Arthur's mother. "I swear I will kill her, I will send her back to Hell where her kind belong—"

"Arthur."

Arthur looks down and flinches. Merlin's eyes have glowed gold since he began scrying, and it's more off-putting in the dark, when those eyes are trained on Arthur. Merlin doesn't dare let go of the bowl, but he nudges his knee into Arthur's leg, a small comfort.

"Arthur," he says again, "you've got to calm down. You're lighting candles."

"Don't tell me what to do," Arthur snaps, agitated beyond reason, unable to bear the sight of Merlin's eyes lit up like that. It reminds him of Morgause. It reminds him of himself. He has magic, he has magic, and it's her fault—

The room grows a little brighter. Merlin starts, "Arthur—"

"Just be quiet!" Arthur snaps. His eyes dart around the room. Merlin's right; the odd flickering from before was the candles all sparking to life. Seems his magic isn't entirely sorted after all.

It takes a moment, but eventually Arthur is able to look past that unsettling glow in Merlin's eyes and see the earnest, concerned expression on his face. The vice around his chest loosens, and he swallows down the subsequent rush of nausea. He's got to get this under control. He can call fire, but how to put it out? The only time he's ever done it was with rain.

Maybe he doesn't need the whole spell. Maybe he can just...

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about the thunderstorm, that one fleeting instant of peace as the flames died down. He tries to forget how Merlin and Gaius are staring, the image of the person he hates most in the world down in the scrying bowl. He thinks of the rain and the relief and nothing else, and eventually his racing heart begins to slow. The candlelight begins to dim. And Arthur doesn't open his eyes until the room is completely dark again.

"All right?" Merlin asks cautiously.

Arthur nods once, avoiding Merlin's glowing gaze. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

Suddenly Gaius gasps. In the bowl, the picture has changed, moving in closer. Morgause stands by the altar, yes, and she must certainly be the one responsible for the curse, but upon the altar itself rests another clue. Arthur can't tell what it is at first in the dark, but then a strange shimmer of faint blue light washes over it as waves break upon sand, and—

Arthur drops back into his seat.

It's a dagger. Obsidian from end to end, a single pearl embedded in the hilt.

"I know that blade," Arthur says through numb lips. "I've seen it in my dreams."

Merlin looks up at him sharply. "You what?"

"Every night now," Arthur says. "Since the curse began." He should feel uneasy about such a thing, but the shock of seeing Morgause again has left him momentarily distant, and instead some gruesome resignation settles into his bones. This is no coincidence. This is something sinister. This is something else that he does not want to know. "I thought they were normal dreams. Even before the curse, I...I've—for months now, I've been—" He can't bring himself to say it. It's humiliating; it's too close to the secret he keeps.

But Gaius knows. "You've been having nightmares?" he asks. "Sire, you could have come to me."

"I am not Morgana," Arthur snaps, meeting his eyes defiantly. "You think I am so weak? I don't pay such heed to a few bad dreams that I require potions and draughts to bear them." But perhaps he should have. The dreams were nothing new, but the dagger was. If he had come to Gaius, he might have been able to provide a clue for them to work with, given them a means to break the curse more quickly. Maybe they could have somehow saved the nine people lost to it. "What does the dagger mean? Is it to do with the spell?"

Gaius reaches for his eyeglasses and leans in for a better look. "I have seen such things before," he says, adjusting the glasses on his nose. "Its position on the altar suggests it is almost certainly facilitating the curse, but—"

"Then we shall ride out at once and destroy it," Arthur declares. "Morgause will be made to answer for her crimes."

"A noble ambition, sire," Gaius says gently, "but even if you could navigate the White Mountains in winter, and were able to fight your way through the horde of beasts on the island itself with an injured hand, you could not break the curse by mere force alone. See that blue shimmer that washes over it now and then?"

Merlin leans in too. "Only barely. It's magic, right? Part of the curse?"

"Doubly enchanted, I'm afraid," Gaius says. "This was a commonly-used spell in the days before the Great Purge. I used it a few times myself at the king's behest on the swords and shields of our own knights. The dagger is linked to someone's soul, and even Morgause herself could not destroy it without that person at hand. She must have enchanted the blade to power the curse, and then enchanted it again to be indestructible. That way the curse cannot be broken even if she died—at least, not unless we can find the one linked to the dagger."

There's a moment of silence. Arthur closes his eyes briefly and fights down his despair.

"But—but—" Merlin splutters. "That could be anyone. You or me, Gwen or Morgana, even the king—"

"Me," Arthur says suddenly. "It has to be me. That's why I'm dreaming of it, right?" The thought is oddly violating—as much as Arthur hates the nightmares, at least they were private, a product of his own troubled thoughts. But now...

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions too quickly," says Gaius. "The linking spell requires blood to cast, and blood to break. She could only link it to someone she had access to, and after what happened the last time she was in Camelot, she would not dare get close again. Even with an accomplice, to reach you or the king without notice would have been all but impossible."

Arthur thinks on that a moment. There are plenty of times since he last saw Morgause that his blood has been spilled, but he can't think of a time when anyone could have secreted away with it somehow, let alone someone he would recognize as an enemy. "The most convenient source of blood is herself," he points out. "We should ride anyway and just kill her." Darkly, he adds, "I'd be happy to spill enough of her blood to break the curse."

"If it is her," Merlin says. "I don't know, Arthur, why go to the trouble of the enchantment if she's going to keep her own blood right next to the enchanted object?"

Gaius nods. "In my day, the knights had their swords and shields linked not to themselves but someone back home. Otherwise it would be too easy to break the enchantment."

"Every soul in Camelot would see her burn for this," Merlin says. "Linking the dagger to someone else means she has leverage to bargain for her life with—she's the only one who knows who it is, who knows how to break the curse."

Arthur is beginning to get annoyed. "Then we capture her. Make her tell us who it is. She wants to bargain for her life, she can do it from inside a cell at the bottom of the dungeons. Either way, we ride at dawn."

"You can't, aren't you listening?" Merlin cries. He lets go of the bowl, and the picture inside vanishes; at last, that terrible gold in his eyes flickers out, and the three of them are left sitting in the dark. "Think on what we just saw, Arthur! She's doubly enchanted the dagger. She's summoned all manner of beasts. I wouldn't be surprised if she's been whipping up all the snow this year too. You have no idea what kind of pains she might have gone to, what other traps lie in wait. To cast a curse like this, Morgause has to be powerful, but she's not just powerful, she's also really fucking smart. She manipulates people. She—" Merlin hesitates. "She lured you right out to that fortress of hers and had your head on a chopping block, Arthur—"

Rage and shame have Arthur's fists clenching, the candles all flickering back to life. "I will not be foolish enough to trust her lies twice."

"I know that," says Merlin, tone unbearably gentle, and lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "But that doesn't change anything. You could take a whole army with you, but what good would they be if they could not control their magic? Even if you did have full use of your sword arm, you'd be riding right to your own death! We have to think this through!"

Arthur jerks away from Merlin's touch and gets up to pace. "Would you have me sit back and do nothing?" he demands. "Nine people are dead, Merlin, if that matters at all to you!"

Merlin stands up too, flushed and angry. "You think I don't know that? You think, what—that I don't care? You can't possibly understand how that makes me feel!"

"Oh, because your ass of a friend was a bloody sorcerer," Arthur sneers, "you're just sad about it because you think everyone should love being cursed so we can use magic all the time like he did, and they had the good sense to realize what a nightmare—"

"The good sense?" Merlin repeats, outraged and horrified. "You utter hypocrite! They're dead, Arthur! And if you hadn't used magic yourself, if Will hadn't died for you, you'd be dead too! And then you wouldn't be here to call him an ass, and look down on people you're too stupid to try and understand—"

"What I understand is that magic seems to matter more to you than the people it's hurting, and that you don't even care that we're all cursed! And you'd better understand that if you don't start minding how you address your prince, I'll have your skinny arse in the stocks until you get icicles in places you didn't even know you—"

"Oh, why don't you fucking try it, you spoiled, selfish, ungrateful—"

Gaius gets to his feet too. "That is enough!"

There's a ringing silence.

Arthur knows from many long years of being underfoot and getting into trouble that Gaius has a shout that could wake the dead and an eyebrow so judgemental it would make the devil squirm, but it's been so long since Arthur received the full force of both at once that he forgot just how intimidating a pair they made. It's alarming how quickly Gaius can make him feel like a boy again with a single disappointed look.

"Merlin," Gaius starts, "this has been hard on us all. Nine people have died, and we have a responsibility to see to it we break the curse before it kills anyone else. It's not wrong to want to make haste."

"I know that, but—" says Merlin, while Arthur rounds on him with, "I told you—"

"Prince Arthur," Gaius says over them, "there's no reason to provoke Merlin just because you're upset. We've both been doing everything in our power to find a way to break the curse."

"I was not," Arthur says at the same time that Merlin lets out a vindicated "Ha!"

Gaius fixes Merlin with a sour look and a pointedly raised brow, and Merlin quiets.

"It's your choice," Gaius says, and turns back to Arthur. "But in the end, this is a problem of magic. Much like an arm made of stone or a leg covered with scales, it requires a magical solution. The alternatives here would be akin to cutting off the entire limb—violent and extreme, and a miserable ordeal that you may not survive. We have worked out this much on our own. Given enough time, we will find a solution. But putting your men through such a brutal, unforgiving journey, only to face untold danger against magical foes with power beyond their reckoning—that is not a decision you should make lightly."

"Or in anger," Merlin puts in churlishly, glaring at the floor.

"Merlin," Gaius warns.

But on this much, at least, they're in agreement. Arthur sighs, shoulders slumping, and feels the heat of his temper doused. He'd run himself ragged if it meant seeing Morgause dead, or breaking this curse, and gladly—he would dive headfirst into impossible odds, fueled on his fury alone.

But his knights...

Camelot's knights would to a man lay down their lives for their kingdom, and that's not a loyalty Arthur is capable of taking for granted. He would not see those lives thrown away needlessly, especially not in the name of something so utterly meaningless as satisfying his own grief and rage.

What would his father do?

His father would go, of course. His father would ride out with an army at dawn, heedless of the consequences. Even if it cost the lives of a hundred, a thousand men to reach Morgause, as long as she burned in the end, his father would call it a job well done with a clean conscience. He would honor those soldiers, he may even pay reparations to their families, but he would never grieve for them. He doesn't value life, not really—and that is exactly why he would go.

And that is how Arthur knows that he must stay.

Arthur is not his father. He cannot allow himself to fall prey to the same base and selfish thirst for blood that started the Great Purge. To follow in his father's footsteps would leave him where his father is now: the endless pacing and snuffing of candles, a dark and futile burden without respite or an end.

"One week," Arthur says at last, and out of the corner of his eye sees Merlin's head jerk up. "That's enough time to—to consider my choice. And if you find your magical solution before then, well—I suppose it's a choice I won't have to make."

Merlin breathes out. "Thank you."

Arthur looks away. "You do, occasionally, make a bit of sense. Quite on accident, I imagine." Guilt compels him to add, "And about William—I'm sure he wasn't so much of an ass all the time."

Merlin lets out a startled laugh. "No, he really was," he says, and lifts a hand to cover his eyes. Arthur sincerely hopes he's not about to cry. But, no—when Merlin lowers his hands, his eyes are bright, but his face is dry.

There's a moment of silence. "See you tomorrow, then," Arthur says awkwardly, eager now to beat a hasty retreat before anyone can get truly emotional. This whole business of magic after dark is far too taxing for his tastes, especially when Merlin has to go and make that ridiculous face at him. "Bright and early, Merlin."

"Bright and early," Merlin agrees.

Arthur gives Gaius a nod, grabs his cloak, and makes his strategic exit.

One week.

Maybe it was too much time. Maybe half of Camelot will have enchanted themselves or have been consumed by their own magic or worse by the time that week is over. Or maybe it wasn't enough; Arthur's left-handed swordwork has gradually been improving, but it's nothing like the rather considerable skill he used to have with his right, and even a man of his talents is going to need a lot more practice if he plans on driving his blade through Morgause's heart.

Arthur slips on his cloak as he walks, breath fogging in the air. He doesn't know if he made the right choice tonight, and there is no one he can ask. There's nothing like an official position for a royal advisor in Camelot—traditionally, a king seeks counsel from his wife first. Arthur isn't a king yet, and he's unmarried besides; the closest person he has to an advisor or a wife is a gangly former farmboy and current failure of a manservant, who has the foulest mouth this side of Andor, thinks magic is some kind of harmless toy, and occasionally gets misty-eyed when Arthur shoots deer in the forest. It's a pitiful state of affairs, really.

After all, he already knows exactly what Merlin thinks. What Merlin thinks is half the trouble.

Guinevere? Perhaps. She's always been more than honest with him, and there'd been a time or two where Arthur secretly—very secretly—toyed with the idea that someday he might be able to make her his wife. But he's not certain he feels that way anymore, or that she still returns his affections, if she ever did. The biggest problem with speaking to Guinevere is he'd have to apologize to her first: Merlin and Morgana weren't the only ones who rowed in the forest during their last trip. Arthur reprimanded Guinevere rather sharply about her lobelia bush, outright forbidding her from doing it beforehand and then becoming extremely cross after she did it anyway. In what can only be described as an ongoing and completely unfair act of retaliation, she's been addressing him with extra deference ever since, following anything that can be even remotely construed as an order with almost malicious compliance. Somehow she and Merlin both have this peculiar way of making my lord sound like an outright insult; it's actually rather unnerving.

Arthur could ask Morgana. She's certainly not his wife, but she is a woman. And growing up, the two of them were thick as rather antagonistic thieves; she, like Merlin, never holds back with him, and she's never had any problem letting Arthur know when she thinks he's out of line. It would be humiliating—most of the time he makes it a point to ignore her advice—but he could ask.

Only this past year something about Morgana has changed, something he can't quite put his finger on. She's quieter, less outspoken; she doesn't come to dinner as often, doesn't complain as much about his father's decisions. She spends ever so much time in her chambers: when asked, Guinevere reported she's been taking extra naps during the day whenever she can find the time. And, worst of all, she has somehow drifted away from Arthur—so slowly and gradually he didn't notice she was gone until it was too late to figure out how to reach her again. He asked, a couple of times, but she always says she's fine, even though to his eyes she's wilted like a flower without sunlight. What else can he do?

So maybe he can't go to Morgana after all.

Traditionally, a king seeks counsel from his wife. But a prince? He seeks counsel from his king.

Arthur can't exactly ask his father either, though, can he? He made his decision just now with the full knowledge of what his father would do and then did the exact opposite. Guilt eats at him; in many ways his father is a great king, and by all rights Arthur should strive to follow his example, as he's done all his life. But his father is sometimes so merciless, so pitiless, as though he has no heart at all—and Arthur cannot be that man.

Maybe if his father had been able to seek counsel from his wife, he wouldn't be that man either.

Arthur's feet pause at a crossing of corridors. To the right is the way back to his chambers, but to the left lies the staircase up to the hall of portraits. It's been shut up like a tomb since Arthur's birth, and he has never before found the nerve to ask to be allowed inside, nor to try and sneak his way in under his father's watchful eye. But his father isn't watching now, and Arthur—

Before his ordeal with Morgause, Arthur used to carry his sense of his mother with him always. It didn't matter that he had no memory of her, that he didn't even know her name or what she looked like. He used to fancy that he knew what she might have done in any given situation, just as easily as he had been able to predict his father's would-be actions only a few minutes ago. That he can't feel her anymore—and likely never will again—is something that even now stings anew every time he remembers. Every time he looks for her, he finds only emptiness, like reaching for a scabbard with no sword.

His mother warned him: Do not let this knowledge change you. But Arthur doesn't even know if it really was her, and anyway how could anyone learn such a truth and remain unchanged? He has had to become an entirely new Arthur now, an Arthur born of magic, without anyone around him becoming any the wiser.

It's been just over six long months since Morgause showed Arthur his mother, or the illusion of her. Six months, since he last saw her face in the waking world and not a nightmare.

Arthur misses her. He would like to see her again.

Left it is.

Arthur was supposed to have had a portrait made a long time ago—first as a child, as part of a family portrait, and then a single one after his coming of age ceremony, about a year and a half ago now, as twenty-one summers is the traditional age, should one survive that long. It would have hung in the hall with all the rest until Arthur's wedding, when another, one with his queen, would be made, and eventually one with their children. Arthur waited and waited for his father to order that first portrait done, hoping it would give him an excuse to be in the hall of portraits and catch a glimpse of his mother's face at last. But his father refused to have one done, unable to bear the thought of a family portrait done without his mother in it. Arthur was hopeful his coming of age would give him another chance, but his twenty-first birthday came and went without his father bringing it up, and Arthur was never brave enough to ask.

Arthur doesn't have a key, but he doesn't need one. No one's allowed up here, so the door is old and weak, its hinges rusted with age and neglect. Easy enough, then, to slip the spare blade from his boot and wedge beneath one of the hinges to work it free—even left-handed, it takes him less than a minute to finish. Once they're all out it's a simple matter to shove the door inward and shoulder through the gap; Arthur doesn't even have to take it out of the frame.

It's nearly pitch-black inside the hall. The air is dusty and stale, only slightly more welcoming than the actual royal crypts, which Arthur has only been to a couple of times and hopes dearly to never see again. Arthur imagines not a soul has dared enter here since the day he was born. He is the first to breathe this air, to set foot on these floors, in at least two decades.

Arthur wishes that he could also be the first to shine light onto its walls—the ancient torches in their holders remain cold and unlit, the only light coming from the edges of the drawn curtains, from the nearly-full moon outside. Alas: he brought no flint and steel.

It's a long moment before Arthur realizes how utterly thick he's being. Of course he doesn't need flint and steel to make fire.

Arthur's still reluctant to use the magic unless he has to, but there's no way to know how often he needs to use it to make sure it doesn't escape him involuntarily. So far he's just been feeling it out; that he lit the candles in Gaius's chamber earlier when he was angry seems to indicate that he hasn't got it as under control as he'd like. And it would come in handy now, to give him a light, so...

Arthur readies himself. He isn't very practiced yet at calling magic deliberately; instinct still has something inside of him reeling back and closing itself off at the very idea of it, even now that he knows it's necessary, and it takes conscious effort to relax and prise himself open again. When he does he can still feel that hot power simmering beneath his skin, fighting to get out—but now when he loosens his death-grip on it, it bends to his will; the torches on the wall all flare to life, and the hall is filled for the first time in twenty long years with a warm and golden glow.

Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, willing himself to keep calm, the way he did when he put the candles out. It's an unnerving feeling, doing magic like that—it's still a taboo act, and unlike Merlin, he has had a lifetime to learn that fact, not a lifetime spent alongside William of Ealdor, the somehow-noble hedgewitch. For that reason alone Arthur will never, ever be able to wield magic with the ease and peace of mind that Merlin does.

Perhaps that's for the better. No use letting his guard down now of all times.

Arthur brushes away the cobwebs from the nearest torch and lifts it from its holder on the wall. He waves the light around, squinting. This place was abandoned in a hurry. The grime and dust settle in a thick layer on the floor, the long narrow carpet that was once a proud Camelot red now moth-eaten and moldy. The portraits, each as tall as Arthur himself, are lined up on the wall on the left-hand side, the wall without windows, so that they may have once been lit best by the breaking of dawn, each with a small engraving beneath them listing the names of ancient kings and queens. But the portraits themselves aren't even covered—at least, not the ones Arthur can make out from here in the dark. The eyes of Arthur's ancestors gaze out at him with regal indifference. Arthur fancies he sees his father in some of those faces, but he doesn't see much of himself.

His father, after all, is not the parent he most favors.

Arthur walks slowly past a long list of names he was made to memorize in childhood studies, each face lit only briefly by the light of the fire before it fades back into darkness. Each one is identically posed, with the king sitting in his throne, and his queen standing by his side.

Near the end of the hall, at the very end of the line, there is one portrait that's been covered, a fine red velvet cloth wrapped haphazardly around it and tied off with a gold-woven cord. The portrait itself has been set on the floor to lean against the wall instead of hanging on it, covering the engraving with the names, but Arthur doesn't need the engraving to know whose faces must lie behind that cloth.

But when he reaches out with his bad hand to unknot the cord, he finds that that it is shaking.

What is he doing here? This portrait of his mother—it might not look the same as the woman Morgause showed him. It might reveal that the whole thing really was an illusion, and that the only memory Arthur has of his mother is indeed a lie. Even if she does have the same face, it proves nothing either way, not even whether or not Morgause truly knew her as she claimed; such an illusion could have been created by any sorcerer who had seen her likeness. How could he have possibly expected this to help him? His whole life he has longed to see this portrait, but now that it's within his grasp he's afraid.

Arthur wishes, suddenly, that Merlin was here. But Merlin doesn't know what Arthur does. Merlin can't ever know what Arthur does. No one can. The burden is Arthur's alone to bear.

Arthur is alone; not even his mother's presence is with him now.

Well, he didn't come all this way to give up. It's too late to turn back now. Arthur takes a steadying breath and lets his gloved fingers brush against the worn velvet. Then, with what little strength he has in his free hand, he wraps them around the cord—and pulls.

The cloth falls away.

The first face Arthur catches sight of is his father's. He looks so young, hair darker and thicker, face less wrinkled. Even in such a stiff and formal setting the stroke of the painter's brush has preserved something in him that Arthur has never seen. He looks lighter, somehow—unburdened. With the portrait leaned against the wall like this, his father's face is well below Arthur's. Aside from the time Arthur almost murdered him in the council chambers six months ago, it's the first time Arthur can remember ever looking down on him.

There is another face, this one level with his own; Arthur has not yet had the courage to look her in the eye.

Slowly, so slowly, Arthur drags his gaze up, and—

It's the same woman.

Arthur's breath catches in his throat. She looks just as she did at Morgause's fortress, down to the last detail. Her dress, made of fine pale silk, her hair pulled back away from her face, the gold in her hair and blue in her eyes that so perfectly matches Arthur's own. Did Morgause truly know her, to recreate such a flawless copy? Or was it really...?

But, just for this moment, whatever Morgause did means nothing. This, here, without a doubt, is real—this is Arthur's mother as she truly was when she was alive and well, before his life ended hers.

Arthur would give anything to have it back, that innate sense he once had of her. He'd give anything to have more—to have a true memory, to know her, to have her know him in return. There were so many times growing up when he needed her: when he failed to live up his father's high expectations, when he wished for a kind word and soothing touch to ease childhood scrapes and nightmares, during every single birthday he'd ever celebrated, when his father's smiles would never quite reach his eyes, and Arthur would wonder if he didn't sometimes wish that his son had never been born. Arthur knows his father values him as an heir but sometimes he forgets his father loves him; he can count the number of times it's been said aloud on one hand. There's no way to be sure but growing up Arthur always liked to imagine his mother's love would have been unconditional, even when he embarrassed himself and showed weakness and made mistakes.

And she would have told him so. She would have told him all the time.

Arthur knows now that those childhood fancies could never have been. That there's no imaginary world after all where both Arthur and his mother live, because it was her life that was sacrificed to create his own. Arthur can only exist because she does not.

Arthur's left hand still holds the torch; with his teeth he tugs off the glove on his right and tucks it under his belt. Then, carefully, so carefully, he reaches out, and lets his fingertips brush the canvas.

He has waited his whole life to see her here; he had so much he wanted to say. But now grief overwhelms him and steals the voice from his throat. Arthur's eyes sting traitorously but he blinks fast and does not let the tears fall.

Arthur misses her. Arthur loves her. Perhaps it shouldn't be possible to feel either of these things for a person you can't even remember—yet he feels them all the same.

Arthur's lips part; he takes a deep breath. It's several long moments before he finally finds his voice again. "I am so sorry." Not just for being born, for causing her to die—but for knowing full well who killed her and being too cowardly to see justice done. "Your life for mine was not a fair trade."

Did his mother hate magic? Would she hate it now, knowing it ended her life? Would she have approved all along of the war his father waged in her name? Or would she blame him—would she, given the chance, punish her husband for what he did to her, for what he did to all those people who died wrongly during the Great Purge? Would part of her love him still, even knowing what he was, what he'd done?

How can one love a murderer? To Arthur, it seems as impossible as hating one's own father.

He would ask her if he could. There was a time once when he might have known anyway. But that time is long behind him now, probably forever. Everything that Arthur is came from her, and in losing her all over again he has also lost a part of himself. How is he to ever be whole again?

Just as the last time Arthur saw his mother, their meeting has left him with more questions than answers. But he has seen her—and maybe, for now, that will be enough.

Arthur pulls his glove back on and carefully recovers the portrait. He snuffs the flames on the torches manually, one by one, and is sure to replace the torch he took. Then he slips back out of the door and knocks the hinges back into place with the grip of his knife. It's like he was never there at all—save for a single set of footprints in the dust, locked behind a door no one may ever open again.

It's a long walk back to Arthur's chambers, and he must pass the corridor that leads to his father's chambers to get there. Unfortunately, since the order given to Leon, two guards have stood outside it round the clock, and Arthur doesn't want to be seen wandering around at this hour; how is he supposed to explain he was what he was getting up to with his manservant in the middle of the night? He approaches the intersection on cat's feet, breath held, seriously considering just taking a different route—then he hears concerned murmuring that contains his own name.

"...ordered not to enter. I think we had better inform Prince Arthur."

"At this hour? He won't be happy about that."

"Happier than if the castle burns down around him while we let him sleep. Go and find someone to wake him, Hebes."

It's too good an opportunity to pass up. Arthur tugs his hood down and rounds the corner. "As it happens, lads," he says cheerfully, "I've decided to make a bit of a late evening of it."

The two of them jump like scalded cats. The eyes on the fellow nearest to Arthur light up gold, and a strong gust of wind blows through the corridor, guttering down the flames on the braziers and blowing the curtains and banners about. "Prince Arthur!" he gasps. "Forgive me, sire, a moment and I'll have it managed—"

The wind dies, and the flames gradually regain their strength. Arthur squints. Yes, the one who called the wind is the guard named Hebes, from the day the little boy with his tree roots was almost taken and burned. Behind him is Sir Leon—almost certainly covering for someone, since he was here earlier today when Arthur visited. Arthur's going to have to force him to sleep at some point. "At ease," Arthur says. Perhaps he shouldn't have startled them after all. "What's going on?"

Leon and Hebes exchange a glance. "It's the king," Leon says at last. "The glow under his door, as if he's stoking the fire—and we've heard him speaking in his sleep—"

Ah. Arthur winces. "I see." A thought strikes him, and he narrows his eyes. "How long has this been going on?"

Leon spreads his hands helplessly. "He keeps the door locked, and we are under orders not to enter. I'm told his sleep is often disturbed, but normally he seems to wake himself and put the fire out."

"And why was I not informed before now?" Arthur complains, but he already knows why. Between his own struggle with magic, trying to keep order, and the absolute impropriety of spreading gossip about the king using magic in his chambers, even to his son, it's not hard to understand the struggle Leon might've had in deciding whether or not to come forward. Though he's been known to disobey an order when the situation demanded it—such as allowing Merlin into the council chambers to interrupt his duel with his father six months ago—Leon, for the most part, has strict ideas about what's proper and what isn't. Every time he and Merlin are in the same room, for example, Arthur can see Merlin's insolence slowly and silently driving him mad. Leon just doesn't speak on it because...

"I wasn't sure it was my place," Leon admits. "But tonight he has not put the fire out—it's been raging nearly half an hour. That is why I was preparing to send for you, sire. We may not enter, under order of the king, but if you were to go..."

"Good man," Arthur says, and claps Leon on the shoulder. He's already fishing for his keyring. "Tell no one I was here. I'll call if I have need of you."

The inside of his father's chambers is smoky and stiflingly hot. Arthur covers his nose and mouth with his cloak and dashes inside to find—yes, the fire in the hearth is going mad, just like in his own room. "Father," he says loudly, "wake up, Father!" But his father is muttering fitfully in his sleep, fully lost to his dreams.

Arthur curses. He could smother the fire with a blanket, and there's a bucket of water by the hearth, but he has already had to use magic to snuff his own fire once; what harm could it bring to do it again here and now? It's fortunate that his father isn't awake after all, to see the way Arthur's eyes flash gold, to know his son has become the thing he hates most in all the world.

Once the fire is out, Arthur throws open a window. He'll stay until the air clears and no longer; it's already after midnight, and it'll be an early morning tomorrow.

His father still tosses and turns in his sleep. Arthur wishes he could offer some comfort, but even waking him might just startle the fire back to life—there's every chance that fire might even be directed at Arthur himself, and unlike Merlin he does not know how to shield himself from the flames. Arthur has always been helpless against his father's fury.

Arthur approaches his father's bedside carefully. "I'm sorry," his father mumbles, face contorting in his sleep. "I'm sorry—my fault—Ygraine—"

Arthur shuts his eyes, and very seriously considers clapping his hands over his ears as well, or perhaps just throwing himself out the window. He doesn't want to hear this admission of guilt. He already knew. He already knew.

"Arthur," his father says. "Arthur, stop this—"

Ice floods Arthur's veins. Isn't that what he said the day Arthur—?

"Strike me down," his father murmurs. "Stop this—strike me down—"

Arthur jerks back as if struck. I dreamed of your mother, his father told him, not long after the curse began. Are they dreaming of the same thing? Does his father see it the same way Arthur does—is he still the one to deliver that final blow, while Arthur stands rooted to the ground, helpless to stop him?

Does he dream of the dagger?

Stop this—strike me down.

Of course. He must. Arthur killing him in real life wasn't something he wanted, but in the dream, if it stops him from plunging that wickedly sharp blade between his mother's ribs...

If his father is dreaming the same thing as Arthur, and those dreams do indeed contain that dagger, it might be a clue about the origins of the spell, or how to break it. Arthur can't imagine how Morgause could have gotten a sample of his or his father's blood, but it's got to mean something if the dagger was shown to them both in dreams, right? Perhaps there are others who have seen it—Morgana has fire magic just like Arthur and his father, and quite frequently has bad dreams, so perhaps that's a place to start. Maybe her dreams could yield something useful for once. And if she won't talk, Guinevere will. Morgana tells her everything.

Tomorrow, Arthur decides. He'll ask them about it tomorrow. Right now it's time to close the window and get out. If he has to listen to his father cry out for his mother one more time, he'll go mad.

Arthur closes the window again and gets all the way to the door before a strange feeling of foreboding washes over him. He pauses, lingering in the doorway, and looks back at his father one last time. He's gone still now, no more tossing and turning, but he hasn't stopped murmuring in his sleep.

Perhaps Arthur should stay. But he's tired, and it's difficult to be here, and he can offer no comfort to ease his father's guilt when part of him still believes his father deserves to die for his wrongdoings.

So Arthur turns away from his father's pain and leaves him to face it alone.

Tomorrow, Arthur tells himself again. He twists around for one more look back at his father as the door closes and obsures him from view. They can talk about all of it tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Though Merlin stayed up til nearly dawn with Gaius discussing what they saw in the scrying bowl, in the end it was to no avail. While Gaius swears he recognizes the knife from somewhere, he cannot recall the time nor place, and that leaves them no closer to figuring out whose soul the cursed thing is linked to. There was quite a lot of paging through books and looking up spells after that, but they can find nothing about how to reverse a blood spell without the blood, nor any way to identify who such a person might be without the dagger itself at hand. Merlin resolves to go back and (ugh) ask the dragon the very next chance he gets, but as he makes that resolution with dawn fast approaching, he ultimately decides a nap is in order first.

As a result of his late bedtime, Merlin practically sleepwalks through his morning chores. He's barely awake himself when he sets Arthur's breakfast down on the table, throws open Arthur's curtains to flood the room with gray-white morning light from yet another overcast snowy day, and says as he does every morning, "Rise and shine!"

Arthur jerks awake with a gasp, flailing in his blankets until he's in something resembling an upright position. His eyes dart around the room and then settle on— "Merlin," he sighs, shoulders slumping in relief.

Another nightmare? Merlin frowns, surreptitiously checking the fireplace. It was burning when he came in, and burns still without issue; there was no sign of a sudden flare. Arthur, it seems, truly does have it sorted. "Still dreaming about that knife?"

Arthur groans, tipping his head forward to rest on bended knee. "So it would seem."

"Gaius swears he's seen it before, though for the life of him he can't recall when or where. It's driving us both mad."

Arthur looks so, so exhausted. "Me too."

Merlin wonders what the rest of his dream entails. Mostly he wonders because he wants to know what could be terrifying Arthur so, but there's also every chance that it could be a clue. "Arthur, about your nightmares..."

Without even looking up Arthur lobs a pillow at him. Unfortunately for Arthur, he's aiming with his left hand; Merlin doesn't even have to duck.

"Not up for discussion, then?" Merlin asks primly. "Later, perhaps."

Arthur mumbles something unintelligible into his knee and then throws back his blankets. "Blue tunic, leather jerkin, the first warm set of trousers you come to, and see if you can't find my fur-lined cloak," he says finally. "Don't forget my gloves. Have everything ready by the time I'm finished eating—I'm going to see my father first thing."

"We are?" Merlin asks. "What's the rush? You've been saving that for midday."

"I am, Merlin," Arthur corrects with a shake of his head, "you really do have a mental affliction—" And then Merlin calls him a prat and they get to bickering, and Arthur never does elaborate further on his sudden and mysterious need to speak with the king alone.

Well, that's all right; Merlin has plenty of other chores to catch up on. He sees Arthur off, remakes his bed, picks up his empty dishes, and heads out—only to run straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," says Merlin, as the plates and silverware and goblet all clatter to the floor. But the other person is silent, and when he looks up he sees— "Morgana," Merlin squeaks.

Morgana regards him with one icy glare and turns on her heel.

"Wait!" Merlin calls, leaving the dishes behind and scrambling after her. "How've you been holding up? Are you doing okay? Where's Gwen? Isn't she normally with you at this time?"

Morgana scoffs. "She's waiting for me downstairs, as though you care. Leave me alone, Merlin."

Merlin is sorely tempted; he absolutely hates being around Morgana when she aims such soul-withering looks his way. But he can't avoid her forever. If there is any hope of fixing this, it can't start with silence. "I do care," he insists. He has to walk quickly to keep up with her. "Morgana, I know you're angry, you've every right to be, but—what can I do to make it up to you? Won't you at least let me teach you? Just so you can—" He lowers his voice, glancing around the empty corridor. "—you know, control it. I only want to help."

Morgana stops so suddenly that Merlin nearly runs into her again. "I don't need," she says, and turns on her heel, "your help. I already learned, Merlin, and I learned it—" Here she hesitates, left hand gripping her right wrist. "I had to learn it on my own. I had to find my own way. Which is what you wanted all along, isn't it? So just go."

Merlin bites his lip. He wants so badly to bridge the gap between them, he just doesn't know how. "Are we never to be friends again?" he asks. "Is there truly nothing I can do?"

"To ease your guilty conscience?" Morgana asks. "I doubt it." Her laugh is low and humorless; she cuts her eyes away to gaze out at the snowfall, folding her arms close to her body.

"To ease your pain," Merlin replies. Morgana's head jerks in surprise, her eyes widening a little before she resolutely looks away again, jaw set. "You've been living with it almost a year...it's had so long to hurt you. And you're different now. Quieter. More frightened. I remember when you weren't afraid of anyone or anything. Don't you miss that?"

Morgana says nothing—but her eyes are bright.

"I only want to help," Merlin says again.

Morgana is quiet for a long time, lips pursed. At last she draws breath to speak. "Look, Merlin, I can't—"

She's cut off by footsteps in the stairwell. Presently Sir Leon appears at the top, looking winded. "Merlin!" he says. "Where is Prince Arthur? Is he in his chambers?"

Merlin, who had been silently cursing Leon with every foul word he knows, is stopped short by the concern on Leon's face. "You've only just missed him," says Merlin. "Why, what's wrong?"

Leon starts, "I was ordered to inform him immediately should the king leave his chambers—"

"To avoid another madman's speech, no doubt," Morgana puts in. "Has he left, then?"

Leon hesitates, but seems to decide Morgana can be trusted. He dips his head in a nod. "Yes, my lady, and ordered us not to follow, but to send for Arthur instead. Perhaps I am overreacting, but I know he did not sleep well last night, and there was something in his eyes..."

Morgana puts her hands on her hips. "And did he say where he was running off to?"

Leon lifts a hand to point to the window, from which Merlin can see the distant uppermost point of the castle. "The watchtower."

Arthur hasn't been up to the watchtower in years.

When he was a boy he took a few shifts here to teach him humility and perseverance, and how to properly stand watch should the need ever arise. Standing watch is one of life's necessary chores, but it is wretchedly boring, and there is real work involved in resisting the temptation to simply fall asleep to pass the time quicker. Everyone says getting watchtower duty is the worst, and maybe at night they might have a point: it's pitch black and exposed to the elements, the wind and cold and rain and snow. But in the daytime...

Arthur loves it up here. When the weather's clear, he can see for miles: the city sprawled out below, the forest that surrounds them, and even the edges of a few farms in the distance, dotted amongst the hills. His kingdom, his people, the land he loves. And it's so quiet in here, especially when the snow muffles the sounds from outside; it was a peace Arthur sorely missed on difficult days, after he was no longer required to stand watch here. He could have come back, of course—but there is a guard here around the clock, and without the solitude it just isn't the same.

Today, though, Arthur encounters no one, not even the usual pair of guards at the base. The watchtower seems abandoned. Perhaps his father dismissed the guards on his way up? Strange for him to come up here at all, but stranger still for him to want to come alone. Arthur's father is fond of being overly cautious with the personal safety of himself and his family, and he does not dismiss his knights lightly.

Leon and that fellow Hebes were just finishing up the end of their shift when Arthur arrived—at least, Hebes was, for Leon had already left to alert Arthur to his father's comings and goings. So it fell to Hebes to inform Arthur of his father's whereabouts—which, so far, do not seem to be anywhere in this tower.

Arthur climbs and climbs and climbs the long spiral staircase, footsteps echoing around the tower. The wind whistles through the cracks in the stones, flurries of snowflakes gusting in through the windows. "Father?"

"Up here," his father calls, and Arthur quickens his pace.

When Arthur reaches the top of the stairs, he sees the trap door that leads upward is already open, the floor beneath it dusted in snow; he climbs the short ladder, pulls himself up and through, and then finds himself blinking against the sudden light of the gray-white sky. When his vision adjusts he sees the silhouette of his father's back, standing by the battlement and looking out over his kingdom.

"Father," Arthur asks, joining him by the battlement, "are you well? Why did you call me here?"

His father turns. He looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes are so dark as to resemble bruises, and the gray-white light of the snowy morning makes his eyes look lifeless and dull. But he's shaved and dressed, today wearing his formal attire complete with his fine red cloak and gold crown. "I am well," his father says. "Better than I've been since the curse was cast, in fact. And that is why I've called for you, Arthur: I have ascertained the means with which to break it." And he pulls Arthur into an embrace.

Arthur can't remember the last time his father hugged him, let alone like this: like Arthur was cherished, precious. Like they might never see each other again. For what is perhaps the first time ever when it comes to embraces between the two of them, Arthur must be the first to pull away. Even still, his father's hands rest on his shoulders, his eyes filled with an uncharacteristic tenderness as he looks upon Arthur. It's a very long time before he drops them and walks away.

Arthur is so shocked he's nearly struck dumb. He shakes his head to clear it. "Sorry," he says faintly, "you have...?" An end to the curse! Arthur should be—relieved, or elated perhaps, but some buried instinct whispers in his ear that it cannot possibly be so easy. He regards his father with mounting dread. "I mean—that's wonderful news, of course it is, but..." It strikes him then that his father has not yet answered his question. "Father, why did you call me here?"

"Because this time," his father says softly, "there must not be any interruptions."

It is at that exact moment that Arthur realizes that his father has put himself between Arthur and the exit.

Arthur narrows his eyes, watching as his father kneels to shut the trap door and close the bar over it. "What are you talking about?" he asks carefully, fighting the urge to rest his hand on the grip of his sword, now carried on the opposite side.

"They've come for me, of course," says his father, straightening up and shrugging with resignation. "They seek revenge for their fallen brethren. That is why they curse my kingdom. But if they get what they want—if I die—"

A chill crawls down Arthur's spine. "Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "You have no proof of that at all."

"I dreamed," his father says absently, perhaps by way of reply; his eyes seem distant. "I don't normally put stock in such things, but..."

Arthur takes a step forward, keeping his movements as slow as if approaching a wounded animal. "The dreams are part of the curse. I've had them too."

His father refocuses his gaze. It's almost worse when he looks so lucid; it's only too easy to be tricked into thinking he's perfectly well and in his right mind. "Then you know what you have to do," his father says. "It's time, Arthur. Finish what you started six months ago."

Arthur's world narrows down to a fine point; he can hear his own breathing in his ears. This can't be happening. "No," he says, in disbelief, in denial. He takes a step back, but there's nowhere to go. "No. You can't possibly mean for me to—"

"But I do." His father takes a step forward, stealing Arthur's space, and whispers like a vision from a dream, "Strike me down."

The day Arthur attacked his father in the council chambers was one of the worst of his life. His actions that day shame him—both that he would lift a blade against his unarmed king, and that he would drop it knowing the man beneath him to be a liar and a murderer. He's spent six long months fighting to forget what he's done, what he knows, the impossible position he finds himself in, but now it's back to haunt him. And his father is right: this time, there will be no interruptions. All the way up here, with hardly anyone knowing where they are or that Arthur might need help...and even if help did come, the door is barred.

Arthur is well and truly on his own.

His father speaks. "No matter how noble my intentions, it would still be shameful for me to do it myself. But you—now that I've grown old, you're the better swordsman. You can help me save face. My son, you have always done whatever I asked of you. Fulfill your father's last request. Let me end my life with honor, and set our people free."

There is something almost laughably absurd about his father, who always insisted the tyrannical iron fist he ruled with was a necessity, standing before Arthur and speaking of freedom. It's true that killing the king would free his subjects, though not in the way he thinks. Even setting aside the actual sorcerers that burned to atone for his father's sins, the hundreds of people wrongly accused and executed run a river of blood through the very heart of their kingdom—one Arthur could put a stop to right here and now.

But he made his decision in the council chambers six months ago. This is his father, his only living parent. Whatever atrocities he has committed, whatever justice he deserves, Arthur cannot be the one to mete it out.

"I won't," Arthur says at last. "I can't."

And yet, and yet—

Not a day has passed him by when he doesn't wonder if he should not have stayed his hand.

He has spent so much time doubting the choice he made to drop his weapon. Now, it seems, he's getting a chance to change his mind.

His father pulls off his glove and drops it on the floor of the tower. "Pick it up," he beseeches. "Arthur, pick it up."

Arthur's breath freezes in his throat. This can't be happening; not like this. "I will not fight you," he says, willing his voice not to shake. "You are my father."

His father draws his sword. "Then you will defend yourself." Arthur makes no move to draw his own weapon—now on his right side, so that he may fight with his left—and his father grows impatient. "Draw your sword, boy! You shame us both!"

"I won't," Arthur whispers again, barely audible over the wailing wind. Surely, surely, his father will not strike an unarmed man. Not his father, who holds his honor in such high esteem, whose word means so much to him that once Arthur put him to oath he would not outright lie even to save his own life. If Arthur just refuses to fight, he can end this, he can see his father back down to his chambers, and they can pretend just like last time that none of it ever happened. His father can be harsh, sometimes even cruel, but he would never actually harm Arthur.

His father's sword swings without hesitation or mercy.

Even left-handed, there are some reflexes that never die. Arthur brings his own blade up just in time to keep his head on his shoulders.

And so the duel begins.

It's just like their confrontation in the council chambers six months ago in reverse: now Arthur is the one blocking and backing away, and his father is the one attempting with deadly seriousness to drive his sword through Arthur's heart. Is this his punishment? Is this a nightmare? But no: there is no fire here, no dagger, no dying queen. Just his father, the half-mad king, goading Arthur into doing the unthinkable.

Snow blankets the roof of the watchtower and slicks under Arthur's boots, and in such conditions it's nigh impossible to keep his footing. Visibility is wretched, for up here the wind blows the snow between them, buffeting them back and forth over the icy floor. His father is getting older, yes, but he's still a skilled swordsman, and Arthur, fighting left-handed, is at a distinct disadvantage. He has no shield and wears no armor, not even chainmail; the only thing standing between him and his father's blade is his very flammable cloak.

Arthur's not sure he could kill his father now even if he did want to. He's no match for him like this.

His father's crown has fallen off his head, rolled away to some distant corner. His cloak is damp with snow and singed by fire. His eyes flash gold, sometimes; when they do fire races up the edge of his blade, making him doubly dangerous. Arthur's magic has finally been brought to heel, but his father's is going mad, there one second and gone the next, the flames dying and rising again unpredictably. Presently his sword, still alight with flames, comes down in a hard overhead blow. Arthur blocks in time, but his father's strength is greater—Arthur stumbles all the way back to the battlement, his back leaning out over the open air while their blades are still locked.

"Did you not say once that I deserved to die?" his father hisses, golden-eyed. He looks like some kind of monster. "Think of the things I've done, Arthur. The innocents that have died in my fight against evil! Did you not want to put a stop to it?"

Arthur's heart jackrabbits against his ribs, his breath coming too fast. The flames on his father's sword are but inches from his face, and the battlement is only waist-high in the lower sections; Arthur hangs out over a sheer hundred foot drop, and his father pushes against their crossed blades with such force that it's all he can do to keep from slipping over the edge. "Father, you must stop," he gasps. He risks a glance over his shoulder and is nearly dizzied by the height. "This isn't you, these aren't your words, you're not in your right mind, you're enchanted—"

"We are all enchanted!" his father snarls. "I am trying to put an end to it, to make you see—I am a murderer! A tyrant! Strike me down and be done with it!"

The heat of the flaming sword is nearly searing Arthur's face now, his own blade scarcely an inch from his nose. But there's nowhere else to go, except over the edge and down. His feet scrabble uselessly against the wet snow. If only he had a shield—

But he doesn't, and even if he did he could not grip it. He barely has enough strength to hold a sword for more than a few seconds at a time.

But, Arthur realizes suddenly, perhaps a few seconds are all he needs—

Arthur grits his teeth—this is going to hurt—and with his crippled hand reaches up to grab the bared edge of the flaming blade.

Arthur's glove catches fire; the sharp edge of the blade sinks straight through it and into the flesh of his palm, and he cries out in agony but he hangs on. His father is fighting left-handed too, and their blades are perfectly crossed; with a single strong jerk Arthur manages to push his father's blade to the side, leaving his front open and exposed. One good blow now would kill him, but instead Arthur braces himself back against the battlement and kicks, sending his father staggering backwards.

His father bellows in rage, and his sword comes down again; Arthur rolls against the wall and hears it clang against stone only inches from his ear. Warm blood pours down his arm and soaks through his sleeve, and his glove is still aflame, but there's no time to take care of it—he has to duck under a high swing, leap over a low one, and with every blow he fails to dodge or block he loses more and more ground. His father begins to get more blows in; lucky ones, at first, only glancing, but then as Arthur begins to tire they become more serious. A cut across Arthur's shoulder; a blow that grazes his left arm. One hit jostles him so badly that he splits his own lip with his teeth. Arthur is weak and disoriented, his hand trembling around the grip of his blade; the snow has fallen so quickly that he can no longer tell where the trap door is.

Their blades cross again, and this time Arthur doesn't wait to become cornered but instead scrapes his blade around his father's in a tight circular parry, sparks raining down into the snow. "Why are you doing this?" Arthur shouts, wind whipping at his cloak and his hair. He blocks the next blow just in time to avoid losing a chunk of his shoulder, then ducks fast to the side and kicks again, sending his father stumbling into the battlement; the snow is slick, making footing unsure, and footwork always was his father's weakness. His father leans braced against the battlement and Arthur takes the moment of opportunity to demand again, "Who told you to say this to me?"

The king looks upon his son with absolute murder in his eyes. "Your mother."

Arthur is shocked stupid; too late, he sees his father come at him, and before he knows it he's flat on his back in the snow with his father's sword pointed directly at his heart.

It's a familiar position, though not from this side. The fates certainly do have a strange sense of humor.

"Going to kill me, then?" Arthur pants. He takes the moment to turn his head to rip his still-smoldering glove off his hand with his teeth; even the cold air brings little relief to the angry red burn across his palm, but at least the fire against his flesh had time to cauterize the wound.

His father backs away, allowing Arthur to prop himself on his elbows. "Get up, get up," he says, impatient, "you shame me! Why do you fight with your left hand? Are you truly so afraid of putting me to the sword?"

"You shame me," Arthur cries. "Look at yourself, Father! I was on my way to tell you that Morgause is the sorceress behind the curse. She's already perverted the memory of Mother once to bait us into fighting one another! You in your eternal wisdom claimed it was my youth and inexperience that led me to do her bidding—but here you are, older and wiser, falling for the same cheap tricks!"

His father falters. "But how can you know for sure?" he says. "How can you be certain it was Morgause, and not your mother?"

And Arthur cannot be. He has been asking himself that very question for six months.

His father begins to circle him. "You know that I speak only the truth. I have killed men, women, and children. Hung and beheaded them; drowned and burned them. I have ordered you to do the same. The father of that serving girl Morgana cares for, Gaius being interrogated and tortured, it was all my doing. Get up, Arthur, if you are my son! Put an end to it!"

Arthur's breath comes fast and harsh, freezing air searing the inside of his lungs. His ears are ringing. There are snowflakes in his hair, damp at the ends; blood and sweat pour down his face. "I won't," he rasps, but still his left hand remains tight around the grip of his sword.

The gold light in his father's eyes makes him look inhuman; the way he stalks around Arthur is reminiscent of an animal right before the kill. "If you will not do it for them, or for me," says his father, "perhaps you will do it for your mother."

He's going to confess, Arthur realizes with a jolt of terror. He's going to take back the lie he told six months ago and use the truth to bait Arthur just like Morgause did—thereby spilling the secret Arthur's fought so hard to keep. Without meaning to, Arthur finds himself struggling to his feet, though his sword must bear some of his weight to get him there. "Don't," he begs. "Please don't."

His father lifts one eyebrow, nodding down at Arthur's left arm, now hanging limp by his side. Desperately, Arthur shakes his head.

But what his father says next is the last thing Arthur ever expected to hear.

"I had an affair, you know," says the king, almost conversationally, like Arthur's world isn't being turned upside down all over again. "Entirely loveless, at least on my part—but I was unfaithful. It was deliberate; premeditated. Your mother was already some weeks gotten with you, but I knew there was little chance of her bearing me a second child, and I thought it best to get the unpleasantness out of the way early. You know what conventional wisdom says—every king needs an heir and a spare."

Arthur feels the shock of it like a blow. He can't mean—

"And then," says his father, "she died. Never knowing what I'd done—how I wronged her. And do you know why she's dead?"

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, exhausted and frightened and wishing he were anywhere else. "Because of me," he says. "It was my birth that caused her to die."

But his father shakes his head. Closes in on Arthur, slow and inexorable. "I know the Ygraine I see in my dreams is real," he says. "She knew things Morgause could not. She shows me the black dagger every night."

Wait. The dagger! "Father—"

But his father doesn't stop. "I lied to you," he says simply. "It was I who desired an heir. It was I who sent Gaius to the sorceress Nimueh. And it was I who used—" Here his father's expression finally cracks; the gold in his eyes finally flickers out, along with the flames on his sword. He tips his head up but he cannot stop his tears. "My worst mistake and my greatest regret. I killed her. With—with—"

And here it is.

His father lowers his gaze, looks Arthur dead in the eye, and this time there are no lies between them, only the great and terrible truth laid bare at last. "Arthur, you were born of magic."

All this time. Six long months this has been Arthur's private burden, a secret shame that bound up his voice as surely as if his lips had been sewn shut. He tried to forget it, he tried to live with it, he tried to keep it, and in the end he could not. He has waited for the day when his father would finally be honest with him, and in turn dreaded it—but mostly, he believed it would never come to pass, that his father would go to his grave with the thing forever unaddressed between them. Arthur has held the secret so close for so long that now that it's out in the open air he has no idea what to say.

So he says the only thing he can: "I know. I've known all along."

His father's face changes. From grief to shock to confusion. "You know?" he whispers, drawing back. "All this time, you knew I lied, and yet you said nothing? But why—?" Now his expression turns dark and dangerous; his eyes begin to glow, and flames appear from nowhere to crawl their way back up his sword. "Because of me. You were too cowardly to do what honor now binds you to do."

He's wrong. It wasn't honor that drove Arthur to take up the blade against his own kin, and it certainly wasn't cowardice that stayed his hand; if Merlin hadn't burst in at the last second, his father would already be dead. He's lucky he still draws breath, and now he's ready to throw his life away over some curseborn madness?

Arthur feels a pulse of something hot spike through his blood. Is it magic or anger? Lately it's hard to tell the difference. He sets his jaw. "I think you'll find," he says slowly, "that the real coward here is you. Hiding in your chambers, trying to use me to take the easy way out—"

"You think this is easy?" his father snarls. "You understand nothing of the sacrifices I have made for my kingdom!"

His father charges. Arthur leaps to the side with less than a second to spare and feels the fiery edge of the blade tear through his tunic and slice deep into his left side. He barely has time to clutch at the wound before he must bring up his sword to block an overhead attack; after that it's all he can do to keep his footing under the next flurry of blows.

"My wife is dead!" his father shouts, swinging down again and again, blades ringing as they strike one another. He's not even trying to aim around Arthur's clumsy blocking; he's just lashing out. "And you! You know who killed your own mother, and yet you lift not a finger to see justice done! What else can that be but cowardice?"

Arthur stands fast, bearing his father's fury just as he's always done: in silence and with gritted teeth. But when he chances a glance down he finds his palm, lifted just slightly from the wound in his side, is coated in warm blood. He's starting to get lightheaded, and he doesn't know how much longer he can last against such relentless rage.

His father pauses for the barest instant for breath; Arthur uses the hilt of his sword to deal him a heavy blow to his sternum and send him stumbling away again. But it costs him: agony shoots up his spine, the wound in his side having torn open a little further with the force of the blow. Arthur cries out and clutches it in vain. Blood gushes through his fingers, hot down his side. "You're mad," he pants, his frustration and fatigue making him bold. "Father, you must stop this!"

"Make me," his father seethes. "Fight back, boy!"

Arthur smacks away another strike with his sword. His pulse beats double-time, each breath that expands his chest tugging painfully at his wound beneath his ribs, and his magic, once settled, now roils beneath his skin—yet another threat he'll have to contend with if this goes on for much longer. He's cornered and alone and he doesn't know what to do. Help isn't coming and even if it did it would take armed soldiers an age to burst through the trap door, barred shut as it is. What would happen if Arthur collapsed up here? Would his father relent and send for aid, or would he—?

"Will you not avenge your mother?" his father demands. "Do you not love her? Did you ever love her?"

Love! As if it wasn't love that had Arthur's blade to his father's heart in the first place—as if it wasn't love that made him drop it! "How dare you," he gasps, bent nearly double now. Something hot and furious pulses through his blood at the thought of his mother—dead before her time, dead because of the carelessness and arrogance of this man standing before him, and yet he has the gall to suggest it is Arthur who did not love her? "How dare you—"

His father takes a step back, and Arthur realizes that the fire beneath his skin is becoming literal; that sickening thrill of power that comes with setting things alight rushes through his veins, and he sees flames flicker to life on his own sword. His eyes must surely be glowing.

For the first time, Arthur welcomes it. Damn the consequences: he lets it in, that everlasting, unending Pendragon rage, as cataclysmic and all-consuming as any wildfire, his birthright as sure as any throne. That deep untapped well of flame within him curls warm around his bones until he finds the strength to straighten his spine again. And slowly the deep stabbing pain in his side becomes a distant ache; the frozen wind swirling snow around them becomes a cool breeze. When at last Arthur stands tall, the tiny flames that dance along the edge of his blade begin to rise higher and higher, until his entire sword is wreathed in flame.

Time to fight fire with fire.

"Magic," the king whispers, horrified. "You call to it on purpose? Arthur, you gave me your word. Your soul will be damned—"

"Like yours?" Arthur shouts. He bares his teeth. "Because you've never lied to me?" Fire is winding up his arms now. He tries to roll the soreness out of his shoulders; turns his head to spit blood into the snow. "I was born of it," he says, and steps forward, leaving flaming footprints behind him; at last, at last his father gives ground. "It's been a part of me in one way or another since before I took my first breath. My whole life I have condemned it and fought it and hated it—but I will not fear it. Not anymore."

"Arthur—" his father says, still backing away. "Arthur, not like this—not with sorcery—"

"Who's the coward now?" Arthur demands. "You were the one who wanted to fight! Do you yield? Drop your sword!"

His father stops in his tracks, jaw set, and lifts his blade. "Never."

Good.

This time when his father charges Arthur is ready; he meets the coming overhead strike with a sweeping wide swing of his own, a huge and brilliant arc of flame trailing his blade, and his father must jerk away to avoid getting burned. "How dare you stand there and say it is I who never loved her?" Arthur snarls. "You selfish hypocrite! I love her more than you could ever understand! You used her and killed her and then kept her all to yourself—"

"You will not speak of her so!" his father shouts, and slashes at Arthur's unprotected right side.

But the flame is Arthur's friend now; just like the day in the throne room, a plume of fire bursts from his injured palm, and his father is forced to fall back. Sparks pelt the snow-covered roof of the watchtower like rain, lighting the edge of Arthur's cloak afire. But this is his magic, and he feels nothing where the flames lick his flesh. Arthur doesn't need grip in his right hand, not for this. It's intuitive, it's easy, and the flame obeys his whim just as readily as the sword. He has mastered the magic at last—and much like his father before him, he can now fight with both hands.

"I cherished," Arthur says, "every scrap of her you deigned to throw my way!" He sees his father lift his blade again and feels a burst of rage at the interruption; he answers by hurling another blast of fire in his father's direction and sees the stone wall behind him crack apart with the force of the blow. "You refused to speak of her! Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Do you even care?" His father sidesteps and Arthur spins to counter, his flaming cloak slinging embers behind him. "Six summers before I celebrated my first birthday! Eleven before I learned her name! Twenty-one before I knew her face!" His voice is dangerously close to breaking. "And you let me spend all of those years thinking her death was my fault, when you knew that it was yours!"

"Be silent!" his father cries, and Arthur sees now that there are tears in his eyes too. "Be silent!"

But Arthur won't stop now. If his father is prepared to weaponize the truth against him as easily as Morgause did all those months ago, then he's going to have to bear the same. "Why do you think I was so determined to follow Morgause into lands unknown?" he challenges. "Vile as she is, she offered me something you would have rather died than give!" His father lets out a wordless cry and slashes, but Arthur knocks his blade away with his own; every time he comes at Arthur, he is countered with yet another blast of fire. "The shame of it—that I had to learn about my own mother from a sorceress instead of you!"

His father lets out an angry, wordless wail and strikes down hard and two-handed from above; Arthur blocks and their swords cross, but this time it is Arthur and his burning blade that drives his father back, back, until he is the one cornered against the battlement.

"Do it," his father hisses, eyes gone strange in the firelight, "do it—"

One more time, Arthur reaches up with his injured hand—but this time, he grabs not his father's blade but the hands wrapped around its hilt. One small burst of flame is all it takes—

His father cries out; his hands open—

And at last, at last, his blade falls to the ground.

His father doubles over, tearing away his remaining glove; Arthur elbows him hard in the small of his back, sending him sprawling face-first to the floor, and by the time his father has rolled over Arthur has turned and pointed his flaming sword directly at his father's heart.

There's a moment of silence where Arthur's pulse slows and the snowflakes drift between them. Second time in six months, Arthur thinks.

"Do it," his father says again. He is weeping. "Put an end to it, Arthur. Put me out of my misery."

Arthur sways on his feet. Now that the fight is over, the pain and exhaustion are starting to creep back in.

He could do it. It would be easy. What consequence would there be? Who would mourn this broken king lying before him? The subjects he terrorizes and threatens with execution? The guardsmen whose lives he spends as thoughtlessly as spare pocket change? The families of those he burns for the same crime he has only just now confessed to himself? His father abandoned his people in their time of need, and for nearly two weeks now they have looked to Arthur to guide them. They will follow him no matter what he chooses to do here.

Arthur once thought that the kindest punishment for his father's crimes would be a quick death. And here is his father, flat on his back before him, begging Arthur to carry out that sentence, to be his sword one last time. Arthur could, and Arthur should, and some small part of Arthur, still half-mad with rage himself, truly wants to, and yet, and yet—

"Arthur," his father says softly. "Arthur, do not hesitate now. It is what I want. It is what your mother wants."

Is it? Arthur thinks back to the hall of portraits, standing before his mother's image and wondering if she would hate his father for what he did to her, if she would punish him for it. He didn't know then. But now—

Now—

Do not let this knowledge change you.

It strikes Arthur like a bolt of lightning: she was warning him.

His mother must have suspected what he meant to ride out and do that day, after learning the truth: to repay his father's lies with bloodshed, to turn his own grief at the betrayal outward, to follow in his father's footsteps, along the very path that led to the Great Purge, and let his pain and his anger become a thirst for vengeance that would never, ever be satisfied. She was trying to stop Arthur from becoming his father. She was trying to save him.

Arthur knows now. The terrible, wonderful truth is that the face immortalized in the hall of portraits and the woman from Morgause's fortress—they are one and the same. He has no proof, but he needs none, for she is part of him and always was. Dead and gone though she is, everything she was made of now makes up him; it's the only reason he's alive at all.

She was real. All along, she was real.

Arthur saw her. He spoke with her. She held him. And she was real.

Arthur tips his head back and lets out half a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut around his tears. He never thought to feel her again. He thought she was lost to him forever. But you cannot lose what you are—all this time, it was Arthur who was lost.

But now he's found his way again: and for the first time in a long time, he knows exactly what it is he must do.

Arthur takes one more moment to master himself. Then he meets his father's eyes, lifts his blade—

—and tosses it down onto the floor.

She would not see his father punished: not like this. This, what they're doing now, is the very thing she warned him against.

"Arthur," his father says, in reprimand, in desperation. "Arthur."

"I do love my mother," Arthur says, fighting to keep his voice steady. "And I love my father, too—even if I shouldn't. Even if you think I'm a mistake. Even if you wish you had her here, instead of me." Exhausted, Arthur lowers himself onto the floor next to his father, sitting down in the cold snow. He confesses point blank: "The truth is that I have sometimes wished the same."

His father lets his head fall back and stares up at the sky. Arthur takes a moment to marvel at his silence. All his life, he's had to watch himself around his father. Mind his tone, mind his tongue—but now, for the first time, he does neither. This, violent though it was, is the most honest conversation they've ever had.

"I won't kill you," Arthur says. He's so tired; his fires have begun to go out. "If that does make me the coward, so be it. That's my final decision, and there's nothing you can do to change it. If you come at me again, I will put you down, just like this, as many times as it takes." He regards his father sadly. "You can't really think she'd want this. You wouldn't, if you were in your right mind. Morgause has been feeding you lies."

"You're wrong. I know." His father's face is sunken and haggard. He still weeps. He is broken now, and forever broken-hearted. "You will not take pity and help me? Your own father?"

"I will not kill you," Arthur corrects. "If you truly wish to atone for your crimes, live and do it the hard way, and that I will help with. But your death? No, Father. I won't be a part of that."

"Atone," his father scoffs. "I long only to see my people released from this thrice-damned curse. My death is the only way—"

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"—and nothing can come from magic but evil. I will not play host to the force used to kill my beloved Ygraine a second longer." His father gingerly sits up on his elbows. "If you are too weak to do your duty to your kingdom, Arthur, then I'm afraid this final burden falls to me."

Later, Arthur will think over and over: if he had just been a little faster, just a little more alert, he could have stopped it. But exhausted and injured as he is, it takes him just a split second too long to understand. And by the time he has caught his father's meaning, by the time he has realized the danger, it is too late.

In one swift movement, King Uther uses his left hand to take up the sword Arthur forsook, turn it on himself, and drive it down hard between his own ribs.

Arthur watches the sword sink deep into his father's body and feels the rush of breath leave him as though it is he who just took a mortal blow to the chest, a wordless scream of horror none can hear. The few seconds it takes for his father's hands to drop and hit the floor seem to last an eternity.

Then time catches up again, and Arthur scrambles forward through the fresh snow rapidly turning dark with lifesblood. His hands flutter uselessly over his father's midsection. "No no no no no no no—Father—" His voice fails him, guts twisting at the sight of the sword's hilt jutting out of his father's chest. How could it have possibly cut so deep? The floor is solid stone—

Of course. The trap door. His father's pinned himself to it; the sword must have gone straight through. The only way to open it would be to pull the blade out, and then there'd be nothing stopping up the wound. His father would be dead in minutes, if not quicker.

This is what he was planning all along, if Arthur wouldn't, or if Arthur couldn't—his father had never intended to leave the tower alive. The remoteness of the location, the barred trap door...even if this wound were a survivable one, there's no one here who can treat him.

Arthur looks to his father's face and feels a stab of terror: though his father's eyes are open, his lids are fluttering, and already blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. "What've you done," Arthur chokes, and feels his eyes fill. "Why—"

Slowly, so slowly, his father reaches out and clumsily pats Arthur's knee. "S'all right," he slurs. "Arthur."

Arthur's voice raises in pitch and volume. "It's not all right! Guards!" he shouts, as loudly as he can, even knowing all the while that it's no use. He takes his father's burned hand in both of his own. "Father, please—"

His father squeezes weakly. "You fought...so well." His breathing has become so ragged; his chest makes a terrible rattling sound when he tries to take in air. "I'm...so proud of you..."

"I don't need your pride," Arthur says, and realizes that it's finally true; perhaps it has been for a while now. His tears spill at last. "I need you to live!"

"No." His father looks up at the gray and fathomless sky, skin gone pale and bloodless. "She told me. Your mother...this is what she wants..."

"That was Morgause, you old fool," Arthur snarls, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. "How many times must I—she is responsible for everything! The magic, the nightmares—"

"No," his father murmurs again, and coughs wetly. Blood spills down the side of his face. "I know. I know. She showed me...every night..."

The knife, Arthur remembers with a shock. "Father, you spoke of a dagger—"

"It doesn't...matter now. My death...no more magic...you won't be able to call it...you'll be safe..."

It matters a great deal, Arthur thinks, hysterical. Especially if his father is somehow the one linked to that blade—once he's gone, there'll be no way to break the enchantment. Perhaps that's what Morgause was angling for all along.

"I'm going...to see her again," his father says. "All this time...I'm going to see...Ygraine again. At last..." He smiles, and Arthur sees for a moment the ghost of that young man in the portrait, the one who seemed so unburdened. Then his father's expression changes; his brow draws into a frown. He squeezes Arthur's hand again. "I love you. Tell Morgana—tell her—you must tell her—"

His father coughs again, and wretches, bringing up more blood. His eyes slip shut.

"Father," Arthur cries, leaning close, but his father has lost consciousness. He's all but gone. Arthur digs the fingers of his injured hand into his father's neck to feel his pulse, hanging on in vain to those last vestiges of life. "Guards!" he shouts again, but his voice breaks. Even if they could hear him, there's no way for anyone to get up here without dislodging the door and killing his father even faster.

Arthur is alone.

Something tugs at his memory.

A snow-covered day, nicer than this one, and Merlin fighting tears in a clearing in the forest. When you have magic, he said, you're connected to everything. And that means—

"—you're never alone," Arthur whispers, mind racing.

Magic. No ordinary healing could possibly save his father from a wound like this, but there are none left in Camelot who are ordinary now.

Could he do it? He doesn't know the first thing about magic aside from what little Gaius and Merlin have reluctantly taught him; he can call fire, has once called rain, but healing? Arthur thinks back to only last night, which now seems a lifetime ago, and how he watched Merlin work. He remembers the incantation because Merlin had to repeat it so many times, but Arthur is rapidly coming to grasp that performing magic properly means more than just saying the thing aloud: it takes understanding, force of will. Magic requires balance, Merlin said. To give someone back their life force, you must give up a part of your own. That's all healing is, really. But you have to want it.

And Arthur does, more than anything—he wants his father to live, to see another sunrise instead of dying here on this cold stone floor. What has he to lose by trying?

Arthur wraps his hands around the grip of the sword struck through his father's chest. Once it's out, he won't have long.

And so he pulls. The sword is buried deep, and his father's body doesn't want to give it up; it takes almost all of his remaining strength, and still he feels the blade scrape bone, hears a horrible sucking sound as he finally wrests it free. Blood gushes from the wound, but Arthur throws the sword aside and presses both his hands on it and shouts, "Ge hailige!"

Merlin, he remembers, spoke the incantation over and over without stopping, and so Arthur does the same. He tries to conceptualize the balance Merlin spoke of; tries to imagine life leaving his own body to make its home in his father's, the way it must surely have once left his mother's body to become his. And at first he feels no difference—but with every repetition of the spell the flow of blood from his father's wound slows. Color begins to return to his father's face. He breathes a little easier.

And Arthur breathes a little more harshly. He begins to feel more tired; his vision darkens at the edges.

You have to want it—and you have to be prepared to pay the price.

It's not enough. So far Arthur has only delayed the inevitable; he must feel the wound close before he can stop. "Ge hailige," he gasps. "Father, come on, come on—ge hailige—"

Arthur's head spins. He feels as though he has just run a thousand miles. He can barely catch enough breath to speak. But he keeps going, watching his father's face for as long as he can, for as much time as he has left—

His father's eyelids flutter.

And Arthur's world tips sideways; he blacks out before he hits the floor.

From the corridor outside of Arthur's room, Merlin can see the watchtower perfectly.

While Morgana and Sir Leon debate whether or not they should go and check on Arthur and the king, Merlin watches the window, eyes on the distant form of the watchtower only just visible through the thick falling snow. He doesn't have the gift that Morgana does, has no magical intuition about what the future brings, but all the same he can't help but feel that something is very wrong. What reason could Uther possibly have to take Arthur so far out of the way in weather like this?

There: a strange glint of light beyond the gloom. Merlin sucks in a breath, leaning closer to the window, and behind him Morgana and Leon fall silent. "Merlin?" Leon asks.

Merlin searches the tower again, straining—

"There," he says suddenly. "Did you see that?"

Morgana and Leon join him by the window. "I don't see anything," says Morgana. She adds, wry and sidelong, "Perhaps you're imagining it."

Merlin opens his mouth to reply—but what he'd have said they'll never find out, for at that moment the tower lights up like a beacon, a massive arc of fire erupting from its center. And Merlin knows just whose magic is responsible.

"Arthur," Merlin breathes, and takes off down the corridor.

He doesn't wait for Morgana and Leon to follow, but they catch up with him halfway down the stairwell. "Another firestorm?" Leon asks.

"Maybe," Merlin answers tightly. The truth is that Arthur has gotten his magic well-sorted since the incident in the training yard. Even when he loses his grip on it, he's quick enough to reign himself in again. What they just witnessed was no mere lapse of control. Arthur is summoning the fire on purpose—Arthur, who hates magic, who was so reluctant to call upon it except in his most desperate hour. And that means he's in serious, life-threatening trouble.

They run into Gwen at the bottom of the stairs, waiting just as Morgana said she would be. "Morgana? What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"No time," Merlin says tightly, and speeds forward without further explanation.

The four of them burst out into the courtyard in a swirl of snowflakes and icy air, and what's wrong becomes immediately apparent now that they are so close: even if he wasn't looking up, the distant clash of swords can be heard from above. "Slow down, slow down," Morgana pants, "I can't keep up—surely the guards in the tower will go to them—"

"No, milady," Leon says, but he and Gwen do slow down for her. "We were given strict orders: no one was to enter the tower on pain of death. They'll all have been dismissed..."

Merlin doesn't wait around to hear more. He ducks and weaves through the people gathering outside, all agape and pointing skyward; a glance up and Merlin sees a magnificent plume of fire shoot out over the edge of the battlement. Embers fall like rain, and some of the townspeople shriek and begin to back away. Merlin is buffeted to and fro by the crowd, and then—

Another blast of fire. This one quakes the very earth and sends a few small stone chunks of the battlement tumbling down the side of the tower.

Merlin fights through the rapidly dispersing crowd, but he's stopped short by a distant cry from far above, barely audible over the wind and the townsfolk.

And as the crowd clears, all running for cover, Morgana appears next to Merlin's elbow. Her eyes are trained on the top of the tower. "That was Uther," she says, and there is something like wonder in her voice. The door to the bottom of the watchtower is just ahead; Morgana rushes forward and yanks at it to no avail. "It's locked."

Merlin's heart drops. "What?"

Morgana presses her forehead against it, still catching her breath. "I can't open it," she says, after a long moment. "The two of them must have done it on their way up."

"No," says Merlin blankly, casting an anxious glance upward. "Why would they?" It's gone quiet at the top of the tower. They don't have time for this.

Leon and Gwen catch up to them at last. "What's wrong?" Gwen asks. "Is it locked?"

"Here," Leon says, fishing his keyring from his belt, "I have the key."

Morgana steps aside. Leon works at the lock a moment, tries the knob, and then curses. "It—it must be jammed, I don't—"

"What?" Merlin asks. "Let me try." But the lock isn't jammed. The key turns; the mechanism clicks. It's just that the door refuses to budge. It's almost as if— "It's been spelled shut."

Merlin turns to find Gwen, Morgana, and Leon looking stricken. "But—" Gwen fumbles with her words. "That's not the kind of magic—only an actual sorcerer—"

"That's right," Leon realizes. "Arthur and Uther, neither of them could have done it. Someone wanted to trap them up there."

And then, as if on cue— "Guards!" calls Arthur's voice, far away from the top of the tower, and Merlin goes weak at the knees with relief. Arthur is, at least for the moment, still alive.

Leon's right: Arthur couldn't have locked the door. Neither could Uther. Someone wanted them isolated and alone, someone wanted to keep the guards from rushing to their aid when they were needed. And that person, whoever it is, can command magic—real magic, not just whatever the curse has saddled them with.

Morgause? She's responsible for the curse, and she certainly seemed invested in getting Arthur and his father to fight each other before. But she wouldn't dare enter Camelot now, and even if she would, she's all the way back at the Isle of the Blessed; Merlin saw her there with his own two eyes just last night. There's no way she could have traveled here so quickly just to lock a door.

An accomplice? But who? As far as Merlin knows, the only true sorcerers in Camelot are himself, Gaius, and—

Oh no.

I don't need your help. I already learned, Merlin, and I learned it—

In his mind's eye, Merlin sees Morgana reach down to touch her bracelet, the one that always seemed so familiar to him, though he could not place it. But now he remembers: before Morgause's duel with Arthur, Merlin had been sent to her chambers to attempt to persuade her to withdraw. Morgause had refused, pointing her blade directly at his heart—and as he looked down the blade, that was when he first noticed it.

Before he saw the bracelet on Morgana's wrist, it rested on Morgause's.

She wouldn't, Merlin thinks weakly, searching Morgana up and down as though signs of treachery will readily make themselves apparent. It must be someone else. The dragon is wrong, Morgana is a kind soul with a good heart. She makes a point of standing up for those who cannot protect themselves. She'd never hurt anyone. She hates Uther, she hates Merlin, and she has every right to hate them both, but—working with Morgause? Morgause, who manipulated Arthur so cruelly, who caused the deaths of nine innocent people? Morgause, who is trying to tear Camelot apart? No. That's not the Morgana that Merlin knows.

But she wears Morgause's token. She didn't come to Merlin and Gaius complaining of strange dreams after the curse despite Arthur's own nightmares. She denied feeling the curse being cast even though it woke Merlin from a dead sleep. She didn't want or need for Merlin to teach her to control her magic. She begged them to slow down on the way here, claiming fatigue, yet she was the first among them to touch the door; she even faced away from Merlin for a long moment, so that he wouldn't see the telltale glow of her eyes. Merlin can't believe he didn't notice when he's used that trick so many times himself.

She wouldn't. She wouldn't. But what choice did she have? Who was there left to turn to, when she couldn't go to the druids and didn't know she could come to Merlin?

This—Morgana, the curse, the people who died, all of it—

It's all Merlin's fault.

"Guards!" Arthur shouts again, voice desperate and distant and small.

Merlin's magic roils beneath his skin, frantic to get to Arthur and make certain he's safe, but even facing away he can't unlock the door with Gwen and Leon staring right at him: if they were smart enough to put together that only a real sorcerer could cast the magic, they'll know that only a real sorcerer can counter it. Merlin takes a breath, searching for an excuse—

"Lady Morgana," Leon says suddenly, "I'm going to get some men to break down this door. But I've seen enough to know that a magical problem sometimes requires a magical solution. One of us must run and get Gaius."

"Me?" Morgana asks, dumbstruck. "But Gwen, or Merlin—"

"He's right," Merlin says, trying to make his face as stone, keep his tone impassive—for if Morgana suspects even for a second that she herself is under suspicion, she will not leave. "You'll be safer inside, Morgana. Gwen should go with you."

Morgana hesitates, eyes lifting to the top of the tower again. "Won't you at least come too?"

She knows, Merlin realizes. She knows he can open the door, if he can only get a moment alone. "I won't leave Arthur."

"Merlin," Gwen chides. "What can you possibly do from down here?"

"I won't," Merlin insists. "But the two of you must find cover in case more of the tower falls." He gives Gwen a pleading look, eyes flicking to Morgana. She'll think he's concerned for Morgana's safety, not Arthur's. She doesn't know Morgana has betrayed them. It's going to break her heart.

Gwen takes Morgana's wrist. "He's right."

Morgana can't insist further without revealing herself. And Merlin sees it and despairs: the momentary flash of anger in her eyes, the way her jaw clenches. "Very well," she says at last. "Be safe."

Merlin watches them go with his heart in his stomach, praying it was not a mistake to send Gwen away too. If anything happens to her, Merlin will never forgive himself.

After they're out of sight, Leon turns to Merlin. "I meant what I said, about a magical solution." He takes Merlin by the shoulder. "I've seen you and Gaius work to serve the people of Camelot together. He may be the sorcerer, but you're the sorcerer's apprentice—I know he's been teaching you magic since the curse began. The coast is clear now, so if you can get the door open before either of us get back, well..." He shrugs. "You saved Arthur from the fire before, didn't you?"

Merlin's jaw drops. Is straight-laced Leon, a Knight of Camelot, asking Merlin to use magic?

Leon lets out a small despairing sigh and chucks Merlin's chin up so his mouth closes again. "Good luck," he says. "And move quickly, Merlin—we'll be right behind you." So saying, he takes off at a sprint for the guardhouse.

Merlin wastes no more time. "Tóspringe," he whispers, and at last the door bursts open.

Merlin takes the stairs two at a time, gasping for breath. "Arthur?" he calls, heedless of the danger, but there is no reply. The tower is utterly silent, save for the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. Just a little further, he's almost at the top—

Merlin stops short. A thin line of scarlet cuts through the frozen gray stairs, creeping towards him and pooling around his boots. He thinks he can hear something dripping. He follows the line with his eyes, up, up, and slowly it widens—

It's blood. The stairs are covered with it—the ladder, the trap door...

"Arthur!" Merlin shouts again, and scrambles forward, slipping through the blood, not caring that it stains his hands and clothes, only that it is still warm, it can't be too late, it can't be—

The trap door is barred and refuses to budge. Merlin whispers the spell to undo it, but even after that something heavy rests on top and it does not open. A body, Merlin realizes, and has to swallow down his nausea. He shoves upwards with all his might and thanks the stars he was born so skinny, for though he can't move whoever is on top of the trap door he's still small enough to slip his way through the gap.

He lands on something wet and warm and shouts, jerking backwards—

It's Arthur.

Merlin's first thought is that he looks nearly dead, skin ashy and bloodless, riddled with scrapes and bruises, clothes Merlin helped him dress in less than half an hour ago already scorched beyond repair. There's a terrible dark gash on his left side. But when Merlin, terrified, leans close to listen for Arthur's breathing and reaches for his neck to feel his pulse, he finds that life still beats beneath his fingertips.

Arthur's not dead. Merlin lets out a shaking breath and gives himself just a second to press his forehead to Arthur's chest in sheer relief. Just one second, and no more.

Then Merlin lifts his head. What happened here? The top of the tower looks like a battleground, the battlement itself cracked and scorched everywhere. And the blood—who was on top of the trap door—?

Merlin turns and is nearly sick.

Uther. The body on the trap door was Uther.

Uther looks better than Arthur—from the neck up, at least. There's color in his cheeks, his eyelids flutter now and then, and he's mumbling to himself. But Merlin doesn't understand, because the dark stain on his chest, the stain by his mouth, the bloody blade by his side, and the veritable river of blood on the stairs all suggest he's been run through. But Arthur wouldn't. Would he?

Arthur. Uther's stable, at least for now, but Arthur needs help. Merlin glances behind him, unsettled by the king being literally within strangling distance should he wake and discover Merlin performing magic on his son, but there's nothing for it. Making sure to keep his face turned away and forgoing the incantation entirely, Merlin performs a healing spell.

Merlin's healing has never been his strongest point, especially without using an incantation to aid him, but he's gotten better since he had to start pitching in with the magical healing Gaius has been doing. His spell brings a little color back to Arthur's face, has him breathing just a little easier—the wound begins to heal inside, even if it has not yet had time to close all the way—

But then, suddenly, there are footsteps coming from the stairwell. It's Leon, right on time as promised.

Merlin's torn—Arthur's badly wounded, Merlin can't leave him—but there's no time left, Leon and the guards will be here any moment—

Most people, including the guards about to make themselves present at the top of this tower, don't understand the way Leon does—they don't and can't know that Merlin has been helping Gaius heal the magical injuries borne of the curse. And even Leon may be able to tell the difference between someone who's been practicing magical healing for two weeks and someone who's been practicing it for years. Even if Merlin were to keep healing and reveal himself—and to save Arthur's life, he would—he'd be discovered in seconds and ripped away. And then he would never be able to help Arthur again.

Merlin's done a little. He just has to pray it'll be enough until he can do more.

In the end Merlin stands and grasps Uther by the shoulders, pulling with all his strength so that the way might be clear; if he can't finish healing Arthur himself here and now, the best thing to do is to get him away from here and behind a closed door as quickly as possible. When that's finished, Merlin stands and backs away as men come up through the trap door and swarm the top of the tower.

"They're alive," Merlin chokes, seeing the horror written on Leon's face; he too had to climb through the blood. "They're both alive, but they—they need help, they need Gaius—" Who's with Morgana, Merlin realizes with a chill. What is he supposed to do?

"We'll have to carry them," Leon decides, for the stairs are so narrow and winding that a stretcher would never fit. He directs the strongest of his men to work in pairs to get them down the stairs. "Take care, now, they're grievously injured—"

It doesn't take long for the guardsmen to get coordinated; Uther disappears through the trap door first, then Arthur. Dread rises in Merlin's chest. They're being carried right to Morgana when they couldn't possibly be more vulnerable. He's got to do something. He's too far away to warn Gaius, but—

"Sir Leon," Merlin calls, just as Leon swings his legs over the trap door to climb his way down. "I wanted to thank you, for—for trusting me to get up the tower."

Leon frowns. "Of course, Merlin, but now's not—"

"If," Merlin says, and licks his lips. This is difficult. Merlin's so used to keeping his silence it's hard for him to speak, but speak he must, if Arthur's life hangs in the balance. "If you would—if you would trust me again—I feel I must speak, but I'm—"

Now Leon's paying attention.

"I'm only a servant," Merlin says at last, eyes not leaving Leon's, trying to communicate with his face everything he can't say aloud. "My word is worth nothing, and I cannot give you orders. But, Leon—" Merlin swallows, hard. "If I were you, I would not let anyone in to see them. Not a soul. I would consider it a matter of life and death."

Leon's eyes narrow. "Are you saying you know who's responsible for this?"

Merlin, for once in his life, says nothing. It's too soon. He can't just go accusing Morgana without proof, without speaking to Gaius, without time to sit and consider the situation, because his mistakes where Morgana is concerned are what led to this whole fucking mess to begin with. He doesn't know what happened here, how or why Arthur and his father wound up half-dead at the top of this tower, what the plan was supposed to be and whether or not it has yet failed. And Morgana will be watching his every move—bloody fucking hell, Morgana will probably have told Morgause about Merlin's magic, and she could easily tell others if he crossed her openly. His life is in danger now too, and Gaius's for harboring him. He has to be careful.

Leon seems to find the meaning in his silence, and it's something of a relief: Merlin and Leon occasionally find themselves at odds with one other because of Merlin's sharp tongue and Leon's strong dislike of impertinence in general, but if anyone understands the need for consideration on when to speak and when not to, it's Leon. He gives Merlin a nod. "No one but the healer," he says, voice lifting at the end.

Merlin nods, understanding the question for what it is. Gaius is all right.

It's Morgana they have to worry about now.

Chapter Text

Arthur dreams, not of his mother, but of Merlin.

Merlin, golden-eyed and always at his side, sometimes whispering words Arthur does not understand, and sometimes whispering words he does. "Wake up," he begs, over and over, often near tears when he does. Sometimes water is held to Arthur's mouth for him to drink; he only rarely manages to swallow. "Arthur, please, you must wake up. I can't lose you now."

He sounds so distraught it makes Arthur want to wake up just so he can find his dignity again. And there's something else—Arthur was doing something important, wasn't he? Something he didn't want to be doing, but something he must take care of all the same. But whenever Arthur tries to reach for Merlin, he finds his body laden and heavy, his limbs as weak as a newborn's. There is a terrible wall of pain and dread between Arthur and consciousness, and he's just so tired: he is not yet ready to face it, not even for Merlin.

He drifts.

It may be hours or days or years later when Arthur finally begins to come to. He's sore all over, and terribly thirsty. There's a fire crackling somewhere nearby. He's lying on something soft—his bed? Is he in his chambers? He eases his eyes open to darkness; it's nighttime, and there's no light in the room aside from the fire in the hearth.

The fire, which is being tended to by—

Arthur wets his dry-cracked lips. "Merlin."

His voice comes out as barely a mumble, sounds low and scratchy and not like himself at all, but that doesn't stop Merlin from jumping to his feet and rushing to the bed. "Arthur," he says, naked relief in his tone, "thank goodness—"

Arthur's head is thick and fuzzy and he knows, he knows there's something urgent he must get back to at once, but he just can't think around the pain and the thirst. He feels Merlin's hands behind his head, stacking a few extra pillows on the bed so he can sit up without straining himself, and then without even needing to ask he finds a cup of water pressed to his lips.

"Drink," Merlin urges, but Arthur doesn't need telling twice. He swallows greedily, and almost immediately some of the pain leaves his limbs, some of the fog clears from his head.

There was something, something—what was he doing when he fell asleep, what was he—

Arthur remembers everything all at once and turns his head sharply away from the water. "My father," he rasps. He grabs Merlin clumsily by the shoulders, trying to haul himself upright through a wave of sickening dizziness, and winces as his injured palm makes contact with Merlin's shoulder.

"Lie still," Merlin yelps, grabbing at Arthur's wrists. "You idiot, are you trying to tear out your stitches?"

"My father, Merlin," Arthur insists, desperate. "Does he live?"

"He lives, he lives," Merlin says hurriedly, "I swear to you he lives—now lie back down, please."

Arthur is so overcome with relief that his entire body goes boneless. He drops back onto the pillows, though his good hand remains tangled in Merlin's coat, and so Merlin's hand remains closed around his wrist. Arthur flings his injured arm over his eyes to hide his face.

He did it. His father is alive. He's alive, and the rest can be seen to.

It takes Arthur a long moment to master himself; longer still for his head to stop spinning. "How is he?"

"Better than you, if only just," Merlin replies. "He's in and out of consciousness, and he doesn't speak when he's awake, though he's been mumbling here and there in his sleep. Gaius can't tell where the injury is—he cleaned the blood but can't find a wound. He's not sure if—" Merlin hesitates. "Well. He's been in there day and night working trying to wake him, but he says it might be the sort of injury we can't see at all."

That sounds right to Arthur. Then his brain catches up to what Merlin said. "Day and night?" He lifts his arm to peer at Merlin. "How long was I out?"

Merlin drops his eyes. "We found you three mornings ago."

Three mornings ago! And now it is dark outside: Arthur has been asleep for nearly four whole days. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us. I was with Sir Leon and Gwen and Morgana—" Merlin's hand around his wrist shakes just slightly. "We saw the fire. We came as quick as we could. But even still—all we found were bodies. Questions without answers. All I know for sure is—" Merlin swallows. "You nearly died."

Arthur looks away. It's all beginning to catch up to him: the helplessness of being attacked with no means to fight back, the terrible things his father said to hurt him, seeing that sword go down straight through his father's chest...

He was so frightened.

Some of that residual terror has Arthur's heart beating faster, and he struggles his way through sitting up all over again just so he can catch his breath. What happened? Arthur doesn't even know where to begin.

The silence stretches on. Merlin eases onto the bed next to him. "Were the two of you dueling? There were signs of magic, and your father was injured..."

Arthur draws his knees up to his chest. He can't tell Merlin everything—the crimes his father confessed to were for Arthur's ears only. Even if he wanted to, there are some things he could never bear to repeat aloud. How could he look anyone in the eye, even Merlin, especially Merlin, and tell them the real truths about his father's hatred of magic?

"Arthur, hey." Merlin ducks his head to catch Arthur's eye, voice softening. "Look, I know you must've—really been through an ordeal." He hesitates, hand hovering in the air, then rests it lightly on Arthur's bare shoulder. "Whatever happened, you can tell me. I promise."

Arthur wishes he could. In truth he'd like very much to continue to sit here and say nothing for the foreseeable future, but what if Gaius needs to know how his father was injured—and healed—to treat him? Merlin can tell Gaius what he needs to know, right? Arthur would rather tell Merlin here and now. He trusts Merlin more than anyone, save perhaps Morgana. But there are some things he could never say to her—if the thing must be spoken aloud, there's no one in the world Arthur would rather speak it to than Merlin. Merlin was there the day Morgause showed Arthur his mother. He was there when Arthur tried to kill his father. He'll understand—yes, he'll understand.

Arthur stays quiet for a long time, trying to get his thoughts in order and edit the thing into a new version of the story that doesn't include his mother, or the worst truths his father spoke. "I'm not the only one who's been—dreaming," he says at last. "Morgause has been manipulating my father every night. It wasn't just the magic driving him mad. It was her." Arthur sets his jaw, not meeting Merlin's eyes. "He was convinced his death would break the curse. So he asked me to kill him."

Merlin sucks in a breath. "I was afraid of that," he confesses in a whisper. "Did you...?"

Arthur hates that Merlin even has to ask—but were their positions reversed, he would do the same. "I refused him." He stops to clear his throat. "He—he attempted to persuade me. First with words, but eventually...it was fight back or die. And I couldn't—my hand—and he didn't know. He thought I was the better swordsman. He came at me with full strength. There was nothing I could do."

Merlin makes this part easy for him. "So you used magic."

Everyone must have seen, Arthur realizes, heart sinking. What is he going to do now? The magic is still there, waiting for his command, likely restless after four days of unconsciousness. It will be harder now than ever to hide what he's done. "He tried to kill me," Arthur says, voice smaller and far more defensive than he'd like. "He was out of his mind. He didn't know his own strength. The things he said to me..." He cannot speak of them, can barely think of them.

There'll be time for that later.

Arthur sneaks a glance at Merlin's face and realizes he has not yet answered Merlin's question. "I didn't run him through, Merlin. He—he did that to himself." Arthur can still see it in his mind's eye. He doesn't mean to say it, but it all comes out anyway. "I wasn't fast enough to stop him, I was so stupid to have dropped my sword so close, and it took me so long to figure out that I might be able to heal him..."

"Magically," Merlin realizes. "That's why Gaius can't find the wound." Merlin hesitates and then squeezes Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, you're not to blame. You did what you had to do to make sure you both survived. I can't even imagine how frightening that must have been."

No, he probably can't. Arthur takes a deep breath and does not lose his composure. "Yeah, well," he says, voice tremoring, "that's just because you scare so easily." He chances a glance at Merlin's face and finds his expression entirely too earnest to bear. "In fact, Merlin, I seem to recall you crying over me whilst I slept."

"Wh—" Merlin draws back, shocked, and the tips of his ears going pink does a great deal to lift Arthur's mood. "I—I did not. Over you? Please. I was only crying because I thought I was out of a job." Arthur grins, and Merlin hastily corrects, "And I wasn't crying! It's—it's cold! One tends to get the sniffles!"

Arthur reaches out with his good hand to knock Merlin gently on the shoulder. "You've really got to toughen up, Merlin. These are dark days for Camelot. We need every man at his finest if we're all to make it through."

"You'd best get some food and rest, then," Merlin says. "I'll go and grab some broth from the kitchens to start you off, shall I?"

Arthur puts a hand on Merlin's knee before he can rise to his feet. "Not just yet," he answers quietly. "First I need to see my father."

Arthur doesn't actually want to see his father. For one thing, he's certain his father will not thank him for using magic to save his life, and for another, his father has now seen him use magic deliberately. If the king were in his right mind Arthur would be expecting a punishment the likes of which he'd never suffered before—but as it is, even the thought of facing his father after what transpired between them seems like torture enough.

Some things, though, must be borne anyway. Arthur's primary concern is finding out what his father knows about that black dagger so that they may use the knowledge to break the curse. But after that he must also address the implication that—and he can barely think it, even to himself—he has a sibling. One a few weeks younger than him, and so by law no threat to his place as heir, but if they know who their father is and have aspirations towards the crown, Arthur himself would be their first target, and that puts everyone around him in danger. And what if they've something to do with Morgause's curse? Arthur needs to know who they are so he can find out whether or not they're a threat to the kingdom—and he can't do that from this bed.

Merlin, predictably enough, begins to fret like a mother hen. "Are you sure that's a good idea? You were out for such a long time, you've only just woken up, you haven't even eaten yet..."

"Find me some clothes, Merlin. Sometime tonight, preferably." Arthur frees himself from his blankets, shivering as the chilly air hits his skin, and one at a time gingerly swings his legs over the edge of the bed. "My good cloak's ruined, but perhaps there's another in the..."

Arthur trails off. A tug of soreness caused him to look down at himself, and he's shocked to find a neat line of stitching underneath his ribs on his left side. He remembers the wound—his father's burning sword cutting into his side, the warm blood on his palm when he'd looked down at it—but Arthur's seen his share of battle wounds, and after one like that, he should barely be able to move, even after almost four days of rest. This looks as though it's been healing for weeks. Slowly, Arthur reaches around to touch it. "Merlin, what...?"

Merlin won't look at him. "You nearly died," he says for the second time tonight, voice very small, and this time his words take on new meaning. "You nearly died."

Oh.

Merlin looks like he expects to be in trouble. "I know you said you didn't want me to use magic to heal your hand. I swear I didn't touch anything except the wound in your side. But you were bleeding so badly, and Gaius couldn't see to both you and your father at the same time, and you were the worse off..."

Ask Arthur two weeks ago, and he'd have been absolutely livid. His father always taught him that magic was the ultimate sin, and to practice it or benefit from it invited in the very worst sort of corruption of the soul. And every time Arthur began to believe that perhaps things couldn't possibly be that simple, some thing or another would come along and prove his father right. Most recently, it was Morgause: no sooner did Arthur express his wonder that she had done them no harm did she turn around and attempt to manipulate him into killing his own father. Even after learning the true circumstances of his birth, he was half-convinced that it was his father's own use of magic behind his hardened heart, and the madness Arthur now knows was caused by Morgause. The laws around magic were hard ones, but they were in place for good reason: magic is dangerous. Magic is evil.

Now Arthur is being forced to reconsider.

Arthur's had a lifetime to learn his father's rage is no small matter and his leniency is near-nonexistent—but he's also used to his status as his father's sole heir and only son protecting him from the very worst of his wrath. Their duel up on the watchtower afforded him no such privilege. His father came at him utterly bereft of all reason and mercy, and there had been no persuading him to stop. His father hurt him terribly in that fight, in a way that all the cuts and burns and bruises cannot. He hurt Arthur because he himself was in so much pain: pain Arthur witnessed the night before the fight, pain Arthur saw etched on every line in his face just before he plunged that sword through his chest. Because whatever other virtues he possesses, his father is still a hard man, often cruel and often selfish. And like a child he hides from what he cannot bear to face, and lashes out at what he cannot hide from. His guilt, his grief, his suffering—it manifests itself as violence. Arthur bore the brunt of that violence four days ago. But others have borne worse.

The Great Purge was never about magic, not even a little. All along, it was only ever about his mother.

Because magic didn't kill her: his father did. The sorcerers were just the closest targets at hand when all that grief and guilt became more than his father could bear. This whole time Arthur's been torturing himself over the innocents that burned, those wrongly accused—but it might just be possible that not all of those who had magic deserved to die either.

What his father did to the sorcerers of Camelot wasn't just a necessary evil. It wasn't just a purging of magic. It was the death of a people, an entire way of life—it was genocide.

All for the death of one woman. All because Arthur was born.

Arthur is not prepared to believe sorcery is harmless, or even that it was wrong to try and outlaw it; he's seen firsthand how dangerous unfettered magic can be and knows now more than ever the true harm it can cause. But for his father to murder hundreds, to put women and children to the flame, all because it was easier to see his mother's killer in the glowing eyes of sorcerers rather than in the mirror every day...

Not everyone who practices magic can be evil, and they certainly can't all deserve to die. That's just another lie his father told to hide his own wrongdoings, another way others were made to suffer for his mistakes. Perhaps it really is as Merlin has said all along, and Morgana before him: perhaps magic is a tool, just like a sword. Dangerous if mishandled by a fool, and a power that can corrupt as surely as any other; in the hands of someone evil and selfish and cowardly, something that could cause terrible harm. And there are many such men in this world...

But not all of them, Arthur thinks, studying Merlin's face. No—not all of them.

At last Arthur lays a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin jerks his gaze up, surprised and a little nervous, the way he normally isn't around Arthur. "I'm grateful," Arthur says at last. "You saved my life."

Merlin, the poor sod, looks as though he might start weeping again already. Arthur really is going to have to toughen him up one of these days.

"C'mon, then," Arthur says. "I can't very well go see my father with no breeches."

Even with Merlin's magical healing, it's still no small task to get Arthur dressed. The skin of the wound tugs when Arthur lifts his left arm too high, and the palm of his right hand is still painful and raw under the bandages, not to mention the wound that runs down from his palm along his inner arm, the one that ruined his grip to begin with—it's still healing too. Arthur's legs are shaky and weak from disuse and lack of food, and he cannot stand without aid for very long. If not for Merlin, he probably wouldn't even have made it out of bed.

When at last they're finished, Arthur gives himself an unsteady once-over in the mirror. He looks terrible: there's a cut across his nose, another large scrape above his eye, he has a split lip, and there's a bruise turning colors near his jaw. His face has the bloodless, waxy, sunken look of someone who has been ill or unconscious for nearly four days, and even after Merlin combed his hair it still looks unclean. It's certainly the worst Arthur's ever looked after a row with his father.

But, miracle of miracles, he is still in one piece. Battered though he is, he yet lives to fight another day.

And, for the first time in a long time, Arthur can look upon his own reflection and see his mother's son.

"Come on," Merlin murmurs, and takes his arm. "I'll help you."

And together they set off down the corridor.

Arthur was quite surprised to see there were guards outside his door. Once he and Merlin are out of earshot, he turns to Merlin and asks, "Why the extra security? Did my father order this? I thought you said he hasn't spoken."

Merlin is warm against Arthur's side in an otherwise freezing corridor. "I'm almost certain it's on Sir Leon's order, believe it or not."

"Or not," says Arthur. Leon really took it upon himself to arrange this? Technically speaking, he does have the authority if both Arthur and his father are indisposed and none in the council challenge the matter, but it just doesn't sound like him; while Leon is perfectly capable of taking initiative, he tends to prefer taking direction. "Are there guards outside my father's door too?"

As it turns out, there are—and they aren't the only ones. As Arthur turns the corner to his father's door, still leaning on Merlin for support, he sees that Morgana and Guinevere already stand outside of it.

Because they're pressed so close together, Arthur feels every single muscle in Merlin's body go tense at once. "What's the matter with you, Merlin?" Arthur asks. "You've puffed up like an angry cat."

"Nothing," Merlin mutters, but his grip on Arthur's arm stays firm.

"Arthur!" Guinevere exclaims upon seeing him. She has flowers in her hair despite it being the middle of winter. Perhaps Arthur's sharp words from their trip to the forest have been forgotten at last, for she rushes to him and looks only seconds away from throwing her arms around him before she checks herself. Good thing, too—not that Arthur would've minded, but he's barely supporting his own weight at the moment. "You're all right. I was starting to think you'd never wake up."

"Worried, hm?" Arthur teases. "I thought you were still cross with me." First Merlin, now Guinevere. If this is how the servants are going to act every time Arthur gets grievously injured, then perhaps he should do it more often.

Guinevere does in fact make a very cross face, arms folded, but even Arthur can't miss the relief in her tone. "You look like you're about to fall over," she fusses. "Why aren't you resting?"

Ah. Arthur's smile slips away. He nods towards his father's door. "I must see my father."

Morgana steps forward. "Gaius is in there now," she says, subdued. "No one else has been allowed in to see him. Gaius says—" Morgana's voice shakes as she looks at the door. "Gaius says he's not sure yet if Uther will pull through."

Arthur's heart sinks. He was unconscious for almost four days. That amount of his own life force can't have all been for nothing. What's the point of magic if it can't save the only real family he has left? "Then it is all the more urgent that I speak with him at once. If you'll excuse us..."

But just then the door to his father's chambers creaks open.

Every head jerks up as if on a string. But it's not the king who steps out: it's Gaius, looking almost as bad as Arthur did in the mirror a few minutes ago. There are circles under his eyes and weariness etched in every line on his face.

Arthur realizes with a jolt that Gaius must have known all along how his mother really died. He stood by and watched as Merlin convinced Arthur that everything Morgause showed him was trickery and lies and did nothing to dispute it. Perhaps Arthur was right after all not to go to Gaius when he began having nightmares; Gaius, it seems, is loyal to his father first. No wonder he escaped the Great Purge unscathed.

At the sight of Arthur, Gaius steps back and lays a hand over his chest in surprise. "Prince Arthur! I hadn't expected to see you awake already."

Already? How much longer was he supposed to have waited? But Arthur remembers how Merlin insisted he would have died without magical aid and wonders if maybe Gaius simply hadn't expected to see him awaken at all. "What news of my father?"

"Well, sire—" Gaius pauses, eyes sliding to the guards on either side of the door.

Ah. "Leave us," Arthur tells the guards. "Take half an hour and report back; we should be finished by then."

"Arthur, I don't think—" Merlin starts, at the same time that Gaius says, "Sire, we could simply talk inside—"

Arthur holds up a hand to silence them both. "I'll not speak about my father above his bed as though he isn't there." He nods at the guards, and they depart without further prompting. The truth is that Arthur rather would prefer to speak inside, but he knows from hard experience that even someone who appears to be fully unconscious may yet retain knowledge of what is spoken nearby. He won't have Gaius announcing his father's imminent death right in front of him that way, not even after what transpired atop the tower. The king deserves more respect than that.

Morgana watches the guards turn the corner. Then she asks Gaius, "Please, Gaius. Has there been any change?"

"No, my lady." Gaius makes eye contact with Merlin, for some reason. Something passes between them—Merlin drops his head in a nod—and Gaius continues, "But I have settled on a diagnosis." And Arthur's confusion must have shown on his face, for Gaius explains, "For why the king has not awoken. I have administered all manner of herbs and tonics, but I cannot rouse him for longer than an hour or two at a time, and when I can he does not speak. He does not ask for food, nor will he eat on his own—he only takes broth and water when they are offered, and no more. I can find no wound, I can see no signs of internal injury. Therefore, I must conclude that the ailment is of magic."

Arthur sucks in a breath. "He's being enchanted?" A worse thought strikes him—Arthur remembers well the nightmares and how easily they had been used to torture his father to the point of insanity. "Is it Morgause? Is she still tormenting him in his dreams as we speak?"

Morgana looks over sharply. "Morgause?" she asks, and Merlin, who has only just gotten untensed the first time, tenses up all over again. "The woman who challenged you to a duel this past summer?"

"She's a sorceress," Arthur says, because Morgana probably doesn't know; Arthur spoke of what happened after that duel to no one, and he doesn't doubt for a second that his father personally visited all who witnessed it to assure their silence. "She's the one responsible for the curse. I believe she's also the one responsible for my father's current state."

Morgana's eyes are round. "How—how can you be certain?" she asks, a fine tremor in her voice. "How did you find out?"

Arthur waves her away. "It's not important now. Gaius—"

Gaius is still looking at Morgana. "The king does not suffer," he says at last, with some inexplicable reluctance. "I have given him a drought that will keep him from dreaming just to be sure, but it's merely a precaution. I don't believe Morgause is enchanting the king. I believe he's enchanting himself."

There's a short silence.

"Enchanting himself?" Guinevere asks at last. "I don't understand—how is such a thing possible?"

"Innate magic like this is a strange and powerful force," Gaius says. "It bends to a warlock's desire, even if that desire is a subconscious one. None of us are true warlocks, of course, but for the duration of the curse, functionally we are the same. The king sometimes speaks in his sleep. Most of it is unintelligible, but even what little I've caught makes it clear that—" He lowers his gaze. "Forgive me."

Arthur already knows what Gaius is trying not to say. He closes his eyes, grateful Merlin is at his side to hold him up. "He wants to die."

Gaius nods. "The magic cannot simply end his life, but the next best alternative is a deep and dreamless sleep from which he does not wake. I can use smelling salts to forcibly rouse him to make sure his body is fed, but I'm afraid his will is broken."

As good as dead, then: perhaps even worse. What a terrible, cruel irony. His father, who hates magic more than anyone, using magic to all but end his own life. Arthur fights to keep his composure, but it's a losing battle. "So there's no hope."

"Of course there is," Merlin says fiercely. "Arthur, it's magic doing this to him. When we break the curse, the magic will be gone. He'll be just as he was before."

"He'll never be just as he was before!" Arthur says, voice breaking. His own innate magic, having gone nearly four days without use, is starting to bubble to the surface. Arthur clenches his fists to keep the fire down. "Didn't you hear what Gaius said? He has no will left to live!"

"But he will live," says Morgana, voice still shaking. "You're certain, Gaius, that he will pull through?"

Gaius stands up straight and meets her eyes with something like...defiance? "I would stake my life on it," he says.

Morgana falls silent, shocked. Guinevere reaches for her, but she steps out of range, hands held up to ward her away. "He—" she starts, and just as quickly breaks it off. She blinks fast, eyes bright.

Then she grabs her hair with both hands, bending forward as if in pain, and screams.

Arthur sees her eyes flare gold for only a split second before every torch in the hall goes mad, shooting fire upwards and scorching the ceiling, spitting embers that sting Arthur's skin. Merlin utters a word next to him and his hands become cool where they contact Arthur's skin, his strange little shield now surrounding them both. Gaius has ducked into the alcove by the door; Guinevere has recoiled in horror, hands covering her head.

"Morgana!" Arthur shouts, aghast. "Morgana, stop it, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" Morgana shouts. "Uther should have died! Over and over he should have died and doesn't, he keeps coming back and then when he finally ends it himself, you save him! You hate magic and you choose now to learn to heal—for him, even though you know what he is and what he's done! It could have been over! All you had to do was nothing, and isn't that what you're best at—"

Arthur shakes his head; he'd back away if Merlin wasn't clinging to him so tightly. He doesn't understand. "Morgana—you can't mean that—whatever quarrels there have been between you, you can't honestly mean—" Morgana tips her head back and laughs, utterly unhinged, and Arthur recoils. "Morgana, he raised you, his last words were for you, he loves you as though you were his own daughter—"

"Love!" Morgana scoffs. Her voice is hard and low and biting; Arthur has known Morgana for more than half his life, and he's seen her angry, he's seen her furious, but he's never seen her like this. "Uther doesn't know the meaning of the word." She clenches her fists; in an astonishing show of control, her eyes go gold again, and the flames begin to die down. She looks down at her own still-shaking hands and then up at Arthur.

And in the darkness of the corridor, her eyes still alight, Morgana whispers, "He'd kill me if he knew."

"Morgana," Merlin says sharply, from Arthur's side. "Don't."

"Why not?" Morgana demands furiously. "How long until you tell them? How long until someone else figures it out? I'm so fucking tired of lying, Merlin! I won't be placed at your mercy any longer. I won't be placed at anyone's mercy just because of what I am!"

A sinister and horrifying understanding falls into place, so sudden and crushing Arthur nearly chokes on it. "You," he gasps, leaning hard against Merlin, "you have—you have—not the curse, you really do have—"

Morgana smiles, a hollow expression that does not meet her empty eyes. "Surprise."

Behind Morgana, Guinevere lifts both hands to cover her mouth, horrified. An endless moment passes where Arthur remembers every horrible thing he has ever said about those who practice magic, every sorcerer he has ever hurt or killed, whether they deserved it or not. But whatever wrongs Arthur has committed in Morgana's eyes, his father has done worse, a thousand times over.

It's no wonder she wants him dead.

Then Arthur realizes: Merlin said don't.

Arthur jerks away from Merlin's grip, stumbling and nearly falling before catching himself on the wall. "You knew," he says. It's not a question. Merlin's face falls and he doesn't deny it. That's not good enough. All this time—Arthur thought the flowers and secret visits were tokens of Merlin's affections, but all the while he was sympathizing with and aiding a known sorceress right under Arthur's nose. Was this what they were arguing about, the day that Morgana dragged him off in the forest? How long has Merlin known and lied about it straight to Arthur's face? Arthur slams his fist against the wall, and a small wave of flame ripples out from his hand, scorching the stone. "Why didn't you tell me!"

Merlin closes his eyes and looks away, and speaks not a word in his own defense. It infuriates Arthur, even though there's not one thing Merlin could say to make this all right. Because Arthur knows at least part of why Merlin didn't tell him. He was right, that first day in the woods, exactly as Morgana was right just now: if the king knew, her life would be forfeit—ward or not.

Arthur wants to tell them, make them understand: he is not his father. He's not.

But he is his father's sword—and that's a blade which sorcerers die upon.

"Merlin knew," Morgana agrees. "Merlin thinks he knows everything, but he doesn't."

Merlin bares his teeth, truly angry; it's not a look Arthur sees on him often. "Try me."

Her face goes slack with shock. "What? But I was so careful, where did I..." Then her eyes narrow. "The door."

Arthur still leans heavily against the wall of the corridor. "The door?" he repeats warily.

"She locked it," Merlin says furiously, fists balled up at his sides. "When Leon and Gwen and I were trying to get to you. She spelled it shut to give you and your father more time to fight. No one but Morgana could have done that."

Morgana lifts her eyebrows at Merlin and a glance passes between them that Arthur doesn't understand; he cannot decide if Merlin looks more angry or terrified. "Why?" Arthur asks, and when neither of them break their gaze from one another he lifts his voice. "Why would you lock the door? Did you want us to kill each other?"

Morgana considers him for a moment, the picture of cool indifference. "No," she says at last. "But Morgause wants Uther dead just as much as I do."

The magic sings for its release beneath Arthur's skin. His world is giving out beneath him. Morgana, a sorceress, working with Morgause? Every time Arthur is foolish enough to believe that there might yet be something good in magic, some redeemable quality, it turns around and takes something dear to him. "Why?" he asks, helpless. "Why, Morgana?"

Morgana's expression cracks at last. She squares her shoulders. "For years I watched Uther burn sorcerers at the stake, and when I dared speak out against it I was silenced. I was punished." Arthur's heart sinks. He remembers. How his father choked her when she protested the execution of the druid boy, and though he laid his hand on his sword, in the end he had not drawn it but walked past her to keep arguing with his father without even pausing to make sure she was all right. And the bruises the manacles left on her wrists, from the night she spent in the dungeons after protesting the execution of Gwen's father...that wasn't the first time either of them had to bear a punishment like that for defiance. "I used to hope that he would grow kinder in old age—that time would soften his grief and his fury. It did not. He needed less and less evidence to decide someone was guilty, brought down worse and worse punishments on their heads. He nearly burned Gwen. He had her father killed. I begged him for a fair trial, and he refused! I told him I would never forgive him if Tom died, and he didn't care! Even when I broke Tom out of the dungeons, Uther had him hunted down like an animal!"

Guinevere stares at Morgana in horror. "You helped him escape?"

Morgana won't look at her. "I had to do something. Uther swore to my face that no matter what argument was made, he would find Tom guilty."

Arthur remembers that too. He played his part in Tom's death: arrested the man himself, reported honestly about the gold he found and the sorcerer he saw. At the time he had his regrets, for he thought Tom would certainly be banished, or perhaps even flogged or imprisoned—but that was the price one paid for associating with someone so dangerous as a sorcerer, and every man must face the consequences of his actions. Arthur hadn't imagined Tom would be killed, especially not after Morgana begged for his life.

But killed he was, and it seems Morgana never did forgive the king—and maybe now Arthur must face a few consequences himself. Maybe now Morgana will never forgive him either.

Morgana's eyes are bright. Behind her, Guinevere weeps openly. "Morgana," she chokes. Would that Arthur could comfort her. "Morgana."

Morgana turns to her, putting her back to Arthur and Merlin. Arthur itches for a sword, but alas: the weight would probably cripple him as he is now. Still, there is the small thin blade he always keeps in his boot...

"You were my only true friend in all of Camelot," Morgana says to Guinevere. "When I came here sick with grief and alone in the world, you were the first to welcome me, the only one not to treat me as an outsider. You cared for me when I had nightmares and never made me feel foolish for believing in them. And you were the first person I would have told about my magic—but Uther turned you against me. How could you still love me, when sorcery had taken your only family from you?"

Arthur is already bent at the waist from the effort it takes to stand unaided. He kneels just a little further, slowly, slowly...

Guinevere takes a step towards her. "I could never have turned against you!" she cries. "Don't you know that? I have been at your side since the day you arrived in Camelot! Couldn't you trust me?"

There. Arthur slides the knife out of his boot and into his sleeve, cradling it in the palm of his left hand, but it is a struggle to get back to his feet. He's no match for Morgana like this, if it comes down to it—even at his strongest and with a proper blade in hand, what good are swords against sorcery?

"I couldn't trust anyone." Morgana draws her arm across her eyes. "Uther killed anyone and everyone like me, even people who associated with those like me, and that only made everyone fear and revile magic all the more. Even if you had accepted me..." She shrugs, helpless. "Your father was killed for associating with a sorcerer, Gwen. What do you think would have happened to you? How could I live with myself, putting you in that kind of danger?"

She turns back to Merlin and Arthur, and Arthur freezes in place. Can she see the knife gleaming at the edge of his sleeve?

"Gaius told me I was imagining things," she says, narrowing her eyes at the physician in question. "Even when I only dreamed of the future, he tried to keep it hidden. Merlin barely acknowledged me. He sent me to the druids for help. And you—just when I thought I was safe and free, you dragged me back like some hunting prize! You, of all people, led a raid on their camp and oversaw their slaughter just to get to me!"

Arthur flushes, angry, feeling heat build dangerously beneath his skin. He does not like to think of the druids. "I thought they kidnapped you," he says, and he's going to be having words with Merlin later; so much unnecessary death might have been avoided if Arthur had only known the truth. "I was trying to save you!"

"Morgause saved me!" Morgana bursts out, fists clenched. "I did not have to go to her, begging for help, only to be denied. She came to me. Everyone had dismissed my dreams for so long, at first I was sure I was imagining her. But she and she alone cares for me, accepts me as I am. She was patient and kind. And she did for me what no one else would do: she taught me control. I owe her my life."

"Is that what this is?" Arthur asks tightly, righting himself against the wall. "A debt? Did she ask you to betray us?"

"She didn't do it for a price," Morgana snaps. "It was I who asked how I could aid her cause. In the end it wasn't much—a dagger slipped from the vaults. I rode it out to her during the blizzard. It was she who summoned it." A ghost of a smile flickers across her features. "It was she who made the clouds part for me."

"She used you," Merlin says furiously, and Arthur realizes Merlin is trembling with the force of his anger. "She corrupted you! Magic is better than this! You're better than this! And you've let her make you her pawn."

"Oh, what would you know about it!" Morgana spits. "Morgause loves me." Her eyes land on Arthur's. "She is my half-sister; my mother's daughter, but not my father's."

Oh. Oh. Something huge and terrible begins to make itself known at the edges of Arthur's understanding. He suddenly wants very much for Morgana to stop talking, though he could not say just why. Sisters, they're sisters, but only by half—so Vivian must have been unfaithful, but then—

"Yes," Morgana says, as though she can hear his very thoughts; who knows, perhaps she can. "Though I never knew it as a child, it seems Mother had an unhappy marriage." Her gaze is steady on Arthur's, waiting. "A proclivity for affairs."

And all at once Arthur's mind flashes back to the snowy battle atop the watchtower. I had an affair, you know.

It can't be.

"You," Arthur says in wonder, and in spite of everything a tiny, stubborn spark of joy worms its way into his heart. Family has always been something he'd lost—never something he found. "It's you."

"Heir and a spare," Morgana sing-songs. "But did he acknowledge me? Did he truly treat me as his own? Not until my real father went out and died for him, and he could trap me here under his iron fist!"

Arthur can hardly comprehend it, but in the end it makes a perfect sort of sense. All those times as a teenager when he thought he might be developing affections for her, only to have his father shut him down. The way his father took her in and cared for her as his own, even though he does not value life and would have done it for no one else. How his father doted on her, sometimes showing her even more leniency than he did to Arthur. How she and Arthur fought, growing up together—and yet, until just recently, there was no one he was closer to.

"I don't understand," Guinevere says. "Uther is your father? You're brother and sister?" She looks to Gaius. "Did you know?"

Arthur whips around to stare at him, but no, Gaius looks as shaken as the rest of them. "I knew about Morgause," he says. "But about Arthur? Uther told no one—not even me."

"We are alike," Morgana says, though she will not meet Guinevere's eyes. "We both tried to kill Uther when we truly realized what he was, didn't we? I had the chance to be his assassin after Tom's death." Behind her, Guinevere's eyes go wide. "And you, Arthur—you nearly skewered him on his own seat in the council chambers, didn't you? But in the end we were both too weak to do what needed to be done."

Arthur's blood runs cold; he is so stunned he nearly drops his knife. "How do you know about that?" he whispers. He told no one, no one, not even Morgana, and of the three witnesses present that day he knows none of them would have spoken of it—

"Dreams," Morgana answers. "Inside a dream Morgause's power is nearly unlimited; the dreamer's thoughts and memories are laid bare before her. And there's nothing Uther wouldn't tell his beloved Ygraine."

Arthur moves before he understands what he's doing, weak legs be damned; he lurches towards Morgana, getting right up in her space, heedless of the danger, and pins her to the wall with his knife at her throat. The fire simmering in his blood leaps out and all the torches on the walls flare again—but this time it is Arthur's doing. Merlin calls his name, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care, she will not speak of his mother that way, not when she aided the sorceress perverting his mother's image to hurt those his mother held most dear—

Up close, Morgana doesn't look frightened. She doesn't even look angry. She looks tired. "Going to kill me, brother?" she whispers. "Spare Father's life and not mine?"

The familial address sends such a shock through Arthur that he briefly recoils and nearly loses his balance; he leans against the wall and cages Morgana with his body so that cannot escape him, but it is all he can do now to stay upright.

"Arthur," Merlin warns, eyeing the torches warily, but Arthur pays him no heed.

"How could you?" Arthur snarls. "How could you find out we're your family, and then betray us? Nine people are dead!"

"And who can blame them?" Morgana challenges. "You have no idea what it's like spending every waking minute being afraid of yourself, afraid for your life, afraid that everyone in the whole world who hates you is right and you're a monster who's better off dead. To know that if you found even a single solitary soul you could share your secret with, it could cost them their life. You will never understand what it is to be so helpless and alone."

Arthur's hand shakes around the knife, pressed into Morgana's neck as much as it can be without breaking her skin. The heat from the torches grows worse by the second. "Do you know how to break the curse?" he asks, voice low and rough even to his own ears. "Do you know whose blood the black dagger is linked to?"

"I asked no questions," Morgana says. "Whatever happened, my surprise had to be genuine. My knowledge had to be limited. I didn't want anyone to be able to force the truth out of me, even on pain of death or worse. So I ask you again, brother—" She lifts her chin, angry and proud once more. "Are you going to kill me?"

Behind Arthur, Merlin and Gaius are silent, but Guinevere lets out a sob. "Arthur, please don't...I beg you..."

Morgana's wrong about one thing: Arthur does know a little about what it's like to be helpless and alone. For the six long months he's carried the secret of the true nature of his birth; out there in the training yard set ablaze by his own magic; atop of the watchtower with no one but his father coming at him like a man gone mad. He's had to learn it the hard way. He can never understand what it's like to have been born with true magic, but he knows better than ever what it means to be disgusted and frightened by yourself—and what it means to truly bear his father's wrath.

His father's wrath: born of pain.

Is Morgana's pain and fury truly so different? Is Arthur's own? It's something they all have in common: their pain turns them into monsters. When Arthur found out that his mother was sacrificed so that he might live, he was so hurt and so angry he nearly murdered his own father in cold blood. He was lucky; Merlin was there to stop him. But Morgana's pain runs just as deeply, and all she had was Morgause.

And yet—

Morgana is a sorceress, working with an enemy of Camelot. She committed high treason, betraying their family and their kingdom. She is at least partially responsible for nine deaths. She helped Morgause pervert his mother's image so that she could use it to torture their father to the point of insanity—insanity that nearly killed Arthur and his father both atop the watchtower.

It should trouble him, and yet the decision is almost absurdly easy. There really is only one thing to be done with her.

Arthur steps away, removing the knife. The flames of the torches begin to die down. "I'm not going to kill you."

Morgana watches him warily as he takes another step back, so he can use a nearby pillar for support. "Banishment, then," she says, and then seems to hit upon another idea. "Or—the dungeons? Going to clap me in irons like Father did?"

"No," Arthur says evenly, "I'm not." He tries to stand up a little straighter. "What would that solve? It wouldn't stop you from speaking with Morgause. It wouldn't break the curse. If you can spell a door shut, you can spell it open—how long would the dungeons even hold you? No, all it would do is sate my anger." And oh, is he ever angry; if he wasn't before, knowing what Morgause has used his mother's visage for boils his very blood. "It would make me feel better—but only for a short time. And then it would make both of us feel a lot worse."

Arthur pauses so that he may take a deep breath and brace himself. Then he holds out his hand.

"I'm coming to learn that wrath—" Arthur summons a few little flames to dance along his fingertips. "—is something that runs in the family."

Perhaps he should have known from the very beginning. Of every soul in Camelot, the three of them were the only ones who ever summoned fire.

Morgana has finally fallen silent. She opens her mouth but cannot seem to find her words.

"I won't add to your pain, sister." Arthur smiles, sad. "Your pain is what brought us here."

It has to stop somewhere. It has to stop somewhere. Magic has taken his mother, magic may yet take his father, but it will not have his sister too.

Morgana's eyes narrow, mistrustful. That's Arthur's fault, or his father's; he's not always sure which is which anymore. She was prepared for a fight, but Arthur is sick to death of fighting his family. She asks, "What are you going to do to me, then?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Arthur asks wearily. "I'm going to do nothing."

"What?" Merlin asks loudly. "Arthur!"

"Nothing," Morgana repeats. "I'm a sorceress! I betrayed you! And you have no retribution at all?"

Arthur thinks for a moment. "Well, you're definitely not allowed to see Father." That, he's certain, would end with their father smothered in his sleep. "But you don't pose a danger to anyone else, do you? It's just the two of us that you hate."

Morgana gapes.

"I'll not kill you," Arthur says, "or banish you, or imprison you. You're free to come and go as you always have. This is your home."

"Arthur, she is dangerous," Merlin says. "She killed nine people! She almost killed you! Look at yourself!"

Arthur glares at him; as far as he's concerned, Merlin's a filthy liar and he can shut it. "I seem to recall you making a rather passionate argument that zealotry killed those people, Merlin. Morgana's hardly responsible for that. As for this..." He looks down at himself, a living testament of his father's temper, and becomes subdued. "It's not the first quarrel I've had with Morgause," he says quietly. "I doubt it will be the last."

"You really will do nothing," Morgana says, stunned. "Nothing."

"Nothing," Arthur agrees grimly. "I don't—" Here he pauses, voice wavering traitorously. "I don't have so much family, my lady, that I can go around killing them on a whim." Strange that neither of his living relatives seem to understand that. Perhaps they have more in common than they'd like to think.

Morgana draws back, disgusted. "I'll go to her," she threatens. "I'll leave and join Morgause and none of you will ever hear from me again, not until we've come back to restore magic to its rightful place in Camelot."

Arthur's heart is so heavy. "Then I will miss you," he says, throat tight, for that is the truth. "But I won't stop you. No," he decides, "I won't stop you."

Arthur waits, braced for perhaps another angry tirade or even an attack—but Morgana is as good as her word. She gives them all a long look: Gaius, Merlin, Guinevere, and finally Arthur.

Then she turns on her heel and leaves.

Merlin watches Morgana leave with his heart in his throat. He wants to call out after her, to run and stop her and shake her by the shoulders and ask why—and at the same time he wants to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness one last time. He damn well knows why.

But he can do none of these things, especially not in front of Arthur. It wouldn't do any good anyway. He made his choices, and now he reaps his just rewards. And Morgana may yet have to do the same, for it could be too late to save her now.

After the last echoes of Morgana's footsteps fade into the distance, Arthur turns to Merlin. Merlin barely has time to brace himself before Arthur says, barely-contained fury in every word, "We lost good men going after Morgana."

"Arthur, I'm sorry—"

"People died, Merlin," Arthur says hotly. "People on both sides! Most druids don't fight back, do you understand that? If they're not fast enough to get out of harm's way, then they're cut down where they stand. There were children in that encampment, and my father gave the order to take no prisoners! Sorry isn't good enough!"

Merlin remembers very well the druids who died in that raid, having been there himself, but he can't tell Arthur that now. "I didn't tell him to give such an order," Merlin says, desperate. "I didn't tell him to send those men, I didn't put the idea in his head that a sorcerer had attacked her—"

"But you knew she left of her own volition!" Arthur says. "You knew she wasn't in danger!" Nearly four whole days Merlin fretted at his bedside, pouring every last ounce of energy he had into healing him, praying to all the Old Gods he knew that Arthur would wake, that Arthur would live. And now, less than an hour after opening his eyes, Arthur is more angry with Merlin than he's been in a very long time, maybe ever. A terrible thought seems to strike Arthur, then, for his expression darkens. "Did you know she was my sister, too?"

Merlin can take small comfort, at least, that Arthur has not asked him if he knew Morgana was working with Morgause. At least Arthur still thinks better of him than that. "I knew only that she had magic. I swear it, Arthur."

The look Arthur gives Merlin is positively heartbroken, but he does accept Merlin at his word. "You should have said something."

"How could I have?" Merlin asks, now angry himself. "Morgana's right, you know. It's not just dangerous for those who have magic, it's dangerous for anyone they confide in, anyone who helps them. The king was having anyone even suspected of sorcery or aiding a sorcerer rounded up and arrested, and you know as well as I what fate would have befallen them! Of course she was terrified—she would have been killed once your father worked out the truth!"

"Not by me," Arthur cries. "Do you truly think so little of me that I'd drag Morgana to the pyre?"

Merlin is not, in fact, confident that Arthur would not have felt tempted to do that very thing—but even putting that aside... "It's not as simple as a matter of trust," Merlin says. "You're a good man, Arthur. I know it. I've seen it. You are just and merciful, maybe even when you ought not be." Arthur looks away; he never has been able to stand an honest compliment. "But think for a moment—imagine the position you would have been in. You would have had to choose between betraying your father's law or betraying someone you loved. It would have destroyed you."

"But it should have been my choice," Arthur insists hotly.

The truth is that it was Morgana's choice: her choice to hide her magic and her choice to tell it. But Arthur can't see that—just like at Will's funeral, he feels so entitled to those secrets that he can't even to begin to understand the impossible situation those who have magic face. "If I lied to you," Merlin says, "by omission or otherwise—then it was to protect you, Arthur. You have to believe that!"

"Protect me?" Arthur shouts, and for a brief moment his eyes flare gold again; the torches on the walls all burn a little brighter. He gestures down at himself—the way he leans against the wall, the cuts and bruises on his face, his heavily bandaged arm, and the stitches of the wound beneath his shirt that nearly did him in for good. "Do I look protected to you?"

Merlin rocks back on his heels as if struck. No, he doesn't look protected, and that is Merlin's fault. Everything he's tried to do has blown up in his face. He couldn't protect Arthur, couldn't help Morgana; he can't even figure out how to break one stupid curse. "I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin says. "But it's my duty to protect you. I know I failed you this time—but you can't ask me not to try."

Arthur, it seems, has no ready response to that. He squeezes his eyes shut; after a long, tense moment, the fire dies down again. "I'm going to see my father," he says at last. "Gaius, I need you to rouse him, so I can see if he'll speak to me. As for you, Merlin, just..." Arthur dismisses him with a wave of his hand that breaks Merlin's heart clean in two. "Just go away."

Wait. He can't mean— "Are you sacking me?" Merlin asks incredulously.

"Sacking you," Arthur repeats in disbelief. "Anyone else would be executing you!"

Merlin waits, dread warring with fury.

Arthur sighs, bringing a hand to cover his eyes. "...but apparently I am feeling far too magnanimous for executions today. I don't care what you do, Merlin, but don't attend me tonight. I don't even want to look at you."

It's more than Merlin deserves, really. Of course Arthur's right; if Uther had been standing there instead, Merlin would be dead by sunrise. Of course he's furious about being lied to—who wouldn't be? But this is just over Morgana. What would happen if he found out that Merlin himself was a sorcerer? Would he forgive Merlin the magic, but banish him for the lies?

Morgana. Merlin's fists clench. How is it that she betrayed them all, helped get nine people killed, and got to walk away without so much as an unkind word, and Merlin, who saved Arthur's life, gets shouted at and threatened, maybe even sacked? It's not fair. Forget Morgana; Merlin's half-tempted to kill Arthur himself.

"Gaius," Arthur says, a clear command—and it is Gaius, not Merlin, who helps Arthur walk now, and sees him to his father's chambers. Just before they disappear from sight Gaius gives Merlin a sad look—but if he's hoping to console Merlin, he'll be disappointed. There aren't very many worse feelings than having Arthur angry with him, but being angry back is certainly near the top of the list.

The door closes with a sound of finality. And behind Merlin, Gwen stifles a sob.

Gwen.

Merlin nearly forgot she was there. But she is, both hands covering her mouth, tears tracked down her cheeks. "Oh, Gwen," he says, and rushes to her. He doesn't think twice about pulling her into a hug, letting her tuck her head under his chin so she can cry. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs, stroking her hair. They don't normally hug like this, but in the wake of the devastation Morgana's confessions wrought it feels only natural to hold each other up now. Merlin would do much to ease Gwen's hurt, but for all his power, he is helpless here. "Are you all right?"

She shakes her head into his chest, hiccuping. "How—" she asks, voice faltering. "H-how did you know? About Morgana's—magic?"

Merlin lets out a little sigh. No point holding back now, is there? "I worked it out when the fire started in her room. Her window was blown outward, not inward as it would have been from a lightning strike or an attack. And all her dreams...I just know magic when I see it."

"Because of Will?"

Merlin hugs Gwen to him and doesn't answer. He, like Morgana, is tired of lying.

"She's wrong," Gwen says into his chest. She's still crying but her tone has hardened. "I don't hate magic. Maybe I should—if not for sorcerers, my father would still be alive—but I don't. I saw how Will saved Ealdor with that whirlwind...I see every day how you and Gaius help people who have hurt themselves because of the curse...and I see how much Morgana has been made to suffer for feeling as though she is a monster when I know her to be good." Gwen reaches up to touch one of the flowers in her hair. "I've begun to feel them, did you know that? The little plants I can make come up through the snow. I couldn't at first. I think maybe I wasn't ready. But now I see that it's just as you described in the forest. There is life in them—magic. And it doesn't feel evil at all. It is beautiful."

Merlin blinks fast, looking upward. It wouldn't do for them both to begin crying.

"Magic didn't kill my father," Gwen says firmly. "Uther did. Merlin, I know it is treason to say so, but Uther's persecution of sorcerers is wrong. If this is what it leads to—losing my father, losing Morgana, it's wrong." Gwen begins to cry in earnest again. "I don't know what to do. I don't want her to go, and it's not just because I don't want to lose her. It would be one thing if leaving was what she needed to be safe and happy. But I'm so afraid for her to be out there all alone, feeling bitter and unloved. I love her, Merlin, I love her so much, and I can't imagine how much she's suffered for her to want to leave her whole life b-behind."

It's funny. This whole time, as Merlin has been fighting to soften Arthur's heart to magic, Gwen has been listening too. And now, all on her own, even after seeing the worst magic has to offer, she's decided that it can't be all bad. Merlin's done at least one good thing. But with Morgana gone, it feels too little, too late.

Merlin wishes he knew what to say to comfort Gwen. "At least she's made her pain known to us," he tries. "All that suffering and loneliness...she doesn't have to carry it around on her own anymore, pretending everything's all right when it isn't. And whatever happens now, whatever the consequences—she's finally free. No one can hold her secret over her head. She doesn't have to hide and wait for someone to find her out. Even if the road ahead of her is hard or dangerous, she gets to walk it as herself."

Gwen sniffles. "You sound almost as if you envy her." There is just the faintest trace of uncertainty in her tone, just as there was the morning after Merlin healed her father and nearly revealed himself by asking how Tom was instead of waiting for her to give him the news on her own. Like she understands she's missing something, even if she isn't sure yet what it is.

What if Merlin told her?

The frisson of fear sent down his spine at just the thought is so sudden and intense Merlin sways on his feet. He can't. It doesn't matter that Gwen doesn't hate magic, or that she's hurt that Morgana didn't trust her. Morgana's right: magic is dangerous, not just to those who have it but to those who know about it. Even if Gwen said—even if she felt—Merlin hates to lie to her when the tears shed over Morgana's secrecy have not even dried, but he can't, he can't—

But as Gwen looks up at him, still wiping the tears from her eyes, something in her face changes. "Merlin," she says abruptly. "Merlin, my God. Do you envy her?"

"I," Merlin says, throat suddenly dry. "I don't know what you mean—"

"You do," Gwen says, eyes wide. "You're like Morgana, aren't you?"

There is something else Merlin and Morgana have in common, besides the magic: when they first came to Camelot, new and alone, Gwen's hand was the very first offered in friendship.

Gwen is kind. She is brave. She is steadfast and she loves deeply, so deeply that she would rather change her mind about magic than change her mind about the love she has for Morgana. She risked her life to help defend Ealdor against the raiders. She let Merlin talk about Will, in the forest. She grew lobelia even when Arthur forbid it. She loves Morgana despite her betrayal. If Merlin told her she was mistaken, she would try to believe him, because she is a good friend. But just as Gaius's lies were ineffective at hiding Morgana's nature from her, so too will Merlin's be at hiding his nature from Gwen. She's worked it out now. And somewhere, deep down, she'll always know the truth. She'll always know Merlin didn't trust her.

All she wants is to be trusted.

Merlin's been cautioned all his life to keep his silence, and he has; anyone who knows worked it out on their own—even his enemies, like Edwin Muiren and Cornelius Sigan. Merlin's kept his silence so well that it's driven Morgana from this kingdom and turned Arthur against him, perhaps forever. It seems an insurmountable task to break it now.

And yet.

Merlin takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. His hands feel clammy, suddenly. "I'm not like Morgana," he says. He's so used to silence that he has to force the words out. When did he start trembling? "I'm not like Morgana at all. I'm not nearly as brave as her. I could never do what she did. I'm trying right now, and I still can't do it, I can't, not with Arthur on the other side of that door. I'm too frightened. Will, Gaius, Lancelot, Morgana, they all just worked it out, I've never had to say it—"

"Merlin," Gwen says again, helpless. "You don't have to say it—you don't have anything to prove to me—"

"I think that I do." Just say it, Merlin thinks, pressing his fists into his eyes. Just say it! "I want to, I do. You deserve to feel that at least one person trusts you—"

"It's all right, I told you," says Gwen, and pulls him close.

But Merlin, with his chin hooked over her shoulder and cradled in the safety of a trusted friend's arms, is at last close enough and brave enough to whisper it in her ear. Three words he's never said to anyone before: as Gwen was his first friend in Camelot, it feels only right to give them to her before anyone else.

Gwen sucks in a stunned breath. "How long?" she breathes.

"I was born with it," Merlin mumbles into her shoulder. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

Gwen shakes her head, holding Merlin tight. "Not to worry, Merlin. Your secret's safe with me."

Merlin lets out a shuddering gasp of relief. They hold one another for a few more moments, long enough to begin to stop up their tears, until Gwen lets out a little laugh and draws back. "Merlin," she whispers, and she's smiling. "You confessed to the whole court! It was you that healed my father, wasn't it?"

Merlin flushes, the tips of his ears turning hot. "I couldn't let him die, or you."

"And the windstorm in Ealdor! It wasn't ever really Will, was it? He lied to save your life." Merlin nods; if he speaks of Will now he'll probably start crying again. Gwen's expression softens, and she gently chucks Merlin's chin. "You're braver than you believe, Merlin. It takes great courage to live in a world that wants you dead."

"I'm a coward." Merlin scrubs furiously at his eyes. "If I had told Morgana earlier, she could have come to me instead of Morgause. But now it's too late."

"Maybe not," Gwen murmurs, looking down the corridor. She draws herself up. "I'm going after her."

"What?" Merlin asks, alarmed. "Gwen, no. She's dangerous."

"Morgana would never hurt me." Gwen wipes away the last of her own tears. "She got to say her piece. It's time I said mine. I won't let her leave without talking to her. She deserves to know..." Gwen falters. "I love her," she says again, as if imparting to Merlin some important and heretofore unknown secret, though of course Merlin already knows they're as close as any friends could be. "Do you understand what I mean? I love her. And I would never turn on her."

And Merlin believes her. He just hopes Morgana does too.

"Will you be all right?" Gwen asks. "I hate to leave you so quickly, but I'm afraid if I don't I'll miss her."

Merlin nods. "Yeah—yeah, I'm just going to—the guards should be back any minute, and in the meantime if something should happen—" Scarcely able to believe he's communicating this to her, he holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers.

"Oh!" Gwen's eyes go round. "Yes, I suppose you can look after yourself after all." Her expression softens. "Merlin...thank you for telling me."

"It's me who should be thanking you," Merlin says. He attempts to smile. "Good luck with Morgana."

"Thanks," Gwen says, and squares her shoulders. "I have a feeling I'm going to need it."

No sooner does Gwen turn round one corner than the guards turn round the other. That's probably the only thing that's going to go right for Merlin today, aside from Arthur waking from his unconsciousness. He has no intention of leaving Gaius, Arthur, and the king completely unguarded all at once, but neither can he put aside his worry that Gwen needs protecting too. What if Morgana hurts her? Merlin doesn't think she would, but then four days ago he didn't think she would become a backstabbing traitor, either.

Merlin gives the guards a nod and then beats a hasty retreat; Arthur did order him to get lost, after all, something he's trying very hard not to think about right now. He has no idea where Morgana's gone—if she's packing in her rooms or went straight to the stables to filch a horse or if at this very moment she's trying to scale the castle walls to Uther's window to give murdering him another go—but luckily, he need not look the traditional way. He makes for his and Gaius's quarters, going as fast as he can.

The bowl Merlin and Gaius turned into a scrying font has been stashed under the loose floorboard in Merlin's room with his Sidhe staff. Merlin dared not breathe a word of Morgana's treachery while both Arthur and his father still slept, so he and Gaius have been running themselves ragged trying to be with Arthur, Uther, and Morgana all at once, while somehow managing not to completely neglect their duties of undoing the magical damage Camelot's citizens keep inflicting on themselves. But no man can be everywhere at once, not even a sorcerer, so to that end Merlin, with Gaius's aid, has been using the scrying font to keep an eye on things.

Gaius isn't here now—he's with Arthur, where Merlin would be if Morgana hadn't gone and lost her entire head—but after nearly four days Merlin's an old hand at this. In short order he has the candles snuffed and the water in the bowl.

Pictures of the castle's inhabitants fly by—the guards on-duty in the stairwell that leads down to the dragon, the cook nodding off by the stove, a stable boy pulling a late-night shift—

Wait—there! Merlin grasps the bowl tightly. Morgana is outside the stables. She comes inside and gives the lad mucking them out a few coins and he leaves. Morgana approaches her favorite white mare—then pauses, looking around as though she knows she's being watched. Merlin would swear for one second that they make eye contact—and then Morgana starts at some sound Merlin cannot hear, and when he squints he can just make out Gwen at the stable entrance, silhouetted against the snow outside.

How in the world did she get there so fast? How did she know where to look? She must know Morgana better than Merlin does. No matter. Merlin lets go of the bowl, ending the spell, and barely stops to grab his cloak before he's racing back out the way he came in. They never need know he's there—but he's not going to let Gwen face Morgana alone.

It's snowing again tonight—thanks, Morgause—and Merlin nearly slips on the icy stairs twice on his way out of the castle, coming dangerously close to rendering his whole journey moot by way of a broken neck. By the time he gets down to the stables he's panting and has a terrible stitch in his side, which makes it doubly hard to keep quiet as he attempts to creep through the crunching snow towards the stable window where he's least likely to be seen.

"...of course I'm angry!" Gwen is saying once Merlin gets close enough to hear over the wind. "How could I not be?"

"There was no chance, Gwen. If I thought a trial would have helped save him—"

"I'm not angry about my father, Morgana!" Gwen says over her. "I'm angry that you lied to me! That you couldn't trust me! I'm angry that you're hurting people! What's wrong with you? The Morgana I know would never act this way."

There's a short silence. "What?"

When Merlin finally dares to peek inside, he sees that Morgana and Gwen stand together beside Morgana's white mare, strangely close but not touching. "Helping curse Camelot," says Gwen, jaw working, "letting Morgause torment Uther and Arthur with nightmares, locking them up on that tower to force Arthur into killing his own father—"

"I'm just trying to stay safe," Morgana says, voice trembling. "Don't you see? So long as Uther still draws breath I am his prisoner, and this castle is my golden cage. I won't be free until he's dead. Why should it matter? He's a monster!"

"You think I don't know that?" Gwen demands. "Me? He killed my father! He tried to burn me at stake! I have seen with my own two eyes the bruises he left on both of his children! But this isn't about him, Morgana—it's about you. This is not who you are."

Morgana flinches at the words both of his children in a way Merlin is sure she wouldn't have done if she knew anyone else could see her but Gwen. "You don't know who I am," she says, quiet but stubborn. "I have magic. I'm cursed. And I am only doing what I must to survive."

"Don't you dare give me that nonsense," Gwen says hotly. "I know everything about you! I have been at your side for a fucking decade. I know the names of all your childhood dolls and what your favorite wine is and about every last one of your bad dreams. I know you have a good heart—you always have; it's how I came to love you. I know you have a gift, an extraordinary one, and that your heart is what makes that gift so beautiful." She lifts a hand to stroke a lock of hair out of Morgana's eyes and tuck it behind her ear. It's an awfully familiar touch for a maidservant; even Merlin wouldn't dare touch Arthur so, no matter how much he might like to try. "And I know that you are so much better than Uther. Don't you see that? You are so terribly kind. And you are capable of incredible things. You can still rise above who he is and what he's done."

"Gwen..." Morgana turns her face into Gwen's hand, eyes closed. "You sound so certain. But to Merlin and Arthur, I'm already a murderer."

"Yet no one's died at your hands so far," Gwen reminds her. "You can still change things here, Morgana, if you can find just a little more patience and a little more courage. But if you run away and join Morgause, if you choose the path of violence as Uther did, the whole world will hate you. They will hunt you. And you'll be no safer out there than you were here. Sooner or later..." Gwen's voice cracks. "You'll die."

Morgana pulls away from Gwen and takes a few paces back so that she is out of arm's reach. "I'm sorry about your father," she says quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you. But I'm not sorry for defending myself against Uther, and I never will be. And that is why I cannot stay. There's no place for me in Camelot anymore. I cannot stand to be trapped in the same castle as Uther, Gwen, not even for one more day. I'll go mad."

Gwen doesn't let Morgana avoid her gaze so easily; though she respects the distance Morgana has put between them, she steps around so that Morgana is forced to meet her eye—and Merlin is forced to duck behind the stable wall so as to avoid being seen. "There will always," Gwen says, each word slow and deliberate, "be a place for you where I am. There is nowhere I'd rather be than at your side."

"After everything I've done?" Morgana whispers. "I betrayed you."

"I would not be standing here if I did not still love you, Morgana."

The wind rattles the walls. Merlin is so, so cold. At last Morgana starts, "Gwen—"

"If you will not stay, then let me come with you."

What? No!

"What?" Morgana asks, aghast, as Merlin shoves his face back into the window. "No! You have a life here, a home—"

"My home is with you," Gwen says fiercely, thankfully turned away from Merlin now. "If you'll still have me." She falters. "All those naps and early nights, all those times you seemed so far away even though we were right next to each other...I didn't even dream it was because of magic and Morgause. I thought I stopped being enough. I thought maybe you didn't want me anymore."

As her maidservant? Merlin couldn't see why not, except that Morgana's apparently gone as mad as Uther—sure enough, Morgana looks up fast, expression wounded, and at last takes one step back towards Gwen. She promises, "I will always want you."

"Then stay," Gwen pleads. "When I could not enter my own home without seeing the ghost of my father everywhere in it, you opened your chambers to me. Let me now repay that kindness. I know my house is humble, and my trappings meager, but what I have is yours. My home," she says, stepping towards Morgana too, "my bed...my heart..."

"Gwen," Morgana says again, tears standing in her eyes. "Gwen..."

"Don't go," Gwen whispers. "I beg you, Morgana. If you still love me, please don't go."

They lock eyes for a long moment. Merlin draws breath for a spell, just in case.

"I do still love you," Morgana says, and her tears finally spill. "I do still love you, I do—"

And she takes the final step, meets Gwen in an embrace at last, and then they draw back and tilt their faces towards one another, and—

Oh. Oh.

Merlin slaps a hand over his eyes and ducks around the corner of the barn, mortified to have witnessed something so private, but there's no mistaking the wet sound of lips as they part. He flushes from his chest to the tips of his ears, his entire body suddenly overwarm despite the freezing weather. Every single thing Gwen said just now and in the corridor earlier suddenly makes a lot more sense.

The kissing sounds continue, and Morgana breathes Gwen's name in a tone Merlin's definitely never heard her use before, and Merlin makes the impromptu decision that his work is entirely done here. Gwen is going to be in the opposite of danger tonight, that's for damn sure. Morgana may be one hell of an actress, but nobody fakes a sound like that.

Merlin leaves the stables even faster than he came upon them, somehow. He nearly slips on the snow and breaks his neck again, but it's worth it. He knows now that Gwen is safe, and that Morgana—for all she has suffered this past year—has one last shred of goodness here in Camelot to hold on to.

Maybe Gwen's right, and it's not too late after all.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Arthur is woken by silence.

To be exact, he's woken up by the white light—snowing again—pouring in through his windows once his curtains were flung open, but usually the flinging is accompanied with Merlin's cheerful, "Rise and shine!" Today it's accompanied by nothing, and that's how Arthur knows he's going to wish he never got out of bed.

What is Merlin doing here? Arthur told him to go away.

"Please don't be too hard on Merlin, sire," Gaius said last night as they exited his father's chambers and after they were out of earshot of the guards. No matter how Arthur pled with him, nothing could persuade the king to speak; he looked through Arthur as though he wasn't there at all. "I knew about her magic. I knew where Merlin sent her. I too might have spoken up, and I did not. Merlin keeps much silence at my urging. If anyone deserves your anger, it is me."

Of course Gaius knew. Or maybe he was just trying to protect Merlin, as always—but all he succeeded in doing was making Arthur feel like an ass for being angry when he had every right to be. As though he'd actually seriously punish Merlin at all with anything besides shouting and heaps of extra chores. Arthur knows his status as prince demands respect, but now shame curls in his stomach at the idea that it also inspires fear—not in his enemies, but in his friends. What has he ever done to make even people like Merlin and Gaius frightened of him?

"I begged Merlin not to get involved," Gaius continued. "But he felt he had no choice—that inaction would doom Morgana just as surely as any pyre."

Arthur would rather have skipped the mention of pyres, at that particular moment, but the point was understood. Merlin and Morgana are alike in that way—neither of them can tolerate injustice, nor sit idly by when they believe they can help. Of course, something else they have in common is accidentally getting people killed; the druids on Merlin's part, and Tom the blacksmith on Morgana's.

"Someone would have died either way," Gaius adds, tentative. "Those accused of attacking Morgana, or the druids she fled to." Just as Tom could have died on the chopping block or escaping prison. They're impossible choices; not life-or-death so much as death-or-death. And the one responsible for backing Merlin and Morgana into those dread corners to begin with? Even now he lies comatose and oblivious in his chambers, and may never truly awaken.

Arthur knows a little about impossible choices, especially ones brought about by the king's misdeeds. What else could it be when a son presses his sword against his own father's heart?

Arthur told Gaius, "You don't have to protect Merlin from me. If I didn't punish Morgana, I'm certainly not going to punish him." And he was both glad that Gaius seemed to believe him and sickened that Gaius looked so relieved, so he said nothing more on the matter.

But Merlin doesn't seem to share any of Gaius's gratitude; he has bustled around Arthur's room for nearly a minute now without a single word. Clearly, Merlin still cross with him. It's wildly inappropriate, and extremely annoying, but at the same time almost a relief. At least Merlin isn't cowed and timid the way Gaius was last night.

There's honeyed tea, hot broth, soft bread, and some leafy green vegetables on a tray at Arthur's table, along with a bottle of tonic, which will all go a long way towards getting Arthur's feet back under him—but Arthur's not sure he can get there on his own, and he doesn't want to ask Merlin for help when Merlin won't speak, won't even look at him. Arthur sits up on his elbows, grateful his arms seem to have the strength to hold him. From here he can make out Merlin's silhouette against the window as he ties off the curtain cords. His back is turned.

Well, to hell with this. Arthur forces himself into an upright position and throws off his blankets. He'll get to the table on his own or die trying.

Unfortunately for Arthur, who in the end could not even stay awake long enough to finish all of the broth he sent for last night, it appears it may be the latter; four steps away from his bed and his knees give out entirely.

Merlin, somehow, is there to catch him before he hits the floor. "Prat," he hisses. "Fall and split your head open and you'll find a way to blame me for that too."

"He speaks," Arthur says flatly. "What a relief! I'm not used to your silence on anything except that which actually matters."

Merlin, in retaliation, is perhaps a bit less gentle than he could be when he drops Arthur into his chair.

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing here," says Arthur, "or should I be expected to endure your silence all morning? I specifically remember ordering you—"

"To get lost," Merlin says tightly, "and that you didn't want to see me at all last night. Well, you didn't. But now, sire, as your bright self can see, it's the morning. And since you haven't sacked me yet, here I am to do my job. If you'd like me to do something else, you're going to have to say it."

Arthur cuts him a glare, magic simmering hotly beneath his skin. He can think of plenty of things he'd like Merlin to do, thank you very much, but that sort of language isn't becoming of a prince.

Merlin, though, is pointedly avoiding meeting his eye, so instead Arthur aims his glare down at his breakfast—light but nourishing, as befits someone who's spent nearly four days mostly unconscious and living on nothing but water. At present the thought of eating anything at all turns his stomach, but this isn't the first grievous injury he's recovered from; he knows that after the first few bites he'll be ravenous. "Is this all I'm to start with, then? Cheers." He lifts the spoon to his lips with his left hand, grateful for the steam warming his face.

Merlin folds his arms, unimpressed. "Morgana's still in Camelot."

Arthur chokes on the very first mouthful. "Merlin," he complains, through a fit of coughing.

"Didn't want you to think I was holding out on you," Merlin says sweetly, as though he hadn't waited on purpose for Arthur to be mid-swallow before breaking that news. "Anyway. She's staying with Gwen for the time being."

"And how do you know this?" Is it Arthur's imagination, or are Merlin's ears turning pink?

"I saw—" Merlin stammers. "Well, Gwen, was, um, upset. About Morgana. They are very close, you know."

"Close as sisters," Arthur agrees readily.

"I wouldn't say sisters, I'm sure there are exceptions but I think probably most sisters don't—"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupts, annoyed. "Where are you going with this?"

Merlin shakes his head as if to clear it. "Gwen followed Morgana to the stables because she was worried, and I followed Gwen because I was worried. And I overheard them talking. So that's how I know." His eyes narrow. "Sire."

Arthur sighs. Is Merlin going to start being deferential to Arthur on purpose right as Guinevere finally stops? Seems Arthur really can't catch a break these days. It's just like Merlin to have gone after Guinevere: as useless as he is in a fight, he is fiercely protective. Arthur scowls. Trust Merlin to make Arthur feel bad for being angry. If Arthur hadn't told him to go away last night, Merlin might not have had to follow Guinevere alone. Arthur's as useless in a fight as Merlin is right now, but he would have followed Guinevere too if he had known she was going to speak with Morgana after everything that happened, and defended her to the best of his ability.

Worse still: now that Arthur is closer to his tray and paying proper attention, he has realized that Merlin, in spite of everything, added honey to his tonic and left a few raspberries on his plate. They're not in season just yet, so they must've been grown magically, and since Merlin can't do that himself, he probably had to go out of his way to make a special request of Guinevere. And he would have only done all that to begin with because he is one of the only people in the world who knows raspberries are Arthur's favorite.

He must have had them grown before their argument last night. He must have kept them saved, waiting for the day when Arthur would be able to wake up and eat them.

To top it all off, Merlin's magical healing really is something else; Arthur can feel already that most of his weakness comes from the lack of food, not his injuries, and that after the meal's done he'll be fit to walk about a bit on his own. It's as if he's spent weeks focused solely on recovery when it was only four days ago; as if he had endured nothing more than a flesh wound when losing so much blood would have put a less healthy or less lucky man in his grave. Arthur might even be tempted to thank Merlin properly, if not for—well.

Overall, Merlin is making it very, very hard to stay angry with him—which, paradoxically, only makes Arthur angrier.

Arthur's torn. It's not as if he enjoys being at odds with Merlin; far from it. But at the same time, how can he be expected to be all right with all the secrets and lying? Merlin didn't tell Arthur Will was a sorcerer until after Arthur had already seen the magic and heard Will's confession for himself. He didn't tell Arthur he was using magic deliberately once the curse began, nor that he and Gaius were attempting to use the very magic they were cursed with to break it. He didn't tell Arthur about Morgana's magic, nor that she had gone to the druids seeking their help.

It raises too many uncomfortable questions. First and foremost: what else is Merlin hiding? Arthur would have once laughed at the very idea that Merlin was capable of treason, but Arthur's father certainly would have counted his silence on Morgana's whereabouts as a treasonous act, even without the issue of magic. Merlin's secrets and contradictory nature have always been a bit of a point of fascination for Arthur, but he never imagined Merlin could be dangerous. Is there still more to learn about Merlin that Arthur will like even less than what he already knows?

Secondly: why wouldn't Merlin come to him? Arthur has gotten him out of trouble time and again: from the day of his false confession of sorcery in front of the whole court so that he might die in Guinevere's place, to helping defend his village from raiders, to telling him to flee when he was nearly arrested for stealing from the so-called Lady Catrina. Does Merlin really believe Arthur would have attacked Will for sorcery in his own village, beyond Camelot's borders, or punished him for using magic deliberately if that was what he had to do for his own survival, and the survival of his people? Does he really believe that Arthur, had he known Morgana had magic through no choice of her own, would have seen her imprisoned or killed?

Merlin just doesn't trust Arthur, not the way Arthur trusts him. He must know by now that Arthur has always been his father's right hand, a sword prepared to dispatch the king's enemies at a moment's notice, just as deadly and dangerous as the king's own wrath. But Arthur is also a shield from that wrath; has used his status as protection to see to it that Morgana was freed from the dungeons, that his father did not stop sending food to their people during the famine brought on by Arthur's slaying of the unicorn, that the concerns of the guardsman who wanted to halt the search for sorcerers when the curse first began reached the king's ears without endangering anyone. It doesn't always help, it doesn't always work, but for Merlin, he would have tried. He would have been Merlin's shield, if Merlin only asked.

But he didn't. Didn't, perhaps, even realize that he could. And after everything Arthur has been through lately—his crippled sword hand, the curse, his father and Morgana going mad one after the other—that's what stings the most. Deep, deep down, Arthur suspects he knows the real reason Merlin and Morgana and even Gaius all lied to him. They all think he's too much like his father. They couldn't be certain that he wouldn't hear the word magic and lose his head.

And, up until very recently—they might have been right.

It's not as simple as a matter of trust, Merlin said, but it certainly feels that way to Arthur.

"It's not as though I don't understand your position," Arthur tries, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Merlin freeze where he's been fluffing up a pillow. "I just wish..." He gives his head a short sharp shake. "But I suppose we don't always get what we wish for."

Merlin puts the pillow down and comes around to the edge of the table. "I do trust you," he says, as though he's finally gotten good enough at magic to read Arthur's mind. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I do. I told you I wouldn't lie without a good reason."

Arthur puts his spoon down, considering Merlin for a moment. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't have to lie. What counts as a good reason, anyway? Do you have any other good reasons, anything else you're holding out on? Are you lying to me right now?"

"Well, I'm not talking right now—"

Arthur's face screws up in confusion. "Yes you are. I mean, not now, but you were when you said it—"

"You know what I meant!" Merlin fiddles with the hem of his jacket. "Look, it's not like we don't all keep secrets, sometimes—even you must have at least one."

That draws Arthur up short. Merlin's right. He doesn't know that Arthur really was born of magic, and he doesn't know half of the things Arthur's done in his father's name, acting as his sword. Not the way Morgana does. She had good reason to throw the killing of the druids in his face last night. It's not something Arthur likes to think about.

Arthur's own magical secret—that he was born of it—has been eating him alive for six long months. To actually have magic, real magic, while living at the heart of Camelot? Arthur can't imagine the kind of double life Morgana's had to lead, the kind of paranoia and exhaustion she's had to live with for every second for nearly a year now.

At long last, Arthur admits in a mumble, "I suppose I do." Then he shovels a load of greens in his mouth so he has an excuse not to talk.

Merlin's expression changed at the admission: he is positively intrigued. But two can play at keeping secrets, if that's how it's going to be. Arthur has reasons for his silence too.

He waits for Merlin to start pestering him, thinks up a hundred easy deflections, but in the end all Merlin asks is, "Does this mean you're still angry?"

Ugh. "Yes."

"Am I sacked or not, then?"

Arthur slurps loudly at his broth.

Merlin doesn't take the hint. "And by the way, are you ever going to apologize to me for being such an ass when you let Morgana walk free and clear?"

All right, that's it. Arthur has nearly just choked on his breakfast for the second time today. "Merlin, get out of here while I'm trying to eat! You're a menace!"

"But I haven't finished making your bed," Merlin protests.

"Out!" Arthur roars, and chucks his spoon at Merlin's head for good measure. It being a left-handed throw, Merlin ducks it easily—but at least this time he actually has to duck. Arthur's getting better.

"Fine," says Merlin tartly. "You know, I think I liked you better when you were unconscious." So saying, he makes his exit—but not without adding one last overly-courteous sire before the door slams shut behind him.

Arthur would never admit as much to anyone, but Merlin may sometimes be right to call him a prat: now that he's chased away his manservant, there's no one around to help him get dressed or change his bandages, and he's forced to prepare himself for the coming day alone.

The first order of business must be his magic, lest he set his room afire before he's even finished breakfast. Aside from last night, it hasn't gotten any real use in four days, and it feels hot and volatile beneath his skin; it's no wonder he lost control. He uses his injured hand—the one he's worryingly coming to think of as the magical one, since it's good for little else—to raise and then lower the flames in the hearth over and over while he eats left-handed and gradually feels the magic settle into something almost pleasantly warm, a brace against the chill.

After breakfast Arthur goes through his armoire himself, digs up one of the last decent-looking outfits that hasn't yet been scorched beyond use—if he lives through this wretched curse, he's going to have to have an entirely new wardrobe tailored—and manages to dress himself one-handed. It's not so difficult anymore except for the laces of his trousers, which thwart Arthur so many times he nearly sets his room afire after all out of sheer frustration. It was bad enough doing them on his own before he maimed his right hand beyond all further use by grabbing a flaming sword. His hand was healing, the bandages had come off—but now they're back again, even heavier than before, and the movement he regained has been lost, hindered by new injuries and layers and layers of stiff white cloth. Dressing himself now is nearly impossible.

And speaking of his bandages, they must be changed too, and that is a task beyond even Arthur's stubborn determination. So, once the dread trouser laces have been defeated at last, Arthur goes and sees Gaius.

Gaius said last night that he's been sleeping in the antechamber outside his father's chambers, in case his condition changed unexpectedly; Merlin, it seems, had been doing the same for Arthur until he finally awoke. Rather than try the physician's tower, then—even with magical healing, standing and walking unaided is still a feat of endurance, but especially so on stairs—Arthur heads back to his father's chambers instead.

Arthur finds Gaius as expected, though when he lets himself in Gaius seems nearly as surprised to see Arthur dressed and walking about as he did to see him standing in the corridor outside last night. "Well, look at you," Gaius says, once he's had a moment to absorb the shock. "I didn't expect you to recover so quickly."

"'Recover' might be overselling it," Arthur admits. The short walk from his chambers to his father's has him exhausted already, and he takes a seat by his father's bedside to catch his breath. "I'm here to get my wound cleaned, if my father can spare you. How is he? Any change?"

There's none to speak of, though once Arthur's hand has been rebandaged he does request that Gaius wake his father again, so that Arthur may try once more to speak to him and Gaius can take a break for his morning meal. Arthur spends the next half hour speaking with his father about nothing of substance—the weather and what he had for breakfast—while his father stares into the middle distance, unresponsive. Arthur is beginning to grow frustrated. He's tried pleading and he's tried patience; maybe all that's left is provocation. "This is no better than what you were doing before," Arthur points out. "This is just like hiding in your chambers, except now you're using magic to do it. You, of all people!"

Nothing. His father won't even look at him.

"You must hear me," Arthur says. "You must. Don't you want to know what's going on? Do you even care?" It's not fair that Arthur has to face this and his father doesn't. All those terrible truths dropped on Arthur last night, and he can't tell his father a single one. Not that Morgana's a sorceress, or that she's working with Morgause. It would be as good as admitting that his father isn't going to recover, to carry on as though his knowing those truths poses no danger to Morgana anymore. It would be admitting that his father will never again be capable of acting upon them.

But there is one thing Arthur can say, isn't there? He leans close, watching his father's face carefully. "I know Morgana is my sister."

Still nothing. Arthur leans back in his chair in defeat.

"Maybe I should get her to try instead," he mumbles. That'd go over well, he's certain. He scrubs at his hair with his good hand. "Your last words were for her and you'd just tried to kill me, but she actually seems to think I'm your favorite. It's unbelievable."

Arthur puts his hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to rise, but when he takes one last glance at his father's face he finds that his eyes are actually focused—looking directly at Arthur.

It would be Morgana, Arthur thinks, half-hysterical. "Father," he breathes, dropping back down into his seat, leaning forward to take one of his father's hands between his two mismatched ones. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

His father says nothing, but his eyes search Arthur's face—looking, Arthur realizes, at the cuts and bruises he left there.

Arthur doesn't want to talk about that. "Father, I need your help," he says. "I know how to end the curse. There's something I must destroy, but it's been enchanted so as to be unbreakable. I think you know what it is." No response, so Arthur pushes forward: "It's the black dagger, Father. The one you spoke of on the tower."

That gets a reaction. His father's eyes flash gold for a split second before they squeeze shut entirely. He makes a pained sound. "Ygraine..."

Arthur could scream. They're this close to ending the curse for good, and his father is too focused on his own grief to give Arthur so much as a single word of assistance. "This isn't about my mother, or what you did to her! We've been through that already! It's about your people! They need you. I need you to tell me everything about that knife so I can figure out how to break the enchantment. So I can destroy it."

"No," his father begs, gold light seeping out from beneath his eyelids. "Ygraine..."

"So help me..." Arthur warns, dropping his father's hand and standing up to his full height, but before he can properly draw enough breath to start shouting, his father stills. His breathing evens out. The golden light fades from his eyes.

He's enchanted himself back to sleep.

It's not fair.

Arthur drags a hand down his face, so angry he's in danger of accidentally lighting his father on fire. Perhaps that would wake him up.

Then he leans down close to the bed, so his father is sure not to miss a word. "I know where Morgause is," he says, voice low. "I gave Merlin and Gaius only a week to come up with something better before I ride off and force her to break the curse myself. And when it is broken, you'll have no more magic to hide behind. You will have to face me. So sleep now if you want to. I don't care."

Sleep his father does. And seeing his once-strong father like this, a shell of his former self who is now fighting to die, Arthur hates magic. It doesn't matter that the sorcerers were targeted unfairly or that magic may just be a tool like any other. Magic is taking his father away from him.

It's only too easy to understand now why his father wanted the sorcerers dead.

Arthur was unconscious for almost four days, and in that time, most of his duties were handled by Sir Leon. The general consensus seemed to be that Arthur wasn't going to wake any time soon, if ever, and as a result Arthur's normally full schedule is bereft of responsibilities. Arthur spends some of his morning walking the corridors, working to get his strength back, but the thought of poor Leon run ragged will not leave him—so, after lunch, he arranges a meeting with Leon in his chambers to get caught up on what he's missed, and give Leon a little relief.

"It's good to see you awake," Leon says warmly. There are the beginnings of circles under his eyes. "How's your father? Have you had any word?"

Arthur scowls. Leon holds up his hands in surrender and doesn't ask again.

Just before the end of their meeting, Leon, ever-loyal, reluctantly informs Arthur that he has reason to suspect there may be a traitor in their midst. He tells Arthur everything: about the door to the watchtower that could only have been spelled shut by someone with true magic and the warning Merlin gave him, urging Arthur to speak to him to see what he knows. (Too late for that, sadly.) Merlin accredited the extra guards to Leon, but all along it was actually his doing—and if he hadn't warned Leon about the traitor, Morgana would have had almost four days to seek his father out unhindered, to walk right into his chambers when he was at his most vulnerable and...

So perhaps Merlin is capable of speaking up when it matters after all.

Ugh. It would be so much easier if Arthur could just stay angry with him.

"Hang on," Arthur says at the conclusion of this story. "If the door was spelled shut with real magic, how on earth did Merlin get up to my father and me before you lot did?"

Leon's gaze drops. "I couldn't say."

Hm. "Your prince is ordering you to say."

Leon looks uncomfortable. "If there's to be a punishment, it should fall on me. I was the one who made the decision, not Merlin."

Arthur leans forward, interested. "Go on."

Leon sighs, hesitant. "I know we are both aware that Gaius performs true sorcery to heal the magical maladies brought on by the curse and that he is teaching Merlin to do the same. Both your and your father's lives were in danger. So I—" Abruptly, conviction has him straighten his spine. "It was I who told Merlin that if he knew a spell to open the door, he should use it. I thought that if him getting to you first would save your life, it would be worth any cost. Forgive me, sire, but I noticed that your injuries had been partially healed when I arrived—and it is my honest opinion that if they had not been, you would not have survived even the trip down the stairs."

Merlin's as brave as he is stupid, Arthur thinks with a grudging tug of admiration. Any other fool who saw that river of blood on the watchtower stairs would have waited for the guards, but no, not Merlin. Arthur already knew he owed Merlin his life—but he did not suspect that Merlin walked right into unknown danger to save him.

Leon's shoulders are still looking stiff—it seems he too worries Arthur will overreact about the use of magic—so Arthur says, "At ease, Leon. I'm not going to punish anyone for saving our lives. You both have my gratitude."

Leon eyes him warily. "Even though magic was involved?"

Arthur tries not to sigh too deeply. "What isn't magic involved in, these days?"

It bears thinking about, Arthur admits to himself as Leon takes his leave. Merlin, it seems, would like for Arthur to believe that magic is harmless; a toy, only dangerous in rare cases in the wrong hands. His father would like him to believe just the opposite; that the only good sorcerer is a dead one.

But whatever their reasons, both Merlin and his father have lied to him. Arthur still respects them both even now, but he won't let others dictate his opinions on anything, not any more.

Arthur's most daunting challenge yet is now upon him: he's going to have to decide for himself what to think of magic—and the people magic finds a home in.

Magic has been used to do so much evil—his father lying comatose in his own chambers is testament to that—and yet, without magic, Arthur would be dead right now. It's a bit like Merlin saving his father from falling to his death the day of his speech, or Gaius using magic to heal townsfolk who've accidentally transformed their own bodies—magic solves problems, but only problems created by magic to begin with.

And yet—certainly the fact that people like Morgause are evil incarnate shouldn't doom all sorcerers to the pyre, as his father believes. Take Gaius, or William of Ealdor. Look at Merlin for that matter! Shielding spells, healing people, unspelling doors—he's practically the epitome of virtue, that one, when he's not ferreting around behind Arthur's back and lying straight to his face. People like Gaius and Will and Merlin are proof that however rare the case, magic can be used for good.

And maybe if their father hadn't held such hatred for magic in his heart, Morgana could have used hers for good too.

As the sun begins to set, the world grows colder, and Arthur looks out his window to the town below, to watch the people scurry into their homes and light their fires. It baffles him to think that Morgana is among them. Arthur knows from experience that Guinevere's home isn't nearly so comfortable as a room in the castle, and Morgana must find Camelot a less welcoming home now than she has in years gone by. Why would she stay when she swore that she would leave?

Arthur tries to put it out of mind. It would be an exercise in futility to go to Morgana seeking answers or absolution, especially when she has so clearly expressed her hatred for Arthur and their father alike. He's as likely to get a meaningful response out of her as he is from their father lying comatose in his chambers.

And yet...

She's his sister. What has he to lose by trying?

Arthur dons his last unburned cloak—the one Merlin loaned him, back during the joust where he had to pass himself off as a peasant—and heads out into the snow. It's nearly time for Merlin to bring his dinner, but if Arthur doesn't do this now then he may never find the courage.

It's the first time Arthur's been out of doors all day, and he nearly turns on his heel to head right back inside. It's been a long winter, and a harsh one; Morgause spelling blizzards to hang over their heads certainly hasn't improved things any. Merlin's cloak is comfortable, but it is thin and threadbare and braces him only a little against the chill. Ice and snow crunch underfoot as Arthur walks, his breath fogging in the air. His extremities are already going numb, even his nose. At least that gives him a good excuse to keep his hands covering his face. Arthur's not technically doing anything wrong—aside from going to visit a semi-known traitor—but he'd still rather not be recognized.

When Arthur gets close enough he can see that Guinevere's windows are lit with firelight. He envies that fire at the moment, but he'd be very surprised to be let in. Sure enough, when he knocks on the door, all voices and movement inside stills, and the door only opens a crack.

It's Guinevere. "Arthur," she says, surprised. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

Arthur clears his throat. "Is Morgana here?" he asks. "I was hoping to speak with her."

Guinevere hesitates, looks back over her shoulder, and then makes several panicked expressions. "I—no, no one's home except me, why would you—"

Abruptly the door shuts in Arthur's face. There's a flurry of hushed whispers. Arthur opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and snaps it shut again.

The door opens, a little further this time. It's Morgana.

She's wearing one of Guinevere's dresses, with none of the usual dark color staining her lips or kohl around her eyes. Her hair is swept to the side in a simple braid that hangs over one shoulder, and soot smudges her face. She looks so different from the high-born ward Arthur grew up with that if it weren't for the glittering malice in her eyes, he may not have recognized her at all.

"How did you know I was here?" she demands. "No, forget that—why are you here? Leave."

That's about the reaction Arthur expected. "Merlin told me—" he starts, but she lets out such a dismissive tch that he immediately changes tracks. "I wanted to talk to you."

Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

Arthur's such an idiot. He should have planned something to say beforehand. The truth is he's not sure why he's here at all. It just felt like the right thing to do. "We're...we're brother and sister," he stammers last, uncertain. He's not entirely at ease saying this where Guinevere's neighbors might overhear if they could bring themselves to brave the wind, but there's nothing to be done about it now. "We're family. I just—wanted to make sure you were comfortable?" Morgana says nothing, so he continues, "I know Guinevere has only the one bed. I can arrange to have a second brought in for you so neither of you have to take the floor."

If Arthur thought the snow was cold, it's nothing compared to the way Morgana is looking at him now. "I think we'll manage," she says dryly. "Now leave."

And for the second time in as many minutes, the door slams shut in Arthur's face. "All right," he mutters, and waits—but neither Morgana nor Guinevere come back.

Well, Arthur didn't come out into this miserable weather to give up this easily. But Morgana is so far away from him now, and he just doesn't know how to reach her. "For what it's worth," he tries, "I'm glad you stayed."

Still nothing.

Arthur is getting rather sick of these one-sided conversations. He works his jaw a moment while he thinks. "You know, I—I understand. Not completely, of course, but...he's my father too. I grew up with him same as you did. I know how impossible it is to live up to his standards, what a hard man he can be." The unfortunate state of his face can attest to that.

Morgana speaks at last. "Forget it, Arthur. Sharing a father doesn't make us family. Nothing has changed between us."

"Everything's changed between us," Arthur protests, memories of a childhood spent as co-conspirators and confidantes tugging the corner of his mouth into a sad smile. "I think that's the problem."

Morgana and Arthur used to tell each other everything. Morgana should have been able to come to Arthur with this, and she didn't, and Arthur knows why.

Arthur tips his head forward to lean against the door. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, breath clouding the air around him. "When you disappeared I was so frightened, and that made me angry. The idea that you were hurt or in danger—when Father gave the order to take no prisoners, I didn't even argue. I didn't care who died, as long as it wasn't you. I thought...this time, they started it. They abducted you, they began the hostilities." He closes his eyes, ashamed. "I thought that made it different."

"But it wasn't different," Morgana says. She sounds close to the door too. "It never is. Everyone always has their reason. You blame Merlin for sending me away to the druids because so many of them wound up dying, but whose hand was it that killed them? It's the dead who deserve your apology, not I. You may think yourself merciful and just for letting me walk away, but I will not be your special exception. It is neither honest nor fair to have one rule for me and another for all the rest, and your clemency means nothing to me so long as my kind still die upon Camelot's sword. You didn't learn a thing, and as long as you remain your father's son, nothing's ever going to change."

And what can Arthur possibly say to that?

He backs away from the door, throat tight. "Goodnight, Morgana," he says, and turns away into the wind.

Morgana's right. She's right about everything. She and the other sorcerers are never going to stop hating Camelot so long as magic is still punishable by death here, and he can't stop killing sorcerers so long as they pose a threat to his loved ones, no matter how justified their hatred may be. Letting Morgana go last night means only that he'll be forced to kill her later, when things eventually come to a head. Just as Arthur thought, it was a fool's errand to come here. So much blood has been shed between Camelot and those who have magic. Arthur is only a prince, barely into adulthood, and his birth was the very cause of all the violence. How could he have ever even dreamed of putting an end to it so easily?

And the druids! Arthur was so angry at Merlin for the needless deaths in the encampment that day, but he realizes now he was doing the exact same thing as his father: in his guilt and rage, he sought to place the blame anywhere but on himself, and Merlin was the closest target at hand. But poor though his judgment may be, Merlin never raised a hand against those people. That was Arthur's doing.

He really is his father's son.

Arthur's almost back to the castle when he hears footsteps fall behind him in the snow. "Arthur! Arthur, wait!"

Arthur wheels. "Guinevere!" he says, surprised; she's out of breath as though she's run to catch up to him, and she left with only a shawl and no proper cloak. Arthur fumbles left-handed with the clasp of his own. "What are you doing out here, you're going to catch your death—"

Guinevere allows him to slip the cloak from his shoulders and put it around her own. It does only a little to ease the guilt of his behavior last night. He should have checked on her.

"She's—wrong—" Guinevere pants. She's shivering and pink-nosed. "Arthur—you must listen—I love Morgana dearly—but she's wrong. Don't you walk away thinking there's no hope to be had because there is."

"How?" Arthur asks helplessly. "What hope?"

"You," Guinevere answers. "Morgana said it's never different, but last night it was. You are not your father. Uther would never have done what you did. Your mercy was not nothing. It's the start of something—something that will never be, if you give up on it now." Guinevere takes him by the shoulders, then, and looks him in the eye. "Don't give up," she says. "There is still hope. There's still time, for both of you. Don't give up."

For a moment Arthur is so choked by gratitude he cannot speak. "I—" Blinking fast, Arthur turns his face away to clear his throat. "I appreciate that. I hope you're right."

"My father had a saying for when things were at their most dire." Guinevere smiles sadly. "'The hotter the flame, the truer the steel, which makes Hell the finest forge of them all.' You and Morgana, you're fire-forged. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but once you come out on the other side of this—"

"If we come out on the other side of this."

"You will," Guinevere promises. "And you'll be stronger than diamonds. You will be unbreakable."

If there's any good to be had in Morgana's outburst last night, it is that Merlin is no longer the only one who knows she is a threat to the Camelot. For almost four days he and Gaius alone kept a watchful vigil over her, terrified that any moment she would make a move on Uther or Arthur's life—and now the wait is finally over. Unfortunately for Merlin, his duties as the physician's apprentice have gone neglected while Arthur slept, and with Gaius still watching over the king, he must work doubly hard to make up for lost time.

And so Merlin is late with Arthur's dinner, because of course he is. He comes bursting into Arthur's chambers more than ten minutes after the hour, out of breath, tray of stew and bread balanced precariously in one hand, clean laundry tucked under the other arm—only to find Arthur isn't even in his chambers.

Well, that's not at all worrying. Merlin puts down his tray and his laundry and frets, wishing not for the first time that the scrying font was small enough to secret away with him wherever he went. The fire's burning, so Arthur can't have been gone long, right? Maybe he just stepped out for a moment. Merlin waits—the food goes from hot to lukewarm to cold—and just when he's about to leave and go scry after all, the chamber door opens and in walks Arthur.

Arthur stops short. A familiar-looking cloak is folded over his arm, and there are snowflakes melting in his hair. "Merlin," he greets, nodding stiffly.

"Sire," Merlin returns, terribly courteous—and then, because he can't help himself, adds, "Where on earth have you been? Your stew's gone cold."

"I don't have to answer to you," Arthur gripes, and throws his cloak—no, wait, that's Merlin's cloak, has Arthur had that this whole time—over the back of one chair at the table and collapses into another. "Not that you'd know, Merlin, but I've had a very trying day. If you are going to make it more trying, you can see yourself out."

Merlin is sick to death of being told to go away; he is so frustrated with Arthur for shutting him out he can hardly stand it. "Forgive me for being concerned," he snaps, "seeing as there was an attempt on your life not four days ago! But of course you grant Morgana mercy and remain angry with me. Why not, she only committed high treason—"

Arthur takes one bite of his ice-cold stew and makes a terrible face, letting his spoon clang back down to the bowl. "I'm not angry with you," he decides.

This serves only to vex Merlin further. "What!"

Arthur shrugs one shoulder, then picks up his bowl of stew one-handed, balancing it in his palm. "It's too much work," he says, and without so much as a flinch or any other sort of warning, lights his hand on fire. "Anyway, Leon told me you spelled open the watchtower door and saw to my battle wound. He says if you hadn't gotten to me so early, I'd have died."

Merlin falters, the wind taken out of his sails. Arthur says it all so easily—the same easy way he's using magic to reheat his stew, of all things. It's a little overwhelming. "You knew I'd done it. I told you already."

"I didn't know you'd gone up to the top of that tower alone and got to me with only minutes to spare. You had no idea what was waiting for you, and still—" He cuts himself off, distracted. The flames have grown too high; it takes him a moment to calm them back down. "And you know what he told me after that? That you warned him about Morgana. You claimed the extra guards were his idea, but it seems they were yours."

Merlin is going to kill Sir Leon. "All I told him was that it would be wise not to let anyone in to see you. He did the rest on his own."

"You quite likely saved my father's life, for the second time in as many weeks," Arthur points out. "And my life, twice over. You're rather making a habit out of this heroism business, aren't you, Merlin?"

If only you knew, Merlin thinks weakly. He is still quite angry, and so tries very hard not to smile—and winds up smiling anyway. "Are you trying to thank me?"

"Over my dead body," Arthur mutters, and the fire in his hand goes out. He sets his stew, now steaming, back onto his tray. Then props his chin on his good hand, looking Merlin over with such an intense level of scrutiny it makes Merlin want to squirm in place. He's quiet for a long time, then: "I understand why you sent her to the druids," he says last, as though they're picking up that conversation right where they left it off this morning. "And those deaths are my burden to bear, not yours."

"Now hang on," Merlin cuts in. "You can't just—"

Arthur holds up his hand. "I had every opportunity not to raise my blade and I did anyway. Ordered my men to do the same. That's mine."

"But—"

"It's mine, Merlin."

There's a short silence. Merlin's fists close, release.

"It's not your duty to protect me," Arthur says at last. "You're no warrior, Merlin. You're not a soldier or a knight. You're only a servant. I'm the prince, and that makes it my duty to protect you. But I can't do that if I don't know what's going on."

If Merlin had told Arthur he sent Morgana to the druids, that she hadn't been kidnapped, would he still have gone after them with such ruthlessness? "I would have had to tell you about Morgana's magic," Merlin protests, his voice gone quiet. "That wasn't my secret to tell."

"My father would have killed her," Arthur agrees. "But what did you think I would have done?"

"I'm—I'm not sure."

Arthur smiles, wry. "I suppose now we know."

"I suppose we do." Not in a thousand years would Merlin have believed Arthur would simply let Morgana walk free, especially after she betrayed them. He still doesn't understand it—what makes Morgana so special that she deserves not even a cross word? Is it just because she's Arthur's sister? But there's no denying Arthur's capacity for forgiveness and mercy extends far beyond what even Merlin thought was possible. "I doubted you," Merlin says, shoulders slumping.

"You were right to."

"It won't happen again."

"Good," Arthur says, and leans back in his seat. "I know you had your reasons. I wasn't someone you could count on. But that's got to change. The next time you're in trouble, Merlin, you come to me. I want you to always come to me. Do I make myself clear?"

Merlin nods, hasty. "Yes—yes, of course."

Arthur's eyes are still on him. "And one more thing..."

Merlin fidgets. "Yes?"

"Never lie to me again." Arthur is gazing at Merlin as though he can see straight through to his soul. "I want you to swear to me."

Ah, fuck.

Here's the rub: Merlin has been in Camelot for just over two and a half years now. So far, despite a few very close calls, Arthur has still not sussed out what Merlin truly is, and Merlin has only achieved this small miracle by lying straight to Arthur's face about a hundred times a day.

But if he swears he will not lie...

It will work for a while. For weeks or months or perhaps even years, Merlin will spin his half-truths, stay silent when he could speak, change the subject, let Arthur's assumptions and quick judgment do the work for him. But sooner or later, if he stays true to his vow, Arthur will find out. Like the deal Merlin made for the dragon's freedom: it's not a matter of if it will eventually come due, but when.

And if Merlin does not stay true to that vow, and Arthur finds out later, well...

He's seen these past two days just how little regard Arthur holds for liars.

Which makes the fact that Arthur is offering Merlin this second chance that much more incredible. He knows the kind of secrets Merlin's kept and still chooses to make a second go of it: to trust that Merlin isn't lying if he only says he isn't. Even knowing what it could cost him later, how can Merlin throw that away?

Arthur trusts me with so much. I just want to trust him in return.

Arthur's right when he says Merlin doesn't trust him. To defend his life? Certainly. But about the magic? Not now, and maybe not ever. If Arthur found out about Merlin's magic this instant, what would he do? Would he let Merlin walk free like Morgana? Merlin is not his kin; Merlin, as Arthur pointed out, is only a servant. Maybe Arthur would imprison him or banish him. Maybe he'd even execute him. Merlin's not sure of anything.

No. No more doubts; Merlin promised. This is what it means to trust. This is what it means to hope. Arthur's not ready now, not yet, not today—but someday, Merlin knows—someday—

I just want to trust him in return.

Gaius would tell him not to. The dragon would warn against it. But Merlin is tired of listening to other people. He wants, just this once, to listen to his heart.

"I swear," Merlin whispers, signing away his own soul, and prays he hasn't just doomed himself to the pyre.

There's no going back now.

Arthur lets out a breath. "Good," he says again, businesslike; the tremulous sidelong smile he gives Merlin betrays him. "That's good. We'll speak no more of it, then, agreed?"

"Agreed," Merlin says, stunned.

And just like that, it's behind them—and that, honestly, is better than any apology.

Merlin busies himself with chores as Arthur eats. It's a comfortable silence; nothing to listen to but the sound of Arthur's spoon scraping his bowl and the crackling fire as Merlin bustles about, adding hot stones to the bed, putting away the remainder of Arthur's unscorched wardrobe, and dusting cobwebs from a pair of antlers hanging on the wall.

And then, once the room has been cleaned and clinking of dishware has ceased, Arthur speaks. "I didn't let Morgana walk because I think she hasn't wronged us. She has, and gravely. But she was wronged too, by my—by our father. And I have a duty, Merlin, to right that wrong."

Thank goodness Merlin is still facing the wall; his expression would give away all of his tightly-held secrets. Arthur cannot possibly mean what it sounds like he means. "Wronged?"

"Because she has magic," Arthur says quietly, and Merlin's heart leaps into his throat. "You grew up with Will, and I see now that he must have been the good sort—but you have to understand that most people with magic aren't like him, or Gaius. They're like Morgause. They use their magic to hurt people." He sighs, a very small and quiet sound. "But I can't deny any longer that they were driven to it."

Merlin's entire world is falling out beneath his feet. Is Arthur actually justifying the sorcerers' ire against his kingdom? Slowly, Merlin turns; Arthur is looking right at him.

"I'm coming to understand," says Arthur, "that most of the time, evil isn't born. We make it ourselves. Morgana tried to kill our father because of how he kills her kind, and he kills her kind because—" Here Arthur cuts himself off. "Well, there's no telling how far back it goes, where it starts. But it's time for it to end."

Arthur stands and crosses the room to the window, looking down upon the city outside. From this window, Merlin knows, one can very nearly see Gwen's house.

"That's why I forgave Morgana," Arthur says at last. "I didn't realize it at first. But I want to believe she can change, because I want to believe I can change. Heaven knows I love my father, Merlin. If I didn't, he would be dead. And there are many things I admire about him even still. But I—" Arthur tips his head back, letting one long slow breath. "I have to believe that his blood running through our veins does not doom us to follow in his footsteps."

Carefully, Merlin approaches the window. He lays one hand on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur does not pull away.

How can Arthur not see how very unlike his father he is? There is so much goodness in him: mercy and fairness and justice. A lesser man would have let Uther die upon his own sword, killed Morgana on the spot for her treachery, taken the throne for himself, and had Merlin executed for aiding a known sorceress. But Arthur cares so much about people, from kings to commoners.

Merlin knows that someday, Arthur could learn to care about sorcerers too.

"What are you going to do?" Merlin asks.

Arthur heaves a long sigh, turning away from the window to pace before the fire. The heat from his shoulder lingers on Merlin's palm. "I can do nothing while we remain locked in the grip of this curse, and my father lies all but dying in his chambers. That comes first. But after..." He stares into the fire, brow furrowed and chin in hand. "I'm not sure what's right anymore. Even if I was king, I couldn't just allow the free use of magic in Camelot. We've seen for ourselves how dangerous that would be, and we have good reason to be extremely wary of anyone that has real magic. But you can't help how you're born, and no one should have to live as Morgana has—don't you agree, Merlin?"

Merlin is very nearly struck speechless. He feels his throat close. "Do you really believe that?"

Arthur shrugs. "Magic is dangerous," he reiterates. "As are those who wield it. But it wasn't Morgana's magic that made her turn her back on this kingdom. It was us. She didn't create the danger: we did."

There you go, Morgana, Merlin thinks. Seems you're changing things after all.

"Now," says Arthur, "I gave you and Gaius a week to give me a reason not to go after Morgause myself, and so far you've come up with nothing—"

Outraged, Merlin sputters, "You were unconscious, there wasn't any time—"

"—and it may be that in only a few days time that I depart to face her alone, and I need to be fighting fit. So if you're still willing, Merlin, I would like to take you up on an offer you made me a few weeks ago."

An offer—? But as he speaks, Arthur begins unwrapping the bandages on his hand, and Merlin's eyes widen in sudden understanding.

The battle wound.

"I understand now what a strain magical healing is on the body," Arthur says quietly. "I don't think it was just my wound that nearly killed me, but also my father's. I would not ask this of you if it would take too much."

"No," Merlin stammers, and when he sees Arthur's expression fall he hastily corrects, "I mean yes, of course I will, but no, it won't take too much. I—I'm just surprised—Arthur, why are you doing this?"

"I do rather miss the many functions of my right hand."

"People have seen you're wounded. Some will know it was healed magically."

"I don't care," says Arthur. "I'm tired of standing in the shadow cast by magic. I'm through being ruled by fear. It's time I start thinking for myself. I'm the prince, and someday I'll be king—nothing's ever going to change if it doesn't start with me."

Merlin clenches his fists to stop the shaking of his hands. It's so hard to allow himself to hope. It's so terrifying. But it would be easier for Arthur not to try to change at all, and here he is. If Arthur chooses to walk the more difficult path, then Merlin chooses, as always, to walk it at his side.

He really is going to be a great king.

"Let me see your arm," Merlin murmurs, and Arthur rolls up his sleeve and holds it out to him without a second thought, as easy and trusting as the first day Merlin assessed this wound back in the Darkling Woods, after the fight with the bandits.

How many nights has Merlin spent since then sneaking into Arthur's chambers to heal this wound a bit at a time? How many times before this has Merlin healed Arthur when he was too sick or unconscious to see? But this will be seen; it will be known. Merlin is about to give Arthur something he thought he'd never have again. And whatever happens tomorrow, or after the curse is broken, Arthur will remember this forever.

It's a serious wound, and a complicated one; when Merlin first saw it he worried his abilities had not progressed enough to heal it entirely. But he's had the crash course on magical healing these past three weeks, and he doesn't doubt anymore.

Merlin holds Arthur's arm gently, devastated at the idea of causing pain when Arthur has opened himself up so wholly. He bends his head low over Arthur's arm, and with his eyes closed breathes the incantation over Arthur's skin. It's a powerful one, and it begins to take root at once; Merlin feels the familiar tug of his own life force as it leaves his body and pours itself into Arthur's. He tries to go slowly, not to overwhelm, but his magic is so eager. After all, this is the first time he's ever done this with Arthur here this way. This is the first time Arthur has ever been able to feel it too. He's been wanting to do this for Arthur for such a long time now. And so Merlin falls into it, gives it freely: he was born for this. Let Arthur have everything, if it will make him stronger, if it will give him peace. Let Arthur take it all.

The wound, already mostly closed, begins to vanish from the inside of Arthur's arm. His skin smooths beneath Merlin's hands. His fingers twitch.

Then the connection between them crackles like lightning, and Arthur sucks in a shocked gasp—

And all at once his hand closes into a fist.

Arthur lets out a whoop of delight, and when Merlin looks up he finds that Arthur is grinning down at his own arm in triumph, his face ever so slightly flushed. "You did it," he breathes, and looks up—and starts, his eyes wide. "I always forget about the glowing eyes. It's a bit creepy, Merlin."

Merlin's feelings ought to be hurt, but with Arthur's newly-healed skin beneath his fingertips and Arthur's smiling face so close to his own, he can't bring himself to care. "Guess I'm just used to it. Who knows," he adds, half-giddy, half-recklessness, "maybe someday you will be too."

"We won't be cursed long enough for that," Arthur says with confidence. "Not now that I can fight with both hands; Morgause won't know what hit her. You have my gratitude, Merlin," he adds. "For this and for what you did for my father and me. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were becoming brave."

Merlin is so rarely recognized. And that's all right, he doesn't do what he does for praise or recognition—but he could get used to this, too.

"And since you're so daring these days," says Arthur, "there is one more thing I want you to do for me..."

"I've got a bad feeling about this," says Merlin.

"You and your feelings, Merlin," Arthur dismisses. He's striding along with ease, another night's rest and a hearty breakfast having done wonders for his recovery, especially after Merlin poured more healing energy into him last night. Today he's finally in his chainmail, despite how cold it is out here; Merlin's freezing in his usual attire, though he should be thankful at least that it isn't snowing this morning. The sky is a clear and brilliant blue, the sunlight reflecting blindingly bright off of the snow. "You're the best possible candidate for this exercise," says Arthur. "You've done this before with Will, and I've seen your work—you are without a doubt the second-most skilled magic-user in the city right now."

Merlin nearly drops all the training equipment he's carrying. "Second-most," he wheezes, trying not to look too outwardly offended. "Do you mean Gaius?"

"I meant Morgana, actually," says Arthur, "but you've got a good point. Third-most."

They reach the training yard at last, and Merlin gratefully dumps their things on a nearby worktable that's already been cleared of snow. "I—cannot—believe you," he pants, and doubles over with his hands on his knees.

"Don't be too honored," Arthur warns. "That's a rather dubious claim to fame, considering this is magic we're talking about."

Fame is the last thing Merlin needs. He looks around nervously, taking stock of the pairs of knights who got up earlier than Arthur did and are already sparring here and there in the field, the bored spectators milling around the fence with their hot drinks, and the windows of the castle, from which an untold number of people could be watching.

Arthur shoves a practice sword and shield into Merlin's arms—they're simple, a blunted sword and wooden shield for each of them—and walks a good twelve paces into the field to give them room. Merlin hurries after him, cursing under his breath. "Arthur, I don't think we should be doing this—but especially not where all these people can see. I mean, what message are you trying to send? What do you hope to achieve?"

"For now, I'll settle for a bit of proper practice against a magic-using opponent," Arthur says, and draws his sword, flipping it experimentally in his newly-healed hand. He switches back and forth a few times, and while he is still slower with his left, he's not nearly so clumsy as when he began. "As for the long-term..." Arthur's sword-flipping pauses. "I don't know. I'm still—sorting it all out. But what I do know is that I refuse to fear magic any longer, and I refuse to let my people keep fearing it. Now," he says, and readies his battle stance, "come at me, Merlin."

Merlin stands there for a moment, arms limp by his sides. Arthur sighs.

"I don't want to fight you," Merlin whines. "Every time we train together I wind up with bruises for a week! Besides, you're still recovering—what if I hurt you?"

Arthur throws his head back and laughs. "You, hurt me?" he asks, with an incredulity that borders on insulting. "I know you've picked up on all this rather quickly, Merlin, but that doesn't mean it's going to be a fair fight."

You have no idea, Merlin thinks.

Really Merlin shouldn't. There are a hundred and one reasons he can think of not to, and he's certain Gaius would have at least a hundred more. Merlin can use his magic to fight just fine, but do it in front of Arthur and everybody else out here and there's no way someone won't figure out what he really is. He really could hurt Arthur; even when Arthur was fighting at his finest, the day they met, Merlin nearly had him. He only lost because he had to hide what he was doing, and he has no such disadvantage now. He's just going to have to tell Arthur he's too frightened and put the whole idea to bed.

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur wheedles. "Do something! Do anything! I'm going to die of old age at this rate."

The prince has rather made a habit out of asking Merlin to use his magic since this curse began, hasn't he? In spite of himself, Merlin feels his resolve weaken. He's not always very good at telling Arthur no.

Also, Merlin admits to himself, it would be really nice to wipe that smug look off his face.

He shouldn't.

Arthur sighs. "I'm waaaiting—"

A snowball smacks the back of his head.

"Oi!" Arthur whips around. "Who threw that? Did anyone see who threw that?" A few of the knights sparring look up and shake their heads; the spectators by the fence shrug. Arthur turns back to Merlin. "Merlin, did you see—"

And he gets another snowball right to the face.

Some of the people watching begin to chuckle, having surely seen the light in Merlin's eyes this time. It's unsettling, knowing so many eyes are on him while he does magic, but Merlin can't help but chuckle too: Arthur looks so foolish wiping snow off his face.

"Merlin," Arthur growls. "I said attack me, not play games! Get serious!"

It's such a bad idea. Terrible, really. Merlin's had his fun. He should stop while he still can.

Merlin, because he is exactly the same sort of idiot that Arthur always says he is, asks very sweetly, "Is that an order, sire?"

"You bet your scrawny arse it is."

Another snowball hits Arthur on the side of the head. "Merlin," he says again, but before he can threaten Merlin further a second snowball lands from the other side, and then a third from behind—and when Arthur looks back over his shoulder he does a double-take, for there are several dozen more hovering in the air waiting to launch themselves at him.

"Dodge!" Merlin advises cheerfully.

The snowballs begin their assault. Arthur bats a few away with his sword and shield, but there's more where they came from: snow, after all, is not exactly in short supply. Arthur lets out an undignified shriek as one winds up shoving itself down the back of his chainmail and nearly slips on the snow beneath him. "Merlin!" he roars. "What are you doing!"

This is the best day of Merlin's life. He gives Arthur's boot a little tug and sends him face-first into the snow.

There's a smattering of applause from the fence, and Merlin's anxiety returns. What is he doing? All this magic, with so many watching, if anyone figured out the truth and told Arthur—

A shock of cold and wet hits Merlin square on the forehead. "Hey," he splutters.

"Oops," says Arthur, who has gotten back to his feet. His sword is stuck in the ground; he threw the snowball with his newly-healed right hand, which is why his aim was so damn good. "I'm so sorry, Merlin, is that cold—"

Merlin directs the rest of the floating snowballs to rain down on Arthur all at once. Arthur yelps and grabs his sword, slashing his way through them—then he starts ducking and weaving and making his way towards Merlin. Merlin backs up a few paces, raises his own shield—

It's useless. Once Arthur reaches Merlin he disarms him in seconds, and before Merlin knows it he's on his back in the snow, Arthur's blade at his chin.

Arthur leans down, smirking. "Disable the sorcerer, stop the attack," he says, sounding rather pleased that he's managed to work that one out on his own. He takes the blade away. "Come on, Merlin, are you even trying?"

"'Course I'm trying," says Merlin, who is not really trying that hard. He looks back at the fence. There are quite a few more people milling about now, and most of the other knights have paused their sparring sessions to watch Merlin and Arthur. "I mean, all those snowballs could have been swords instead and then you'd have been chopped into a thousand tiny little pieces, right? This is dangerous, and we should stop."

"Swords," says Arthur thoughtfully, and slowly he begins to smile. "That's a wonderful idea. Let's try that next." He holds out his hand.

Is that Gaius over by the gate? Good gods, Merlin's a dead man. He takes Arthur's hand and pulls himself up. "Let's not."

"You must come at me with full strength, Merlin."

"I'll hurt you," Merlin says again. There's an edge of true panic in his tone now, and this time Arthur does not laugh. "On purpose or by accident, I'll hurt you, sooner or later I always—" He clamps his mouth shut, lest it all spill out: all those years he spent worried that one day his power would get the better of him, all those times objects flying around out of his control left bruises on Will or his mother, all those close calls with the townsfolk when he was angry or scared. Merlin hasn't been so out of control for a long time now, but Arthur just doesn't know what he's asking for. The last time Merlin brought his full strength to bear, it was because he lost control of his emotions, and that ended only when he struck Nimueh dead where she stood. The thought of doing such harm to Arthur is unbearable.

"Come now, Merlin," says Arthur. "I thought you weren't scared of magic."

Merlin looks away. It's not the magic that scares him.

"You watched me lie in bed for so long you must think I've turned into some kind of pushover," Arthur says lightly. "Come on, Merlin, I never see you lose control. You're my best chance at preparing properly for a fight with Morgause!"

"Got me there," Merlin mutters, trying not to feel too flattered about Arthur thinking he's got self-control. "Fine. But don't you pull any punches either, Arthur."

Arthur backs away, flipping his sword in preparation. "If I didn't I'd knock you flat in the snow."

"We'll see about that."

Merlin has no intention of actually coming at Arthur with everything he has, but Arthur's right too: he is in desperate need of magical training. Disabling Merlin during the snowball attack should have been the stupidly obvious thing to do. And who else is there to practice with?

Anyway, Merlin's still at a slight disadvantage: aside from the few spells Arthur's already seen him use, he can't do anything but move objects around. No fire, no wind, and most importantly, no lightning.

Arthur swings. Merlin lifts his shield to block—then he remembers he's supposed to be using magic and decides to just fling Arthur's sword away entirely. A few people in the crowd laugh.

"Wh—" Arthur starts, eyes wide as he follows his sword's path through the air. "That's cheating—"

"You asked for it, remember?" That's the difference between them: Arthur can be disarmed, and Merlin cannot. Merlin gleefully uses his magic to grab at Arthur's shield—unfortunately, Arthur's gotten wise and tightened his grip. "Ah, fuck—"

"Ha! Language, Merlin!" Arthur uses the opportunity to do some complicated maneuver that ends with Merlin's arse in the snow and his sword in Arthur's hand. "Is that actually all you've got? What were you so worried for?"

Merlin pelts Arthur with a few more snowballs to give himself time to scramble up to his feet and get away. He spies Arthur's sword lying in the snow and uses his magic to grab it—but instead of bringing it to his hand, where it is at its most useless, he hurls it back at Arthur hilt-first.

Arthur, naturally, sidesteps it. "Come on, Merlin—"

"Think fast," Merlin warns, and the sword changes direction mid-flight, shooting itself right back at Arthur where he can't see—pointed end first.

There's a bright flash. Arthur has blocked with the sword he stole from Merlin—and it is wreathed in fire.

The onlookers by the fence gasp. Merlin nearly does too. He's never seen Arthur do that particular trick before. It's beautiful. Merlin can't believe he's doing it here in front of everyone on purpose, without being frightened at all. What a far cry from the terrified Arthur who first threw fire in the forest three weeks ago.

Magic-on-magic it is then. Merlin lets the sword Arthur blocked drop to the ground and pulls up his flame-proof barrier. Arthur nods to indicate he's seen.

First things first: Merlin can't do proper magic hindered by this stupid shield—it's far more useful as a projectile. He grabs it with his magic and chucks it at Arthur, expecting that he'll dodge—instead Arthur slices it clean in two, his burning sword leaving a magnificent crescent of fire in his wake. Merlin feels the heat on his skin from where he's standing.

"Fair's fair," says Arthur. Ever-honorable, he tosses his own shield away. Then he does something curious: switches his blade from his right hand to his left. "I've grown far too used to throwing fire with this one," he says, lifting his right hand. "On that note, Merlin, what was it you suggested to me earlier—oh, yes. Dodge!"

Arthur's eyes flare gold—still breathtaking, even after all this time—and a great plume of fire erupts from his palm. On instinct Merlin flattens himself to the ground to get out of the way. He doesn't need to worry about getting burned, not with his barrier spell, but the air still warms uncomfortably around him and the fire obscures his visibility. Arthur shoots blast after blast, not cutting Merlin even one bit of slack. It's hard to hear over the flames, but he thinks the crowd may be cheering. Merlin supposes he should be grateful they aren't all getting their torches and pitchforks.

Merlin was born small and had a lot of practice ducking ham-fisted bullies back in Ealdor (and a far more handsome bully here in Camelot), and so he is as light on his feet as Arthur; he leaps this way and that, working himself closer and closer, and then—yes, there's Arthur's sword still lying on the ground. Merlin magically pulls the hood of Arthur's chainmail down over his eyes, then grabs the sword with his magic and trips Arthur up with the flat of the blade. While Arthur's down Merlin rushes forward, calling the sword back to his hand and— "Got you," he says triumphantly, sword pointed down at Arthur, and enjoys a round of applause from their growing audience.

Then Merlin's sword starts getting hot. It's burning! He yelps, startled, dropping it in the snow—Arthur hooks his leg round Merlin's ankle and pulls—

And in short order both swords are in Arthur's hands, and he's on his knees above Merlin with both blades pointed down. "Got you," he says smugly, and a laugh runs through the crowd.

Ugh. "You wish," Merlin says, and in a fit of pure petulance he magically flings Arthur into a nearby snowbank.

Arthur emerges soaked and red-nosed and laughing with the rest of them. Merlin sits up, face hot, but Arthur holds up his hands. "Enough, enough," he chuckles. "It was well fought, Merlin. I didn't know you had it in you." Once again, he holds his hand out for Merlin to rise with.

The praise warms Merlin more than any fire, and he couldn't stop himself from grinning even if he tried. He takes Arthur's hand and pulls himself up, swaying on his feet. "Neither did I," he admits. He nervously scans the crowd of onlookers, all people who saw him use magic just now—the baker, with his trousers on, thankfully—a couple of guardsmen he recognizes, including that fellow Hebes—Gaius giving him the most severe look—ah, there's Gwen as well, and—

Morgana.

Merlin's heart drops, good mood snuffed out like a candle. She looks so different in Gwen's dress he hardly recognized her. What is she doing here? How long has she been watching?

Arthur stills; he has seen her too. To Merlin's complete and utter shock, Arthur calls, "Join us."

He's got to be joking.

Morgana seems to have had the same thought; her eyes flick uncertainly between Merlin and Arthur as if trying to decide which of them is having her on.

"You're a damn sight better with a sword than Merlin," Arthur says. "If you came at me with your full strength—" And he is careful, Merlin notes, to be discreet about referring to her true magic in front of all these people, even after everything— "You might actually beat me."

Morgana's eyes narrow. Merlin has the thought the same time that she does: she could accept his offer and then kill him. Even in front of all these people, it would be child's play to make it look like a tragic accident brought on by foolhardiness and a lack of control. "Arthur," Merlin hisses.

But Arthur doesn't look frightened. He's very much willing to put his life in Morgana's hands. He spreads his arms: an open invitation, a more open target. "Well?" he asks her. "Come on, Morgana, it'll be just like old times. We used to have fun, didn't we?"

Merlin can imagine it: prince and princess, brother and sister in deed if not yet name, training perhaps in secret to avoid their father's stern disapproval of a young girl learning the art. A hard man, their father, and the inside of Camelot's walls a hard place to grow up, but maybe they didn't know that then—or maybe that made their stolen spot of joy all the sweeter. But they're not children anymore. They've grown and been tested, trials by fire, and they're stronger for it. A duel between Arthur and Morgana, as the people they are now, no longer under their father's watchful eye—

Even Merlin must admit, it would be one for the ages.

Morgana gives Arthur a searching look, and to Merlin's great surprise there is unmistakable longing in her expression—to join them, perhaps, or just to have fun with her magic out in the open. And for a moment, Merlin is terrified that she really will accept. For a moment, he almost wants her to accept.

But then her face hardens again, as does her heart: Morgana turns away from them, and vanishes into the crowd.

Chapter Text

"An indestructible dagger, you say?"

"Yes, linked to someone's blood—but we don't know whose, and without that knowledge, there is no way to destroy it and end the curse."

The Great Dragon, sitting atop his usual rock outcropping, gives Merlin his usual unimpressed look. "There are many spells that could reveal the blood link—but unfortunately, all of them require the dagger to be in your possession, and it seems as though such a thing is impossible."

Merlin sighs. Such a thing is impossible; they'd have to fetch it from the Isle of the Blessed themselves. "Is there truly nothing else I can try?"

The dragon rumbles thoughtfully. "Perhaps there is, but I hesitate to use it. Breaking this curse is not so important to me as to take such a risk that you will ignore my advice as you usually do. You still have yet to free me, young warlock, and I grow impatient."

"Well, tough!" Merlin says. He is so tired of talking to this dragon. It is the most difficult creature Merlin has ever had the misfortune of knowing, and he's seen Arthur before breakfast and hungover. "I can't focus on freeing you while I'm dealing with all of this! You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Why not help me?"

"If only that were so," the dragon sneers. "The only chance you have of breaking the dagger without the required blood is to use the weapon I burnished for you—but I warned you once that the sword was for Arthur and no other, and you allowed it to fall into the hands of that mad tyrant Uther, knowing the evil might be wrought with it. He did not have my blessing to take up my sword, and so misfortunate and sorrow shall follow him all the days of his life. I have also revoked the blessing I gave you: if you attempt to retrieve the sword and give it to Arthur, the same curse will fall upon you both."

"Well you don't have to worry about Uther getting his hands on it anymore," Merlin snaps. "He's dying."

The dragon sits up, delighted. "He's what?"

Merlin, reluctantly, tells the dragon everything: Morgause infiltrating dreams, Morgana's betrayal, the duel on the watchtower, Uther's suicide attempt and current comatose state. He grits his teeth through the dragon's snide remarks, through every horrible thing it says about Uther getting exactly what he deserves. Merlin doesn't even really disagree, except for Arthur's sake—even death is too good for what Uther's done—but it sickens him to see the dragon take such obvious pleasure in the same events that have caused so many in Camelot such immeasurable pain.

"Morgana facing off against Uther," the dragon says with wonder, after Merlin has finished his story. It chuckles, a dark sound of satisfaction. "I hope they both lose."

"Enough!" Merlin shouts. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Merlin, magic has returned to Albion," the dragon says. "The murderous king lies in his deathbed. Even the people are beginning to see reason: you said there have been no more suicides and that they watched your duel without complaint. It seems to me as though everything has worked out perfectly, thanks to this curse—everything except my freedom. Why should I help you end it?"

"Because if I don't, Arthur will," Merlin says hotly. "Or he'll die trying. And he can't fulfill his destiny if Morgause slaughters him, now can he? You have a real chance here to help change Arthur's mind about magic! Why wouldn't you—"

The dragon turns its head away, chains clanking as it resettles. "He will not be so easily moved," it dismisses. "I have lived for a thousand years, watched civilizations rise and fall. The times change, but people rarely do. Destiny takes many forms, and Arthur need not live to fulfill it; perhaps it is his death at Morgause's or Morgana's hands that allows magic to return to the land. Perhaps destiny has now come to pass, and we need do no more."

How is it that Merlin can put up with Arthur at his most insufferable day in and day out, but five minutes with this dragon has his blood boiling? "You're nothing but a hypocrite and a coward," he says, voice trembling with rage. "You condemn Uther and Morgana for the evil in their hearts, yet take pleasure from their pain and long for their deaths. You're so beaten down you've given up hope—and that's made you as bitter and spiteful as they are."

"Do not speak to me of hope," the dragon snarls, nostrils flaring dangerously. "I have been trapped in a cave for twenty years."

Merlin doesn't care. "I cannot let things stand as they are," he insists. "I won't. As long as Morgause is out there she remains a threat, and the people of Camelot and beyond are all her hostages. Just because I didn't get a choice about my magic doesn't mean nobody should. I'm getting the sword, with or without your blessing. I will wield it and suffer the misfortune gladly, if it will end the curse."

"Why?" the dragon demands. "Why would you make such a sacrifice for those who would turn on you in an instant if they knew what you were?"

"Perhaps most would," says Merlin quietly. "But maybe...maybe not all of them." He closes his eyes against the memory of Gaius looking at him with pride in his eyes, Gwen's arms wrapped around him as he tells her his secret, Arthur grinning down at his newly-healed hand. "No," he decides, "not all of them."

"Are you thinking of your prince?" the dragon asks, uncharacteristically gentle. "To tell him what you are would be a grave mistake."

"Too late for that."

The dragon's eyes widen. "You didn't."

"Not yet. But I swore to stop lying to him. It's the same difference." Merlin tries to hide the tremor in his voice; Arthur would not show weakness in front of an enemy, so neither will he. "I know it's not time yet. He says he's still sorting it all out. But he's changing. I can see it. So maybe by the time it happens..." Merlin wants it so badly that it almost hurts to let himself hope like this, but he's always believed in Arthur. He wants to believe Arthur can do the right thing.

"You will meet your end upon his sword, Merlin," the dragon growls, "and then you will never be able to fulfill your promise to free me! You must not tell him."

"Right," Merlin remembers, mood souring further. "Because you only care about yourself." Merlin found that out the hard way when he nearly lost his mother. All told Merlin would sometimes rather them be rid of each other for good, but he can't be certain the dragon won't start snapping up townsfolk the second the chains are broken, so for now, they're stuck like this. "If you were wondering," says Merlin, "this is why I never follow your advice."

Merlin turns to go without bidding the dragon farewell, but he cannot shut out the dragon's last, dire warning: "He'll kill you, Merlin," it calls after him. "He'll kill you!"

On his way up out of the dungeons, Merlin runs into Morgana.

More accurately, he spies a peasant woman in a cloak carrying a large basket and creeping through a darkened corridor and immediately becomes suspicious enough to start following her. It's only when she whirls around and catches him (within the first dozen paces, embarrassingly enough) that he can see under the hood well enough to recognize her.

Far from being relieved, Merlin is now doubly suspicious. "Morgana? What are you doing here?"

Morgana casts a look around. "What are you doing here?" she asks pointedly.

Right; the upper levels of the dungeons is not where anyone should expect to find a simple servant. "I asked you first."

Morgana lifts one eyebrow, unimpressed. "Getting a few things from my chambers, Merlin, if you must know." She shows him the basket so he knows she's not lying; it's just linens and a few dresses. "It's freezing over at Gwen's," she sniffs, haughty. "Uther didn't pay her nearly enough to attend me; she has barely enough blankets for one, let alone two. I took the secret passage to avoid the guards."

She gives Merlin an expectant look.

Oh. "I'm...I'm just looking for a little advice," Merlin says lamely. "You know...a lot on my mind lately, what with the...erm. The curse."

"Is that so?" Morgana asks archly. Merlin wonders if she knows about the dragon. She casts a pointed look around. "It's rather deserted down here. Did you find it?"

"Not really."

"Then take some from me." Morgana takes a step closer to Merlin. "You're a fool. That little stunt of yours earlier today, on the training grounds? It's going to get you killed."

"Sparring with Arthur?" Merlin repeats incredulously. But that was harmless—no one had minded their duel, and Arthur had even fought with Sir Leon after, pitting his fire against his knight's new influence over all things stone. It takes Merlin a moment to realize that in her own mean and roundabout way, what Morgana is actually warning him to be careful of using his magic so freely. Surprised, he admits, "I didn't know you still cared."

"Believe me," Morgana says, looking away, "I don't."

Hm. "Then why didn't you tell Arthur about my magic?"

Morgana's gaze snaps back to Merlin. "We've been over this. I hold your life in my hands now—it's leverage."

"Perhaps," Merlin murmurs. "But if that's all it is, then why not use it? Arthur had a knife at your throat, Morgana. He could have killed you. Giving me up would have turned his attention and saved you for sure. So why didn't you tell him?"

There's a short pause. "Unlike some people," Morgana says at last, "I have integrity. I told you I wouldn't tell anyone—so I didn't."

Merlin is taken aback, and oddly touched. "What about Morgause?"

Morgana won't meet his eye. "Not even Morgause." She starts to speak, checks herself, and then tries again: "You didn't tell anyone either. Even after you knew it was I who betrayed you and spelled shut the door. You had almost four days to raise the alarm, and you breathed not a word."

For a moment, Merlin gets a tiny glimpse of what it might have been like if he had told her about his magic when he should have. They could have kept the secret, just the two of them, and shared it with no other. Maybe they could have practiced together somewhere private and hidden away, just the way Arthur and Morgana must have learned swordfighting when they were small. Merlin was always worried Morgana would do something foolhardy and give him away, but he sees now that he was wrong: even when she lost her temper entirely and spoke every one of her truths, none of Merlin's passed over her lips.

"Thank you," Merlin says. Morgana rolls her eyes. "No, I mean it. I'm grateful." He gestures to the corridor they both tried to go down at the same time. It's only a small walk back up to the castle proper, but... "Shall we?"

Morgana eyes him for a moment, distrustful—but in the end, she drops her head in a little nod, and allows him to walk beside her in silence.

"I understand, you know," Merlin says after a little while. "Why you did what you did. I first set foot in Camelot in the middle of a sorcerer's execution. I've seen firsthand how cruel Uther is to those with magic. I know what it's like better than anyone, to have to be terrified all the time, to not be able to trust even the people closest to you. Why d'you think I didn't tell you?"

"And yet you protect Uther," Morgana says, scorn lining every syllable. "You save his life over and over—why?"

Good question. Sometimes Merlin wonders the same thing. "I dunno," he mumbles. "There's Arthur, of course. He'd be devastated, but..." Merlin hesitates. "I knew about your first assassination attempt, did you know that? That stone the sorcerer Tauren wanted, I could feel it. Woke me up out of a dead sleep when you touched it. I followed you out to the woods and heard you plotting with him, and I—I didn't know what to do. Turn you in? Help you? What you were doing was treason, but I was so angry and so hurt for Gwen, and I wanted so badly to bring her justice. What did it matter if Uther was finally made to pay for his crimes? Why shouldn't Arthur become king instead?"

Morgana still regards Merlin with suspicion, but a new disbelief has crept into her gaze. "What changed your mind?"

"Gwen did," says Merlin. "I asked her, if she had the power of life and death over Uther, whether or not she'd let him die. And you know what she told me? She told me no."

Morgana lets out a fond little tsk, shaking her head as they walk. "That sounds like her."

"She said killing Uther would make her a murderer—no better than him. I don't know if that's true, but..." Merlin chews on his lip. "What she said made me look at all of it differently. Saving Uther, it isn't for him; it's for me. If I let Uther die when I could have done something to help him, then all I'm doing is proving him right. But I want to show people like him that I'm more than what they believe magic to be. That I'm better." He shoots Morgana a sideways look. "One might even call it integrity."

"Don't make me laugh," Morgana scoffs, but there is less bite in her tone than Merlin has heard in weeks. It's almost like being friends with her again; the weight of their mutual betrayals has all but melted away.

When they reach the top of the stairs where they're to part ways, Merlin decides, "You should have joined us today, in the training yard. Maybe next time?"

Morgana pulls a face as though she'd rather eat horse dung. Somehow, it seems just a little too put-on. "I told you," she says, "if you keep showing off like that, sooner or later Arthur will figure out what you are."

Merlin's well aware of that, thanks very much, now more than ever. "I'm starting to wonder if that wouldn't be such a bad thing." He braves a smile. "It worked out all right for you, didn't it?"

Morgana does not smile back. "That remains to be seen."

That's right, Merlin remembers, becoming subdued. Morgana's loyalties are still divided. So long as Morgause remains in opposition to Camelot, Morgana will remain caught between them—and Merlin suspects that right now, even she does not know which side she will ultimately come out on.

"One walk up the stairs together doesn't make us friends, Merlin," says Morgana. "I haven't forgotten what you did to me."

"I know," Merlin says quietly. "And I am truly sorry. But for what it's worth, I've missed it—us being friends. It was nice to talk with you again like this, even just for a while."

The look Morgana gives him is unreadable in the dark. "Goodnight, Merlin," she says, and leaves him standing in the corridor alone.

Arthur gave Merlin and Gaius only a week to convince him not to ride out to the Isle of the Blessed alone. Unfortunately for Merlin, this morning marks the beginning of their very last day—and it seems that despite spending almost four days unconscious, Arthur has not forgotten. "So, have you made any progress on your curse-breaking?" he asks Merlin over breakfast.

"This really isn't fair," Merlin protests as he remakes Arthur's bed. "I didn't have a whole week. I had to be at your side every waking hour of the day trying to make sure you didn't die in your sleep!"

"Always with the excuses, Merlin." Arthur points a piece of cheese at him. "Time and tide wait for no man. You're getting good at all this magical nonsense. You must've found something."

Merlin looks away.

This is the surest way to get Arthur's attention. "What?" he says at once, sitting up straighter and abandoning his food. The candles on the table flare a little in his excitement. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Merlin grinds his teeth, reminding himself that he swore he would not lie. Damn that dragon. Damn Uther, for trapping it in the first place. "I know of a weapon, only an hour's ride from here, that may—may," he stresses this as much as possible, "be able to destroy the black dagger without needing to undo the blood spell."

"Then why do you look as though someone pissed in your porridge?" Arthur complains. "That's wonderful!"

"That's terrible!" Merlin throws his hands in the air. "It still requires that someone ride out to the monster-infested island surrounded by magical blizzards! And it's not a sure thing, it's only a guess—the weapon could accomplish nothing and then we'd be no better off for our trouble." He starts fluffing Arthur's pillows just to have something to take his aggression out on.

"Oh." Arthur chews morosely. "It can't hurt to try, Merlin. It's better than nothing."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Merlin mutters. Arthur's pillow is now lumpier than when he began, so he drops it and begins to work on another. "The weapon can only be wielded at great personal cost. Misfortune will befall any who touches it."

Merlin debated long and hard with Gaius about whether or not to disclose this particular bit of information. Telling Arthur means that he will immediately jump in and offer to sacrifice himself and seek to prevent anyone else doing it in his place. But not telling Arthur would run the risk of Arthur being careless—unknowingly taking up the sword and bringing the dragon's ire down upon him. And that is something Merlin cannot abide.

Gaius's advice was to hide the sword's existence from Arthur entirely—but seeing as Arthur more or less asked him directly, Merlin had no choice but to tell him they found something. He's determined not to break his promise.

Which is rather unfortunate, because sometimes Merlin's not sure he knows how to talk to Arthur at all without lying. It's going to be much harder than he thought.

Right on cue, Arthur says, "I will wield the weapon, and gladly, if it saves my people. Whatever the cost, I will pay it."

Ugh. Arthur is so stupidly noble. Why must he always be so reckless with his own safety? "No, you won't," Merlin says flatly. "The only one touching that sword is me. The burden is mine."

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. If a sacrifice must be made for the kingdom, it is my duty to make it. Anyway, you're rubbish at swordfighting. It's better off in my hands."

"I said no," Merlin snaps, and throws the pillow down on the bed. Merlin promised to be honest, he wants so badly to make Arthur understand—but it feels as though truth or lie, every word that spills from his lips is just going to become more rope he'll hang himself with later. "Look, I struck a bargain with someone, all right? And I cannot fulfill my end. That's why there's a cost. The mistake was mine. I will pay the price. I just—need the morning off so I can go and fetch it."

Arthur gives Merlin a long, searching look. "You've yet to tell me how you came by this information. What is this weapon? Where did it come from?" At Merlin's silence, Arthur's expression grows stormy, and Merlin feels the phantom sensation of all that rope tightening around his neck. "Merlin, just who and what do you owe?"

"It's—it's a long story," Merlin stammers. "Believe me, Arthur, if it was as simple as opening the prince's coffers to pay off a debt, I'd have asked for your help a long time ago."

"A long story," Arthur muses, stroking his chin. "An hour's ride, you say? You'll have plenty of time to fill me in on the way. And no need to drag Morgana and Guinevere along this time." He raises his right hand; makes a fist. "I can see to our protection myself."

"You can't go," Merlin says, aghast. "You'll just nick the sword the second my back's turned!"

"On my honor as a prince and a swordsman," Arthur says, "I promise I'll at least order you to hand it over first."

"So where is this sword, exactly?"

"Bottom of a lake."

All right. Arthur lifts his eyebrows. "And just how do you plan to get it out of there?"

"With magic, of course," Merlin answers. "I moved your sword easily enough, didn't I?"

They're riding out to retrieve the weapon Merlin spoke of earlier today. The morning is cold and clear, icicles clinging to the trees and their breath leaving them in little white puffs. Arthur, who has his waterskin halfway to his mouth to take a drink, grips it a little tighter. He remembers only too well how easily Merlin had yanked his weapon from his grip without laying a finger on it, and he isn't eager for a repeat performance. "And how do you even know it's there?"

"I'm the one who threw it in."

Arthur chokes on his water. "You what?" Merlin doesn't answer, though, so Arthur pushes: "No, no, no—you might as well tell me now, Merlin, because I'm not going to stop asking." He can't stand the idea that even after all of this there is yet more Merlin wishes to hide from him. Is Merlin simply so cagey by nature and Arthur never noticed 'til now, or has Arthur still more to do to prove himself trustworthy? "You did promise you weren't going to lie to me anymore," Arthur reminds Merlin, trying to sound stern and authoritative, instead of anxious and dying of curiosity like some lovestruck girl.

"That doesn't mean I have to tell you everything," Merlin replies smartly. "I could simply be honest about not wanting to speak, and remain silent."

"That'd be a first," Arthur mutters. "Don't get cheeky with me, Merlin. The whole point was for you to stop hiding things from me. A promise is a promise, and I expect you to honor it. I can make that an order, if I have to."

"See how far that'd get you, prat!" Merlin tuts. "You've got to let me do it in my own time, all right? I'm not used to—" He realizes his mistake and snaps his mouth shut, but it's too late.

"Not used to not lying?" Arthur asks, outraged.

"To not keeping secrets," Merlin stresses, as though there's any real difference. "Old habits die hard, that's all!"

"And we'd be here for hours, would we," Arthur guesses, "if you were to suddenly decide to tell me every secret you know?"

Merlin looks away. "We might be."

That confirms it, then. From the very beginning Arthur suspected there was more to Merlin than met the eye. He just couldn't fathom that it ran so deeply. All the things he has learned about Merlin since the curse began might well just be a single drop in a bucket—in an ocean, even.

Merlin looks nervous, like now that Arthur knows for sure he's hiding things the next step will be to put him in the dungeons and beat the rest out of him. And it isn't that Arthur's not more than a little tempted to demand every truth right this instant, but—no. He has to be patient. It wouldn't, after all, be conducive to further truth-telling to lose his temper the first time Merlin actually tries to open up.

Arthur's determined to find out the truths of Merlin, to learn his secrets, but—not like that. Not by force. Like Merlin said: in his own time.

"You could tell me about the sword, at least?" he prompts, trying to sound understanding, like someone who can handle being told the truth—trying to sound like Merlin did, when he asked Arthur what happened atop the watchtower. "Since that is what we're here for."

Merlin meets his eyes hesitantly, and eventually, to Arthur's great relief, he does relent. "There's a...magical expert of sorts I sometimes speak to," he says carefully. "Your father imprisoned him during the Great Purge."

Arthur nearly falls off his horse. "All this time you knew and have been conversing with a known sorcerer?" he asks, aghast. "What for? How did you meet him? What's his name? Why didn't you tell me?" Then he remembers he's supposed to be not reacting poorly. He clears his throat. "I mean—I wasn't aware my father had ever imprisoned a sorcerer," he says, trying to even out his tone. "It's not usually how he deals with that sort of thing. How is this fellow even still alive?"

Merlin is gripping the reigns of his horse quite tightly. "Well, firstly, he's not a sorcerer, exactly. He's just really fucking old, and that makes him very knowledgable about a great many things. It also makes him an ass—an even bigger ass than you, actually, if you can imagine that," he adds, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"Hey."

"Secondly, servants get to all kinds of places. Shortly after I arrived in Camelot, I heard him calling out and got curious. My mistake," Merlin adds under his breath. "Thirdly, if he has a name, he has not given it to me, and I have not cared to ask. And lastly—well." Merlin shoots Arthur a sideways look under his eyelashes, considering. "I didn't tell you because I assumed you'd disapprove. Was I wrong?"

No, he wasn't, a fact which vexes Arthur terribly. If Merlin had told him about any of this before the curse began, before he promised not to lie, Arthur would have been furious, probably would have, at best, thrown him in the stocks. And it isn't that he's suddenly all right with all of it now, but—it seems that the events of the past few weeks and all of this magic has him desensitized. He cares more about Merlin telling him the rest of the story than he does about Merlin knowing what a stupid thing it was to do to go and make friends with a sorcerer, even some old man languishing in a cell. "Where does the sword come in?"

"Do you remember when the wraith attacked Camelot, just after you came of age?"

How could Arthur forget? Sirs Owain and Pellinore, both needlessly struck down before their time, and his own father wholly unaffected by the loss of two fine knights. Arthur witnessed the wraith's death from his chambers where his father had Gaius lock him in; the memory of that wretched undead face still makes his hair stand on end. But what he remembers most about the wraith is not its ghastly appearance or even the people it killed—but his father, determined to die for Arthur, who said—

You are my only son. And I wouldn't wish for another.

Damn it all, but Arthur misses him. Even after everything, the lies and the duels and the bad blood between them, he doesn't think he'd wish for another father, either.

"Gaius figured out what it really was," Merlin says, pulling Arthur from his melancholy, "and told your father, which is why he had you drugged so he could fight in your place. But I didn't know about any of that. I just knew that with an ordinary sword you'd be defeated as surely as those that fell before you—for no matter how skilled the warrior, no ordinary weapon can slay what is already dead. I knew you needed something special if you were to survive. So I went to Gwen for a sword, and then I went to him for help making it a weapon that could protect you. And it is that sword that you and I now go to retrieve."

Arthur hesitates. "...you really did all that, just to help me fight?"

Merlin's ears are turning pink. "Well, was I supposed to just let you die?"

"Of course not, but I—" Arthur can scarcely believe it, that Merlin would risk imprisonment or worse on the off chance that his actions might save Arthur's life. Sudden understanding weighs heavy on Arthur's heart. "That is why you owe this so-called magical expert. For his help—in saving my life."

Merlin won't meet Arthur's eye. "It's a bit complicated, but—more or less." He buries his fingers in his mare's mane, resolutely keeping his eyes down. "In the end you did not use the sword we made for you—when your father was the one who showed up to fight, the sword fell into his hands, and he used it to strike the wraith down. But he hates your father for imprisoning him, and explicitly forbade me from allowing the sword to be wielded by any but you. So he ordered me to cast the sword away where none could find it."

"Hence the lake," Arthur says, wary. He wants to be patient, but he still doesn't like that Merlin's being so dodgy about all of this. Whatever debt Merlin has incurred is owed partially on Arthur's behalf, especially since Arthur's misbegotten birth is the only reason his father began imprisoning people with magical expertise, and as such Arthur is honorbound to help him see it repaid. Why won't Merlin just tell him what it is? "And the misfortune that shall follow anyone who wields this blade—because they do so against his wishes."

"Just so," Merlin agrees sadly.

That's a troubling thought, particularly if wielding the sword is the only way to stop the curse. General misfortune sounds rather vague—what sort of misfortune? Just how terrible would it be? There's a big difference in the sort of bad luck that ends in stubbed toes and tangled trouser laces and the sort that ends with a famine called down upon your house or your whole kingdom (Arthur will not be quick to forget the ordeal with the unicorn). Perhaps this whole bloody curse is inadvertently the result of his father laying hands on it when he didn't have permission—his father is rather the sort to dig his own grave.

Arthur can't risk calling misfortune down on his people, but neither can he let Merlin call it upon himself, either, especially when he's suffering said misfortune because he has not paid whatever he agreed to exchange for Arthur's life. "What if I were to speak with him? Perhaps I could convince him to give me his blessing." Or at the very least, find out what he wants with Merlin. Making deals with sorcerers—what was Merlin thinking? He might as well have been digging his own grave too.

"It's impossible," Merlin says flatly. "If you thought Morgana was bitter, he is ten—no, a hundred times worse. He hates your father and Camelot with every fiber of his being and would give anything to raze your kingdom to the ground."

"I notice you haven't mentioned anything about him hating me specifically."

"Well, he doesn't know you like I do," Merlin deadpans.

"Merlin—"

But before Arthur can inch his mare close enough to cuff Merlin round the back of the head Merlin pulls up short and says, "Ah, look, and we're here already!"

So they are.

Were it not the dead of winter, the lake would look so deceptively normal Arthur would have a hard time believing Merlin was about to pull a sword out of it, magic or no. But despite the snow laying thick on the ground around them and the icicles hanging off every tree, this lake is not frozen over as the other bodies of water around Camelot are. Instead the water is almost perfectly smooth, save for a tell-tale ripple here and there of fish moving beneath the surface. And it seems oddly familiar, though Arthur would swear he's never been here before. He can't put his finger on it, but there's something about the lake that seems...less like winter than it is everywhere else. The longer he looks, the stranger it gets: birds flit from tree to tree, and a rabbit darts through the foliage. At this time of year the whole world is sleeping, but the lake feels almost as though it's...awake?

It's a lake, Arthur reminds himself firmly. It doesn't do silly things like sleep or wake up. He's being ridiculous. Morgana would laugh herself stupid if she was here. He dismounts his horse silently—letting the subject of Merlin's bargain drop, but only for now—and to disguise his unease says, "Is this it then? I was expecting something more impressive. Some sort of fight or puzzle or trial."

"The lake is the trial," Merlin says, defensive. "It's a good hiding place!" Then he squints. "...what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Arthur says, thoroughly spooked. "Get on with it, Merlin. I want to be back by midday."

"All right." Merlin looks a little nervous himself. He pushes his sleeves up, clears his throat, holds up his hands before him, and begins to incant.

Merlin's eyes start glowing. The waters of the lake begin to churn and darken as if in a storm. The wind picks up, freezing Arthur's face.

But no sword appears. Merlin drops his hands, looking frustrated, and the water becomes smooth again.

"What the hell was that?" Arthur demands. "That isn't how you moved my sword at all. Was that a spell you were saying? Did Gaius teach it to you?"

Merlin gives the lake an unhappy look. "It was the language of the Old Religion. I've, erm, picked up enough here and there that I could sort of...talk to the lake and ask it for the sword. Clearly, the lake is not feeling very agreeable."

"You really do have a mental affliction," Arthur decides. "Merlin, lakes don't talk and they can't understand you. They're lakes."

"The lake is magical," Merlin says. "Of course it can understand!"

That's really going too far. "In bedtime stories, Merlin! In real life, there's no such thing as a magical lake."

"Don't say that where the lake can hear you," Merlin warns, and Arthur throws up his hands. "Is your heart still so closed off? Can you truly not feel it, not even a little?"

Is that what that is? Maybe Arthur can feel it. His eyes dart around nervously, taking in the animals tracks and the ripples on the water's surface. Is this magic? It doesn't feel like the magic Arthur knows—not like terror and death and the taste of ash on his tongue. It feels more like...Arthur struggles to put a name to it. Like not-winter. Like not-dark. Out of the corner of his eye he spies movement in the branches and turns. Perched on the branch of a nearby yew tree is a fat little sparrow, watching Arthur with keen beady eyes. It cocks his head at him, and Arthur looks away, unsettled.

"One more time," Merlin says with determination. He widens his stance a little, and lifts one hand to the sky. This time when he speaks, there is a hard edge to his tone that Arthur recognizes immediately because he has heard it so often in his own voice, and his father's. It's an air of command. Merlin's not asking the lake anything, not anymore.

And it's madness. It's a lake. But once more the waters begin to churn, to froth and bubble, and unless Arthur is very much mistaken, he can see a faint glow beneath the surface. Merlin's voice rises in volume, and the glow gets brighter and brighter, until gold the same color as Merlin's eyes shimmers up from beneath the surface. And then all at once—

There's a flash of light, the water breaks, and then out of the surface bursts the sword, spinning a perfect arc through the air to land hilt-first in Merlin's open palm.

The waters smooth. The still-golden droplets from the splash begin to rain down around Merlin's feet. The light in his eyes flickers out. And then at last he lowers the sword to inspect it, cradling it with more reverence than Arthur has seen from him in the entire two and a half years they've known one another.

It is easily the most magnificent weapon Arthur has ever seen. The grip is bound in thick, supple leather wrapped with gold cord, and the crossguard and pommel are done in solid gold too—as is the inset along the fuller, with delicate engravings in some language Arthur cannot read. The blade bears no wear or scratches. In the sunlight it looks radiant, almost glowing; it shines like quicksilver as though it was only polished yesterday. The edge looks razor-sharp; the tip comes to a point so fine Arthur knows that if he were to touch it, it would prick his finger and draw blood.

There is no doubt in Arthur's mind that this sword was made for him. He can feel it: knows without touching that wielding it will be easier than breathing. The balance will be perfect; the grip will be shaped to fit snug against his palm. Arthur aches to wrap his hand around it, to feel the weight of it, make it an extension of himself. It's only right, only natural. It belongs to him. They belong together.

"It's beautiful," Arthur says, positively spellbound—then catches himself and clears his throat, embarrassed. "A fine weapon indeed." He reaches for the sword without thinking, wanting perhaps to stroke his fingers along the engravings, feel the cool smoothness of the metal.

But Merlin draws the sword closer to himself. "Don't," he says sharply. "I've already touched it. There's no need to double our bad luck."

"But—" Arthur drops his hand, lost. "It's my sword."

"It's dangerous," Merlin reminds him. "I'm sorry, Arthur." He walks back to his horse and pulls a cloth and cord from his saddlebag to wrap the sword with.

Arthur follows him over, watching sadly as the engravings disappear beneath the cloth. "I must know, Merlin. What price was paid for this blade? What did you promise?"

"You can't help me."

"Merlin."

"When I say I cannot fulfill my end of the bargain," Merlin says, "what I mean is that it cannot be fulfilled at all—not by you or me or anyone else. What I mean is that I hope I grow old and die before I am forced to honor my word. What I mean is that I was so desperate he knew I would agree to anything, anything, even that which I would not otherwise willingly give—"

"Merlin," Arthur says again, and this time lays his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin stills beneath Arthur's touch. He lets out a sigh, his breath clouding the air, and his eyes fall shut. He speaks the words like a death knell: "I promised one day I would free him."

The journey back to Camelot is a subdued one.

"I'd never do it," Merlin promises miserably. "Not unless there was no other choice. He's too dangerous, too full of hate. I wouldn't know how even if I did want to. But if the opportunity arises, and he forces my hand..."

"You should never have agreed to such a thing," Arthur says, jaw clenched. "Just for me? How could you?"

"How could I not?" Merlin asks helplessly.

Arthur cannot believe he ever doubted Merlin's loyalty. Merlin risked everything to protect Arthur and now finds himself in an impossible situation. Arthur knows a little about those, but he could never have dreamed it was like this for Merlin. Are all the secrets he keeps so dire? It's no wonder, then, that he feels the need to lie so often.

"I had to wonder—" Arthur starts. "What do the engravings say? Do you know?"

"On the one side, 'Take me up,'" Merlin murmurs. "And on the other, 'Cast me away.'"

Arthur imagines Merlin casting the sword away into the lake after his father used it, thereby barring Arthur from wielding what should have been rightfully his. If things had gone differently, it might've been the blade that slayed his father, all those months ago. If things go the way he wants, it will be the one that slays Morgause. "Seems a shame," he says. "It's such a fine sword."

There's something—movement?—from behind them. Arthur slows his horse and looks around. "Did you hear something?"

Merlin frowns at him askance. "Not a thing. Arthur, you've been jumpy ever since the lake. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," says Arthur, but he does stop his horse and dismount to look around. Merlin's right—ever since they arrived at the lake Arthur's been plagued with a feeling he can't put a name to, something that still makes him uneasy even now that they've left. Perhaps it's instinct, and they're about to walk into an ambush. Arthur's hand creeps towards his sword. He'll be damned if he gets taken unawares by magical bandits out here and gets his sword arm ruined again. "Something is amiss. Call it a feeling, Merlin, if that makes it easier for you."

"Since when do you put stock in a feeling? I didn't even know you had those." But Merlin stops and dismounts too. "Can you describe this feeling, or would that put too much strain on the royal dignity?"

Arthur has no time for Merlin's sarcasm. "I think we're being watched," he says. He spins around, uncertain. "Perhaps even—followed? I think—" Arthur struggles. He has no idea how he knows this, but he points to the left-hand side of the path behind where they came from, at a whippy young oak, only two heads high and barely the width of a man's waist. "I know how mad this sounds, but if I could not see with my own eyes to know better I would swear there is someone over there. Someone—awake."

Merlin is looking at him oddly. His eyes flick over Arthur's shoulder to the offending tree and seem to focus—but when Arthur looks, he finds nothing.

"Do you see something?" Arthur demands. "Is there actually something there?" Merlin is beginning to smile. "Merlin, what?"

Merlin steps up next to him, and lifts his hand so Arthur can look along his arm and see where he's pointing. "Look again," he says, "only higher."

Arthur lifts his gaze to the oak's branches. At first, he sees nothing—then he spies the movement of tiny wings.

It's the sparrow.

There is absolutely no logical way for Arthur to know this, but he knows it anyway: this is the same sparrow that watched them back at the lake. No wonder Arthur's been so on edge. It did follow them. And it brought with it that odd feeling of...not-winter. Not-dark. Not-sleeping. Awake like the lake. Awake like this bird. Awake like Arthur.

The sparrow lets out a chirp and flutters down from the branch. Arthur stares as though he's never seen a bird before.

No: not awake. Something else. Not awake. Something.

Not awake.

Alive.

"Oh," Arthur breathes.

It's alive. Arthur can feel the life force in it as surely as he felt his own, the day he healed his father atop the watchtower. Its impossibly small lungs, its racing little heart...just like his. He's alive too. They're the same.

Something wet on his face. Arthur lifts a hand to it and flinches, shocked to find he's crying. "I don't—I don't know what's wrong with me," he mumbles, embarrassed and scrubbing at his face. "It's just a stupid bird, I-I don't—"

But to Arthur's great surprise, Merlin's eyes are also bright. "You can feel it," he says in wonder. "You can really feel it. Arthur, that's magic!"

This is magic? But it can't be. There's no evil in this. This is incredible. This is something precious. How can this be magic?

Then Arthur remembers what Merlin said a long time ago now, on a day a lot like this one: The earth, the sea, the sky, the living things all around us, even you and me—magic exists in everything there is.

"Gwen's been able to feel it for a while now," Merlin says. "Not at first. She thinks maybe you have to be ready. Your heart has to be open to it."

Arthur is standing stock-still, absolutely arrested by the sight of the little sparrow leaving tracks atop the snow. "You must have been able to feel it much longer than the rest of us, then, Merlin."

"Oh, yes," Merlin says, and his voice trembles. "I've been able to feel it all along. I just didn't think anyone else would ever understand."

Carefully, Arthur kneels down, hand held out to the sparrow. Can Morgana feel this? Can all true sorcerers feel it all the time? Good God, Arthur's ruined. He's never going to be able to hunt again. A smile spreads over his face. "Hello," he says softly.

Cautiously, the bird hops forward. Warmth floods Arthur's chest. When he focuses, he can—he can sense it, just as surely as he's carried his sense of his mother with him all these long years. Such a tiny, fragile little thing, but it's flown to heights he'll never reach, seen sights he'll never see. It followed them from the lake because it was curious and just a bit hungry. It's as fascinated by him as he is by it. It's never ventured so close to Camelot; never even seen a knight before. It's thinking very hard about landing on his pointer finger—

There's a crunch in the snow to Arthur's left. He's so distracted by the sight of the bird that he pays it no mind—which is why they are both taken by total surprise when a fox darts out from the underbrush and snatches the sparrow up between its jaws.

It is instant. Arthur feels that little life vanish beneath the crush of teeth as quickly and wholly as his father snuffed out the flame of his candle, and the gaping emptiness where it once was lances through Arthur as surely as any sword. He jerks back in horror, clutching his chest.

"Arthur!" Merlin's hands on him, helping him up from the snow. Arthur grasps desperately at him, the loss having wounded him beyond pride. "Arthur, are you all right?"

Arthur is not all right.

He never realized. He thought he knew—distantly, objectively—but he never understood, not really.

This is magic. This is magic as it really is, without lies or vengeance or violence. This is magic as it's meant to be.

And this is what happens to magic that strays too close to Camelot and her sword:

It is destroyed.

It is a long and sleepless night for Arthur.

Arthur tosses and turns all night. Tomorrow is the day he meant to make the decision about whether or not to ride out to the Isle of the Blessed, yet his best hope for breaking the curse is one he dare not lay a finger on. To make matters worse, now that Arthur has begun to feel the magic, he cannot stop. His awareness of the other living people in the castle is like a sixth sense—much more distant and muted than what he felt in the forest but still always lurking there at the edge of his perception. When light blinds him he can close his eyes, and when noise deafens him he can cover his ears. But he doesn't know how to shut the magic out. He never has.

To hell with it. If Arthur's not going to get any sleep, he might as well make himself useful.

He can't break the curse? Fine. In that area, for the moment, he is powerless. But not being able to wield the sword—that's a problem he can solve right here and now, without even leaving the castle.

Time to meet Merlin's so-called "magical expert."

Arthur dons Merlin's old cloak, straps on a sword just in case, and summons fire in his palm to see with. It's getting easier every day; it used to frighten him to let the fire loose, but he does it now without a thought. It's well after midnight, so no one is awake to ask what he's doing save for a few spare guards. Arthur avoids most of them, and what few he cannot avoid are easily enough sworn to silence. There are some perks to being prince.

The dungeons are absolutely frigid this time of year, and it's very quiet underground, making each and every drip of condensation or scratching of rats claws seem ten times louder. Arthur's beginning to doubt Merlin's story about how he met this fellow. More importantly, it's dark and almost completely deserted—what servant would make their way here? Why? Who could call out, and still be heard up above? Arthur cannot imagine Guinevere wandering these halls; even he and Morgana, well used to playing in the castle's secret passageways, never went this deep.

Arthur keeps his fire close, feeding a little more magic into the flame as he begins to get colder. Deeper and deeper he goes, uncertain of the path but knowing his destination—for very distantly, he can feel life beneath these floors.

And it is getting closer.

Eventually, Arthur reaches a staircase that seems to lead into a great open cavern, one Arthur can see no end to from the top of the stairs. He has the overwhelming sensation that he is being watched, but no—the cavern seems empty, at least from here. Is there really someone imprisoned down there? Arthur sees no cells. What's to stop a man from simply climbing out?

Suddenly there are footsteps behind him. Arthur presses himself to the wall and closes his hands to put out the fire he is carrying. The staircase is plunged into freezing darkness.

Another bobbing light rounds the corner. Someone carrying a torch. Arthur squints, but he cannot make out a face. When they have passed him, Arthur draws his sword, the ringing of steel echoing around them, and points it at their back. "Who goes there?"

The figure starts, nearly dropping his torch. "Arthur?"

Only one person could be so clumsy. Arthur lowers and resheathes his sword. "Merlin," he growls. "What the hell are you doing down here in the middle of the night?"

Merlin moves a bit closer. Arthur can see now that he has the sword from the lake strapped to his back. "What the hell am I doing down here in the middle of the night?" he repeats, hysterical. "What the hell are you doing down here in the middle of the night?!" His eyes widen in sudden understanding. "You were looking for—Arthur, you idiot! What were you thinking, coming without me? He could kill you in a second—"

Arthur crosses his arms. "Kill me?" he repeats, incredulous. "A doddery old man in a cage? Have you been on the cider?"

But Merlin doesn't look drunk; he looks terrified. "You don't understand," he says. There is a slight shift of air from the open cavern at the bottom of the stairs. "He is not a man."

Arthur is hyper-aware, suddenly, that he has not yet lost the sensation of being watched. They are not alone here. "If he's not a man," Arthur asks, trying very hard to keep his voice even, "then what is he?"

Distantly, Arthur hears the flap of gargantuan wings.

The sound gets closer and closer, so loud the floor beneath them begins to rumble. Then comes the clanking of massive, ship's-anchor chains. And then something impossibly huge lands upon the rock outcropping jutting up from the cavern floor with a crack like thunder—and a low, pleased growl.

Arthur, petrified, cannot bring himself to turn around. "My father killed all dragons."

Merlin grips his torch with white knuckles. "He didn't kill this one."

There's a moment of silence. Then a voice drifts up to them. "Is that Arthur Pendragon I hear, coming down my stairs?"

Merlin catches Arthur by the arm and hisses, "Arthur, don't."

But Arthur does. He takes a moment to gather his courage first, then he turns and walks down the winding stairs. He hears Merlin whisper a spell behind him, feels Merlin's hand latch onto his wrist—Arthur's new awareness of magic and the cool feeling at that point of contact tells him he now shares Merlin's little fire shield and will so long as Merlin does not let go—and then they are close enough to hear the air the dragon takes into its massive lungs, the clank of the chain as it breathes, and then, then—

It is enormous. Arthur has never even dreamed of seeing a creature so gigantic, has seen whole houses that were smaller. Its head alone is bigger than Arthur's entire body. Its great scaly hide is as plate mail, hard and dark like like rusted brass. Spikes run from the middle of its forehead down its spine all the way to the end of its tail. There is a chain attached to a shackle closed around one of four great clawed feet, and each link of the chain is so huge and heavy it would take three men to move. And its eyes—

Sorcerer's gold.

The dragon smiles, revealing many large and pointed teeth. "And so we meet at last...Once and Future King."

From beside him, Arthur hears Merlin say, very softly, and with a great amount of feeling, "Fuck."

"You look as though you are about to faint, little human," the dragon says, deeply amused. "Do I truly frighten you so?"

Arthur is, in fact, halfway to passing out, and he'll be lucky if he doesn't soil himself on the way down. His magic surges under his skin, ready to leap out and defend him. But his father bested this creature, he reminds himself. It is chained and helpless because of the might of a man Arthur has soundly beaten twice now. And Merlin is with him, grasping his wrist, keeping him safe from harm. There is nothing to be frightened of here. Arthur lifts his chin, keeps his gaze steely and hard. "Trust me," he says, voice cut low and rough. "I'm not afraid of a little fire."

The dragon tips its great scaly head back and laughs. "Is that so? Tell me—why have you come here?"

"I seek your blessing to wield the sword you helped forge for me."

"Oh? And what makes you think I will give that to you?"

Arthur opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He had not, honestly, thought this far ahead. In all fairness, he had been expecting to speak with an old man behind iron bars.

The dragon smiles again. It is not any less discomfiting the second time.

"What was that you called me?" Arthur asks instead, to give himself time to think. "Once and Future King—I am no king yet, not while my father still lives."

"It is not who you are," the dragon dismisses. "It is who you will be. Your title, as written in the prophecies."

"Which I am sure are fascinating," Merlin puts in, tugging at Arthur's wrist, "but we'll have to hear about it another time. Come on, Arthur, let's go—"

Arthur doesn't budge. "What prophecies?"

"It is said that you will do great things when you are king," says the dragon. "But you will not do them alone. There is another who walks beside you, cloaked in shadow. Even now he serves you in secret, destined to aid you in your hour of need and protect you from what you cannot face alone. He is known as Emrys."

"But I don't know any Emrys," Arthur says, uncertain. Merlin's grip has tightened around his wrist. "I've never even heard his name before. How can someone I don't know be at my side?"

"Like yours, it is a title," the dragon says, "meaning 'Immortal One.' There are some who believe Emrys is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth. Together, you are meant to unite the land of Albion and bring about a golden age of magic."

Arthur's heart drops. "No," he says, blankly, reflexive—then shakes himself and repeats, "No. You can't be serious. Look at yourself! How can you not remember my father's Great Purge?"

The dragon growls, kicking up Arthur's pulse. "Magic cannot be purged," it spits, and coming from such a creature the words feel like the direst of warnings. "Magic is a force of nature. It must have a balance. And so wherever it is destroyed, it will rise again. All the lives lost in that bloody massacre, all the magic your father tried to snuff out—it had to go somewhere. And so the first magical child born after the worst of the slaughter now carries that great burden. Their lives and their magic now belong to him."

Like his father's candles, Arthur realizes, relighting themselves over and over no matter how many times they are blown out—this Emrys, he could live for hundreds of years—he could perhaps even live for thousands—

Merlin's grip on Arthur's wrist is so tight now it borders on painful.

"You, Arthur Pendragon, were the catalyst of a great tragedy," the dragon continues. "But Emrys is its legacy. You are as two sides of the same coin: he only exists because you do. And it will take both of you to right what once went wrong."

The catalyst. The dragon knows, then. It knows how his mother really died, why his father really waged war against its kin. It knows that the Great Purge is in some ways Arthur's fault, just for being born. And it seems to think that makes it Arthur's responsibility to undo what his father has done.

But he can't. It's just going to have to fall to this Emrys person. Even if Arthur were king—and he is not, not yet—he's not the right man for the job. It's wrong to say that it was just his father's Great Purge. For though it was his father who began it, Arthur is his only son. And as the king's son he served him to the best of his ability, followed whatever orders he was given. He was his father's right hand: a sword to use as the king saw fit.

A sword is good only for killing, Merlin said once, the day he spoke of Will in the forest. It's capable of nothing but bloodshed.

He is more right than he knows.

What Arthur's done, everything he's been complicit in, the lives he's ended with his own two hands—

After he found out the truth about his birth, he almost slayed the king on the spot for his misdeeds. But what right has he to condemn his father, when he, as his father's sword, is the one who carried out the bloodshed?

Arthur swallows hard around a lump in his throat. "I cannot be the one your prophecy speaks of," he says. "If we are indeed two sides of a coin, this Emrys and I, then it is I who am cast in shadow. When we meet, he will want nothing to do with me."

"But of course he will," Merlin interrupts, offended. Arthur had nearly forgotten he was there. "Why shouldn't he?"

"I have slain his kind, Merlin," Arthur bites out. "People just like your friend William, do you understand that? I have put them to the sword just as readily as my father, for no other reason than what they were. There is blood on my hands. What sorcerer would want to consort with me?"

The dragon lowers its great scaly head to inspect Arthur with its ancient golden eyes. "Blood stains your hands and your soul," it agrees. "There are some sins that can never be washed clean. But do you feel remorse, Arthur Pendragon? Do you wish to atone?"

Arthur remembers how, up on the watchtower, his father scoffed at the very notion of such a thing. He wasn't sorry. He doesn't place any value on human life, magical or no. But Arthur does. He's a prince, and someday he'll be king. He has to care about his people. And it's not fair to care about some of them unless he cares about them all.

"Yes," he says. "I do."

The dragon lifts its head. "When you walked those stairs," it says, "I wanted to kill you—for what you've caused and what you've done. Long have I waited for the day when magic would return to this world, but I had begun to believe it would never truly come. I thought that if I could not have my freedom, I might at least enjoy my vengeance. For I am the last of my kind—what other road is there for me to take? But now that I have spoken with you, I am not so certain. There is something about you, Arthur Pendragon—something which gives me hope. You make me wonder if a different world isn't possible after all."

"But through me?" Arthur asks desperately. He shakes his head; would back away were it not for Merlin holding him fast. "I don't know if I am who you think I am. I'm not certain I can do what you say I must. I doubt if I am worthy of any atonement, let alone blessing—"

"That you say you are not," says the dragon, "is why I think that you are." It breathes a great sigh. "The sword Excalibur is yours to wield freely; you and Merlin may touch it without consequence. Use it to defend my kin, not strike them down, and it will serve you well. And know that when you pick it up, you carry with you the burden of your past, but also the promise of your future."

Can it really have been so easy? Magic always requires a balance. "For what price? What would you ask of me in return?"

"I require no token or deed," says the dragon. "Only that one day, when you are king, and I am still shackled here in this cave—I want you to remember, Arthur Pendragon. Remember who burnished your sword. Remember me."

The second Merlin and Arthur are far enough away from the dragon that its presence no longer feels as though it is stalking them through the corridors, Merlin says with false brightness, "That went well, I think!"

He is badly shaken. He was not expecting to run into Arthur at all, much less watch him have a chat with one of Merlin's least favorite beings in the entire world, who was as likely as not to reveal Merlin's secret out of sheer spite, and did in fact use Merlin's other name right in fucking front of him. And oh, the dragon was feeling chatty today—though it has spoken to Merlin about his and Arthur's destiny several times, Merlin has never before managed to pry such detail out of it, no matter how he pressed.

"It's unfair, really," Merlin continues, trying to sound as though he isn't about to fall apart at the seams. Somehow he left his torch in the dragon's cavern, and though it is dark and cold without it now, he'd rather die than go back for it. "He's a lot fucking nicer to you than he is to me. Maybe he likes you better, though I can't imagine why—"

Arthur doesn't seem to be faring much better than Merlin is. "I told you he couldn't hate me specifically," he says, tone brisk and also halfway to hysteria, "I'm far too handsome and charming—"

Merlin barks out an undignified laugh. Arthur gives him a tremulous smile, steadies himself against a nearby wall, and then without any further warning turns and lets his back slide down until he is sitting right there on the filthy dungeon floor (in Merlin's cloak).

"Arthur?" Merlin asks, hesitant. "Are you all right?"

"No," says Arthur, point blank and staring into the middle distance. That's a lot more honesty than Merlin was expecting. "You couldn't have mentioned your 'magical expert' was a bloody dragon? Really?"

Merlin drags a hand down his face. "Well, you didn't ask..."

Arthur cuts him a glare. "That isn't how this is supposed to work. If you strike a bargain with a creature like this to save my life, you're supposed to tell me then, not a year and a half later!"

"Why?" Merlin shoots back. "So you could shout at me, like you're doing now? Fine way to thank me for trying to do you a favor!"

Arthur's shoulders slump. The fight gets taken out of him awfully quickly, these days. "I'm sorry," he says, and he looks so defeated that Merlin can't even bring himself to joke about getting that in writing. "I am grateful. It seems this Emrys person isn't the only protector I have." Arthur pauses, looking thoughtful. The longest three seconds of Merlin's entire life pass in total silence. Then Arthur says, "Do you really think he's immortal?"

Now Merlin is the one who has to steady himself against the wall. "Cor, I fucking hope not. Could you imagine anything worse?"

Arthur isn't listening anymore. "A sorcerer," he's saying, looking as though he's thinking very hard, "someone younger than me, but only just, and born with magic...someone who's supposed to help me and protect me, or perhaps someone who already has...someone who could've been right in front of me, without my ever realizing who they truly were..."

His eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath. Merlin's heart almost stops.

"Merlin," says Arthur in wonder, "you don't suppose it was Will, do you?"

This is it: this is how Merlin dies. He can't take this kind of stress.

Merlin tries to keep his wits about him enough to remember that he's going to have to be honest without revealing the lies he's told before. "Will can't have been immortal, Arthur," he points out, almost wishing it weren't so. How he misses Will right now.

"Damn," says Arthur. "You're right. Of course you're right. I'm sorry. But who...Morgana? No, not if Emrys is a man. But then who else..."

This is bad, this is so bad—Merlin thought he could handle being honest with Arthur and that the hard questions would be weeks or maybe even months or years down the line, but now that Arthur knows there's a sorcerer who's been keeping to the shadows he's going to stop at nothing to root them out. Maybe breaking the curse will distract him for a while, but after that? It's all over.

"Did you know about all this?" Arthur says suddenly. "This—destiny lark? I know you've always cared deeply about sorcerers. Is that why you—you—follow me? Is that why you serve me?" Left unspoken, but plain as day: Is that the only reason you became my friend?

"Good gods, no," Merlin says, horrified. At least he doesn't have to lie about this. "Arthur, I stand beside you because of who you are and what you've done, not because of some stupid prophecy. When the dragon first told me you were supposed to be some hero of legend, I nearly laughed in his face! Back then I still couldn't stand the sight of you. I told him he had the wrong Arthur."

"Maybe he does," Arthur says darkly. "Merlin, I can't do this. I can't be this."

Merlin tries not to despair. "Because some part of you still believes magic is evil?"

"Because I know it isn't!" Arthur bursts out.

That draws Merlin up short. "What did you just say?" he whispers.

Arthur looks away.

Merlin drops to his knees next to him, grabbing his arm through the thin material of his cloak. "Arthur," he demands.

"You were telling the truth about magic," Arthur says, voice small. "You were right all along. Just because it can be used for evil doesn't mean it is evil—"

Merlin's grip tightens involuntarily, his heart pounding behind his ribs. "Do you really mean that?"

Arthur draws his knees up to his chest. "I tried so hard not to believe it," he says. "I didn't want it to be true. I told myself that people like Gaius and William and Morgana were exceptions—but Morgana's right. That's not fair. There can't be one rule for her and another for all the rest. All of them, every single person who has magic, they're all..." He trails off.

"What?" Merlin whispers.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. "Alive," he says. "Human beings. Just—people, like you and me."

This is it, Merlin thinks, shocked. This is really happening. He's waited so long for this that it doesn't feel real.

"But I didn't want it to be true," Arthur says, "because of what that makes me."

Dread crawls up Merlin's spine. Arthur has killed people, he knows that, and many of them were sorcerers. But Merlin has too, people like Edwin Muiren and Nimueh and the odd bandit. You do what you have to in battle; it's self defense. And yes, all right, Arthur's been responsible for arresting people who were later condemned to die, and sometimes even escorting them to the chopping block himself. Merlin's pretty sure he even killed druids, when he thought Morgana was kidnapped. But—but none of those things would make him look like this, right? Small and curled in on himself and ashamed: this is not the Arthur that Merlin knows.

Arthur looks now almost as he did the day he dueled his father in the council chambers seven months ago—eyes wide, jaw clenched so hard it's trembling. "The dragon was right when he said I had blood on my hands. I don't know how he knows. I spoke of it only to Morgana."

No, this is something else. This is something old, from before Merlin and Arthur were Merlin and Arthur. This could be anything.

Merlin almost doesn't want to know—but he has a feeling that Arthur wants to tell him. He takes a deep breath. "What happened?"

"You'll think the worse of me," Arthur says, voice shaking.

"I don't think that's possible," Merlin tries to joke, but it falls flat. He hesitates, then settles on the floor next to Arthur, so that they are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, a single warm point of contact in these freezing cells. "Actually, I know it isn't."

Arthur meets his eyes at last; there is something haunted and frightening in his gaze. "I wouldn't be too sure."

Merlin doesn't know what to say to that. The silence hangs for a long moment. Arthur's fists clench where they rest on top of his knees. Then, at last, he speaks.

"I was only a few weeks past eighteen, and newly knighted," he says. "My father's campaign against the druid people raged like wildfire. He was spread thin, trying to be everywhere at once, so I volunteered to lead a squadron of men and raid a nearby camp for him. I wanted so badly to prove myself, to him and my men. They loved me as their prince, but they could not respect me as their leader. I was too young, too inexperienced. They thought me a boy playing at being a man, awarded my position based on lineage instead of merit. They had all been on raids with my father before, and they knew better than me how it was supposed to go. So when I—when I told them to spare the women and children...some ignored the order."

Merlin's blood runs cold. His hand, resting on the inside of Arthur's elbow, drops to his side.

"I had never seen a real battle before." Arthur's eyes are wide, horrified; faraway and staring at nothing. "There was so much happening. People dying bloody all around me, children dragged kicking and crying to the river to be drowned, the camp burning down around us...I can still hear the screams. It wasn't truly a battle at all: it was a massacre. My men tore into those poor people like animals. And instead of putting a stop to it—" Arthur's voice breaks. "I froze."

Arthur is crying openly now, though he seems to struggle against it; he presses his fists in his eyes, his breaths coming at a forced even pace.

"My father always made the druids sound so dangerous!" he gasps. "As though they plotted their rise up against Camelot every waking moment, and we were all facing imminent demise should we allow them to run free! But I learned that day that the druids are a peaceful people. They don't fight back—they just get cut down. And I knew," he says through clenched teeth. "I knew, when I went after Morgana, and I did it anyway! I struck them down without pity or remorse, just as my men did before! Oh, I pretended I had good reasons. I told myself that I had to, and there was no other choice. That this was proof that the magic could corrupt, and turn anyone into soulless monsters. But I was a coward and a fool! I let myself believe those things because it was easier than facing the truth!" Arthur looks up at Merlin at last, tears streaked down his face. "The sorcerers aren't the monsters, Merlin! They never were. The real monsters sit on Camelot's throne. My father—and me."

Arthur takes a shuddering breath and rocks forward in place, curled around himself in horror as he tries to stifle his crying. He doesn't speak again.

There is a distant buzzing in Merlin's ears. He is sitting so close to Arthur they are touching and yet feels a thousand miles away from him.

This is what he's always wanted, right? Ever since Merlin learned about his destiny, he's longed for the day when Arthur understands that not all who practice magic are evil. He's ached to have Arthur recognize the humanity in sorcerers so that one day, he could learn of Merlin's magic, and not want to see him dead. Merlin should be happy. Merlin should be celebrating.

Merlin is horrified.

Arthur is not only complicit in his father's Great Purge, he volunteered to be an active participant. He has seen people just like Merlin slain in the most inhumane and barbaric ways possible. Merlin's had nightmares of dying like that, terrible dreams of his mother dropping her cursed son into the well at winter just to be free of him at last, or of burning screaming at the stake while Arthur watches, with his eyes shuttered and his face as stone. Perhaps this is what Gaius meant, when he warned Merlin that Arthur could never be more than what he was. Uther's son, Uther's knight, Uther's sword—what's the fucking difference?

And Merlin should be afraid. A confession such as this should leave him quaking in place, consumed by terror so complete he could not even think to run. It should remind him—that Arthur is dangerous, how little he cares for the lives of sorcerers. It should serve as a warning that every moment Merlin spends in Camelot he risks a slow and agonizing death at Arthur's hands. Arthur, who was raised to hate magic. Arthur, who will always find a good reason to strike his people down. Part of Merlin has feared Arthur for as long as he has loved him. With a word he could see Merlin executed; with less than that, he could see Merlin for what he truly is, and reject him. Merlin should be terrified.

And yet...

Horror and betrayal; these Merlin feels acutely. The staining of Arthur's image in his mind as someone who, when it really mattered, would always do the right thing—he feels that too.

But he's not afraid. For the first time ever, he's not frightened of Arthur at all.

He's still Arthur. He's still just Arthur.

Very quietly, Merlin says his name.

Arthur does not look up, but he must hear something in Merlin's tone. "Don't tell me it's not my fault," he says. "Don't tell me it was my father's fight. Every battle he waged I fought alongside him. I have always been his right hand, his sword, doing what I—" His breath hitches. "What I was made to do. You don't get to absolve me of that, Merlin. You weren't there. You didn't see."

"No," Merlin agrees quietly. "I didn't. You know what I saw?" He waits for Arthur to look at him. "The rainstorm you summoned on the training grounds, to save everyone from the fire."

Arthur looks away, pained. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. "Merlin."

"Your father, alive and well, even after he took a sword to the chest," Merlin continues, "while your own life hung on by a thread, because you were prepared to lay it down for another. Morgana walking free, even after everything she had done to betray us. Your heart opening enough to feel true magic, there in the forest. You looking a thousand-year-old-dragon in the eye and telling him you want to be better."

"Merlin," Arthur objects again, "how much of that could possibly matter, compared to—"

"All of it matters!" Merlin says fiercely. "Everything you did. Every choice you made that led you to where you are now. To being the person you are now—because whoever you were four years ago isn't who you are anymore. You couldn't feel this kind of remorse unless you had changed."

Arthur closes his eyes, taking another shuddering breath. "But what do I do? What could I possibly do? There's no way to make it right. How can there be?"

"That doesn't mean you don't still try. The dragon would not have given you this if he didn't believe in you—just as I do." Merlin scoots away from the wall and reaches for the sword on his back. He brought it down here with the intention of seeking the dragon's blessing himself. He hadn't expected Arthur would do it for him.

"Excalibur," Arthur murmurs, as Merlin unwraps it. "A fine name for a fine sword." He gives the blade a longing look, just as he did at the lake of Avalon, and Merlin remembers what the dragon said about the sword being both the burden of his history and the promise of his future. In this moment, each seems to weigh more heavily now than ever. "Merlin, I can't. I don't deserve this."

"None of us deserves anything," says Merlin. "I'm sure it must feel easier to declare yourself a lost cause. To say that it can't be done, so that you don't have to try. But the Arthur that I serve would never take the easy way out. We made this sword for you—so stand up and take it. And if you want to be worthy, then do what the dragon asked of you: use it to defend his kin, not strike them down. And remember."

Arthur closes his eyes. Then he squares his shoulders and rises to his feet.

Merlin stays on the floor. Just this once, he takes a knee before his prince, head down, and holds up before him as an offering the sword made to save his life. He presents it properly, as it deserves, as some part of him has wanted to do from the moment Gwen first showed him the blade.

There's a short silence of what must be stunned disbelief. "Thank you, Merlin," Arthur says at last. "You've changed, too. I don't know how or when, but you've become wise."

Then his fingers close around the grip, and the blade's weight is lifted from Merlin's hands. The dim orange glow of fire begins to cut through the dark. Arthur, now golden-eyed, reaches down to pull Merlin up to stand beside him.

And together they watch as Arthur's fire climbs up the blade Excalibur, higher and higher, until the blade is wreathed in brilliant flame.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes the next morning before daybreak, which is when he told Merlin to be here with breakfast. Despite their long day and late evening, he barely slept. He had no more nightmares—it seems now that Arthur has dueled his father as Morgause wanted, she has given up on sending him the dreams. But he tossed and turned all night, dreading what the morning would bring.

Today is the day he is to decide how to deal with Morgause—what he's going to have to do to end the curse.

Arthur's not going to be able to get back to sleep. He sighs and rolls out of bed, absently waving his hand at the hearth to rekindle the dying fire. In short order he has dressed himself—the task is made a great deal easier by the full use of both hands, trouser laces and all—and then it's time to make his way down the darkened hallways and go see his father.

Arthur has visited him every day since the curse began. First to bring him meals and ask for his advice, then simply to make sure he was still well, and finally, after their duel, to attempt to get him to speak, and to know that he yet lives. If he sets out for the Isle of the Blessed at dawn, this may be the last time they see each other for a while—if ever.

Gaius still sleeps in the antechamber to see to his father's care, but he too is already awake when Arthur lets himself in. "How is he?" Arthur asks. "Has there been any change?"

Gaius has his fingers pressed to the inside of the king's wrist. "His pulse is growing weaker," Gaius admits. "You know better than anyone how futile it is to fight your father's will. So long as he wishes to die, his magic will obey and keep him in this deep sleep. We can only sustain his body for so long in this state. I'm afraid he's running out of time."

Arthur sighs as he looks down upon his father, looking more weak and frail than Arthur ever could have imagined. How easy it would be, to simply stop fighting the curse. The people are adjusting, even Arthur, and his father wants to die. A peaceful end in this bed would be a far kinder death than was given to the hundreds burned upon Camelot's pyres. It would be a kinder end than the one Arthur intended to give him almost seven months ago in the council chambers.

Arthur isn't certain what he should do. Brave riding out to the island alone? Or take men, and risk their lives on a hopeless endeavor? Or worse—risk Morgana finding out and telling Morgause, and walking straight into an ambush? He could always simply lay down his sword and let the curse take its course, but it's not in him to withdraw. He's a Pendragon, and he doesn't give up so easily.

No, his father does not get to hide from this. Arthur will drag him through to the other side kicking and screaming if he must.

It's too bad he can't ask this Emrys for his advice. Arthur thought about it all night while he tossed and turned. At first he was certain that no sorcerer could be aiding him from the shadows without his knowledge, but once he sat with it awhile he realized there have been a few lucky breaks he just can't explain. Cornelius Sigan's defeat, his own miraculous recovery after being bitten by the Questing Beast, and of course the little ball of light that aided his escape from the Caves of Balor. God only knows why Emrys has been bothering to help Arthur of all people, but surely he would know what to do—or, better yet, he could help storm the Isle of the Blessed. If he truly is such a gifted sorcerer, he should be able to match Morgause's power easily, right? But he has chosen to make himself invisible to Arthur, probably fearing the pyre, and so Arthur is on his own.

Arthur leaves his father without a word. If his father will not speak, neither will he—but at least that means he does not have to say goodbye.

There's a line of pink along the horizon now, but Merlin is not in Arthur's chambers when he returns, and neither is Arthur's breakfast, so Arthur walks up to the physician's tower to find him. He takes the stairs slowly to give himself time to gather his bravado, and when at last he reaches the top he enters without knocking, calling in his loudest voice, "Merlin, you lazy sod, just because the two of us made ourselves busy all night doesn't mean you get to have a lie-in when I told you to—oh."

Merlin is, in fact, in the physician's quarters—and so is Morgana. They look up from their conversation when he enters, frozen.

"Arthur," Morgana says, though Arthur cannot quite tell if it's a greeting, a complaint, or a threat. Perhaps all three.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks stupidly, and then shakes himself and backtracks: "I mean, not that you're not welcome, but I thought—"

"Gwen sprained her ankle carrying firewood, and she hasn't any bandages or splints," Morgana says stiffly, nodding down at the worktable of items Merlin was rummaging through when Arthur walked in. "I thought I'd help myself. I didn't realize anyone would still be here."

"Yes, well, Merlin is being particularly lazy today," Arthur says, though it is entirely without heat. This is why he took his time on the stairs. He knew it would be like this, seeing Merlin again. It's—not difficult, but different, after what transpired between them last night. It always will be. There's no way to take back a confession so ugly as the one that spilled from Arthur's lips beneath the castle floors. The sight of Merlin kneeling at his feet in the dark will be burned into Arthur's memory as long as he lives. It's strangely intimate: Merlin knows nearly everything about Arthur now. He wouldn't need a sword to cut out Arthur's heart. Arthur feels known, and it is in equal parts comforting and terrifying.

"We made a bit of a late night of it," Merlin says lightly, and the look he gives Arthur is—the same as always, which is a relief, but it's still tempered by the newness between them. Arthur knows things about Merlin too now, he remembers, things no one else does: how he grew up, who he's been talking to in the castle dungeons. That makes it all easier to bear. "You know," Merlin says, "there's really no need to bother with all this. I can simply see to Gwen myself if you like." Oh-so-casually, he lifts his hands to wiggle his fingers.

Morgana narrows her eyes at him, some unspoken question. Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur has no idea what they're not talking about, and he's too tired to try and figure it out right now. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I thought you were only using magic to solve magical problems?" In truth it's barely a token protest; he can't imagine needlessly forcing Guinevere to suffer through a painful recovery when she could be back on her feet in a matter of minutes and neither she nor Merlin any the worse off for it. "You know when we break the curse you won't be able to use it to solve everything anymore."

"All the more reason to make good use of it while I can," says Merlin, and then he turns to Morgana. "Shall we?"

Morgana's eyes slide back and forth between them with both wariness and total incredulity. "Just like that?" she asks Arthur.

"I don't see why not," Arthur sighs. "Only—" Here he hesitates. "Merlin, why don't you go on ahead?"

Merlin gives him an unhappy look. He doesn't want Arthur alone with Morgana; is still, perhaps, carrying his hypervigilance from the four days he spent at Arthur's side after the duel on the watchtower, fighting to keep Arthur breathing and not knowing if or when Morgana would make another attempt on his life.

"It's all right," Arthur tells him. If Morgana wanted to kill him, she's had plenty of chances. "We won't be long. I just want a quick word with Morgana—if you don't mind, Morgana, of course," he remembers to tack on.

Morgana crosses her arms, shoulders tight. For a moment Arthur is certain she'll refuse. But then: "Fine," she decides. "But quickly."

"Thank you," says Arthur. He jerks his head at Merlin, and Merlin does make for the door—but not before giving Morgana a long and pointed look.

"So suspicious, that one," Morgana says after the door shuts behind him, tone gently mocking. "What do you want, Arthur? I'm no longer accustomed to these castle walls."

What Arthur wanted was to ask her about Morgause, to ply her for information about the curse in a less hostile situation than the one they found themselves in the last time he asked, with his blade at her throat. He had hoped that more information might make his choice a little easier. But Morgana is curled in on herself, posture rigid, and her face is as stone. He won't get anywhere like this.

Perhaps she still thinks Arthur hates and fears magic, and by extension those that have it. That's a notion he'd like to disabuse her of whether she can help him break the curse or not.

Arthur thinks a moment. "Do you remember when Merlin told us about his friend Will?" he asks. "How he could feel the magic in the world around him?"

Morgana rolls her eyes upon hearing Merlin's name, which is precisely why Arthur asked him to leave. "What of it?"

"You have magic," Arthur points out. "Real magic, I mean. Not from the curse. Can you feel all that too?"

Morgana isn't looking at him. Her eyes track motes of dust that float in the predawn light coming in through the castle windows. "Usually," she says. "It's—different for me. Distant, sometimes. I came into it late, after all."

Arthur swallows. "So did I."

Morgana glances sideways at him, brow furrowed in confusion—then her eyes widen. "You're not actually suggesting you can feel it?"

Arthur lifts his eyebrows.

"But you have to want to," says Morgana, disbelieving. "Some part of you has to be reaching out for it, or at the very least open to it. You could never feel magic while you hate it so."

"But I don't hate it," Arthur tells her quietly. "Not anymore. And lest you think me insincere, it's not—it's not just because of you or Merlin. I have been lied to so often, about so much. Once I began working out the truth, it became clear to me just how wrong I was before. I don't know if this will matter to you at all, or if you'll even believe me, but—I am sorry. For all the ways our father has failed you and for all the ways I have failed you. One day, when I am king, it will be different."

Morgana is looking at Arthur as though she's never seen him before. This is the first time they've really talked since she told him about her magic, Arthur realizes. Not with a blade between them in the corridor outside his father's room, or through Gwen's front door, or from across the training yard. This is the first time it feels as though Morgana really is his sister.

She closes her eyes and looks away from him. Arthur has known her long enough to know what she looks like when she is fighting for her composure, and he looks away too, to give her the dignity of doing so in private.

It's silent for a long time. Finally Morgana says, "You know, Morgause was right about you."

Arthur's head jerks up as if on a string. "I beg your pardon?"

Morgana smirks sidelong at him, perhaps amused that he has taken such offense so quickly. "Why do you think she did all this, Arthur? She's said all along you would be a better king than Uther, if only the people would open their hearts to magic too." She walks among the shelves, the worktables; lets her fingers trail over the spines of Gaius's many books. "I kept telling her she was wrong. But she was certain that you were a man of great honor, and sooner or later you'd see you had an obligation to undo what he did. In truth she had no idea the duel with Uther would be such a close one—she thought you would kill him right away, for your mother if nothing else."

Was that Morgause's plan all along? Kill his father, desensitize Camelot to the use of sorcery, and then watch Arthur ascend to the throne and bring back the age of magic as he is prophesied to do?

And then he realizes: for your mother.

Morgause knows the truth about his birth. And Morgana's been working with Morgana this whole time. So then...

"She told you," Arthur says. Some kind of quiet acceptance has settled in his chest. "Didn't she? How I was really born."

"Yes." Morgana turns to face him. "How did you find out? Did Uther tell you up on the watchtower?"

Arthur gives her a sad smile. "I knew all along he lied to me, that day in the council chambers," he confesses. "But I didn't know what to do with it. So I just—carried it. I carried it on my own."

Morgana takes a cautious half-step towards him, hand lifted as though to comfort him, before she catches herself and stops. "I know a little about that feeling."

Arthur supposes she would.

"The truth is I shouldn't even be here," he says. For more than six months he kept this secret sealed so tightly inside him, let it live in his bones and rattle around his head, screaming at him all hours of the day, weighing him down and keeping him at arm's length from other people. He never dreamed there'd be a day when he'd be able to speak of it aloud so easily, not to anyone—but he grew up with Morgana. She knows all his secrets. It feels right that it should be Morgana first. "I wasn't born like a normal human being, Morgana, or even bred like some prized stallion. I was created, in his image, for his own selfish vanity."

It is Arthur's blessing that he was born in his mother's image instead, but that doesn't mean he is free of his father's sins. The sorcerers paid dearly for the son they gave to King Uther.

"The truth is, much as I hate her—Morgause is right," Arthur admits. He repeats: "I shouldn't be here. My life doesn't just belong to me, it belongs to those who died for it. And since I am here, I have a responsibility to those people. I have to at least try to make some kind of reparations. How could I do anything else?"

Morgana takes another step towards Arthur, stunned. "Then I suppose Morgause has achieved what she set out to do."

"Not all of it," Arthur reminds her bitterly. He picks up a roll of bandages off a nearby worktable just to have something to do with his hands. "Father yet lives, if only just. Only breaking the curse will save him."

It was the wrong thing to say; all the distance lost between them returns in a heartbeat. "Why would you want to save him?" Morgana asks, angry. "After all that he's done to you, to me, to the sorcerers you claim to want to make reparations to?"

It's a good question. Arthur has asked himself the same many, many times. He shrugs, helpless. "I'm not sure," he admits, and tosses the bandages back down on the table. "I don't ask anyone else to forgive him, because what he's done is unforgivable. There are times when I'm not sure if I can forgive him myself. Some part of me will be angry with him until the day I die. But in the end, he's still my father. And try as I might, I cannot bring myself to forsake him. I can't change that I love him anymore than I can change the fact that I am his son."

"Touching," Morgana says, arms folded tightly to her body again. "And what will you do when the father you refused to forsake wakes from his self-inflicted sleep and condemns us all to the pyre?"

"He'll never be the same," Arthur argues. "You didn't speak with him. You weren't there. He's a broken man. But even if he woke up this very second, and still somehow had the presence of mind to condemn anyone, and the loyalty of Camelot's guard after abandoning them in our hour of need...I'd protect you. And not just you," he is quick to add. "The others too, even if it is treasonous to do so."

Morgana is stricken. "Arthur—"

"I am his sword no longer," Arthur swears fiercely. "He has no more power over me. He may be my father but you are my sister, and whether you like it or not if had I to choose then you are the one I would stand beside!"

Morgana, weeping at last, dashes angrily at her eyes. "Don't say that," she snaps. "Don't make this harder than it already is. I cannot promise you the same loyalty—I would die before I betrayed Morgause! Hate her if you will, but she is my flesh and blood just as much as you are! When the world abandoned and reviled me, it was Morgause and no other who held out her hand!"

Arthur has no answer for that. But he cannot bear to watch Morgana weep and not comfort her—not here, not now, not after everything. Once there was a time he might have taken her in his arms; now he lays a hand on her shoulder and counts himself lucky she does not fling it away. For this he does hate Morgause, now more than ever—but he has his own part to play in these tears. It is, after all, not only Morgause's fault that Morgana is now so unfairly torn between them.

"I'm not sure the curse can be broken," Morgana says at last. "I wasn't going to say anything, but you deserve to know, lest you ride out to your death in vain. Morgause said the less I knew the safer I was, and so she told me as little as she could get away with. But when she asked me to deliver the black dagger to her from the castle vaults, she was very insistent that I be sure not to mar the single drop of blood dried on its point, because it was the only one of its kind. I don't think the blood spell that makes it indestructible is linked to any living person. And there's no way to get blood from the dead!"

Someone who's dead? Not himself, then, nor his father. But it's a knife his father dreamed of and kept hidden beneath the castle, a knife even Gaius recognized, though he could not say from where. His father must know whose blood lay dried on that dark blade. But every time Arthur tries to ask him about it, he just—

Oh. Oh.

How did it take him so long to realize? The way his father cried out in despair when Arthur spoke of destroying it, the way it was kept locked away in the vaults like something precious...

There is only one person, living or dead, his father has ever cherished so.

All this time, though he could not bear to look upon it, his father was holding on in vain to everything there was left of her—the same way that Arthur dug his fingers into his neck up at the top of the watchtower just to feel the last vestiges of his pulse. Like father, like son: neither of them have ever known how to let go.

Arthur lifts a hand to his eyes, shaken. If he's right—if, if, if—

"Arthur?" Morgana asks, sniffing. "What is it?"

Arthur gives her shoulder one last squeeze. "I need to find Merlin and Gaius," he says. "Now."

In short order Merlin and Gaius have been assembled in the council chambers, the door locked behind them so that none will interrupt or overhear.

"What're you in such a hurry for?" Merlin complains. "Gwen is fine, by the way, thanks for asking."

Arthur paces away from them, towards the chair in which the king would normally sit. "I have a guess as to whose blood is linked to the black dagger," says Arthur. "But I do not have the magical expertise to confirm it. I'm afraid that falls to the two of you."

Now Merlin seems to be paying attention. "Did Morgana tell you something?" he asks, excited. "Who is it?"

Arthur turns. Merlin looks eager, but perhaps Gaius has a better read on the room; he looks as somber and worried as Arthur has ever seen him.

"Gaius," says Arthur, "hypothetically speaking, of course—if I were to take a wife, and she could not conceive, could magic be used to have her bear unto me a son?"

Merlin snaps his mouth closed. The room is so quiet Arthur swears he can hear his own heartbeat.

"Arthur," Merlin starts, "what's this about—"

As if he doesn't know. "Yes or no, Gaius."

Gaius hesitates, looking as though Arthur has asked him to sign his own death warrant. "Yes, my lord."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "And this spell," he continues, "would it require, say, a drop of blood from the woman in question?"

Gaius closes his eyes. "I imagine so, my lord."

"It is as I suspected, then," Arthur says. "We are at a dead end. You were right when you said Morgause was smart," he tells Merlin. "She cast a blood spell that was unbreakable by using the blood of someone who was already dead. She used the blood of my mother—blood that the black dagger drew more than twenty years ago, when the sorceress Nimueh required a sample for the spell she used to deliver my father a son."

There is a ringing silence. Merlin and Gaius both look petrified. And Arthur knows why.

He should have put it together last night. When the dragon said Arthur was the catalyst of the Great Purge, Merlin hadn't disagreed with it, hadn't even flinched. But long before even that, Merlin spent the afternoon the four of them went to the forest together arguing with Arthur about the inherent good of magic. It doesn't match up at all with what he said the day Arthur nearly killed his father, right here in his very chamber almost seven months ago. Morgause is an enchantress; she tricked you. Back then Arthur didn't know Merlin—not really. He had no idea just how out of character those words truly were.

But he knows better now.

"You knew," he says. "You both knew the whole time."

Gaius says nothing. But Merlin has promised to be honest, and so he says, "Yes."

That's it then.

"I'd like a word with Merlin, please, Gaius," Arthur says. "Alone."

Gaius gives Merlin an anxious look. "My lord, if I may—"

Arthur holds his hand up to silence him.

Gaius looks so old, suddenly. Arthur forgets sometimes, but as the only true survivor of his father's Great Purge, he must have seen so much merciless violence and bloody slaughter. No wonder he was so frightened for Merlin after Arthur found out he'd been keeping Morgana's magic a secret. At the time Arthur thought it deeply insulting, but with the memory of the druid encampment still so close to the surface, he can't find that outrage anymore. Gaius is just another parent, terrified of having the Pendragon dynasty and their blind hatred of magic rip his only child away from him.

"You need not fear," Arthur tells Gaius, voice gone quiet. "Today I want only to talk." His eyes meet Merlin's. "And, perhaps, to listen."

Nonetheless, Gaius grasps Merlin's arm in desperation. Merlin lays his hand over Gaius's to comfort him. "It's all right," he says, guiding Gaius to the door as gently as he can; Gaius is helpless to stop it. "It's going to be all right."

"Merlin—"

"I'll see you in just a little while. I promise."

The door shuts behind Gaius, echoing loudly in this empty room. Merlin even relocks it without having to be asked, no fuss at all. And then he turns to face Arthur, and whatever judgment awaits him.

"Why did you lie?" Arthur asks. "My father—you knew what he was. What he'd done. If I had killed him, I could have taken my place on the throne and been grateful to magic for opening my eyes. I could have become the king of prophecy and brought sorcery back to this land. And that's what you want, isn't it? You've always known that magic isn't evil. Yet as soon as I began to believe the same, you convinced me otherwise, and in the very same breath asked me to believe that my mother was a lie—all to save the life of someone you should despise. Why, Merlin?"

Merlin hangs his head, hands folded behind his back. "I'm sorry—"

"I don't care to hear any apologies," Arthur bites out. "What I want, for once, is the truth—all of the truth. No more talking around it. I want you to tell me why you lied."

Merlin keeps his head bowed, but his eyes move back and forth, his teeth worry at his lip. His silence is not one of disobedience, but thought. Then at last he says, "I was trying to protect you."

Arthur isn't sure what answer he was expecting, but this isn't it. "What?"

"You were so hurt and so angry," says Merlin. "I was sure once the rage faded, and Uther lay dead on the ground, that you would regret what you'd done forever. You'd already lost your mother—all you had of her was that one single memory. And believe me, I know, I know how hard it is to grow up without a parent. I know how precious that memory was to you. But you'd spent your whole life looking up to your father and loving him. And I thought: surely it was better to taint one memory than to taint them all."

Arthur's throat has grown tight with tears he refuses to shed. It's a testament to his newfound control that his eyes do not glow, the torches on the walls do not flare. "But it was more than just one memory. I told you, and I've never told anyone: I've always felt that she was...a part of me, somehow, though I didn't know why. And I lost that—I very nearly didn't get it back until it was too late." He shudders, thinking of how the duel on the watchtower could have ended. "It should have been my choice, Merlin."

"I know," Merlin says, and he's looking up now, true pain in his eyes. "I know that now. But Morgause really was manipulating you, even if she did use the truth to do it. To rise to the throne like that, it wouldn't have been the right way. You must see that. It isn't about Uther at all, it's about you—what kind of person would that have made you, to kill your own father like that? What would it have meant for your rule?"

Arthur lets out a derisive sound, thinking again of the druid encampment, and all the sorcerers dead at his hands since. Killing is what Pendragons do best. To follow in his father's footsteps: that's what Arthur was made to do.

Merlin seems to follow his thoughts, even without Arthur having said a word. "You're not cruel or cold-hearted," he says quietly. "You're not. You care so much about people. How could I stand by and watch you lose yourself like that?"

But in losing his mother, Arthur did lose himself. From the moment she spoke the words You were born of magic she was gone from him. That was half the reason he took up the blade against his father to begin with.

Do not let this knowledge change you.

Arthur, don't! I know you don't want to do this!

But when she wasn't with him, Merlin was.

Arthur lets out a long, slow sigh and goes to collapse on the seat his father sits at to hear the townspeople and pass his judgments. His father could have died right here in this chair, Arthur thinks, looking up at the white ceiling, the cobwebs gathered in the shadowed corners. Arthur could be king by now, nearly seven months into his reign. Magic could be thriving in Camelot already.

But Arthur would never have learned to use a sword left-handed. Nor would he have learned to set it afire, or summon rain. He may never have found out that Morgana was his sister. Would certainly not have known the joy of sparring with flying snowballs with Merlin or in feeling magic in that little sparrow from the forest. He'd never have met the dragon, and would not have discovered his so-called destiny. The sword Excalibur that he now cherishes might have languished forever at the bottom of that lake.

And he and Merlin would not know each other nearly so well as they do now. Strange and mad and awful as it's all been—Arthur's never felt closer to him.

He spares a glance over at Merlin, who still looks quite nervous. "You can relax," Arthur tells him. "I'm not angry."

Merlin's hunched shoulders lower themselves ever so slightly. "What? But why?"

Arthur shrugs. "I'm too tired, I think. Part of me is even grateful. I really would have regretted it forever."

Arthur made his choice, alone up on the watchtower, free from any outside influence. Killing his father is not something he will ever, ever do—not when he is himself, with his wits about him. He's glad, now, that he dropped his sword.

"And I understand," Arthur says, "because God, what an awful fucking thing to know! What a lonely, miserable secret!" He should stop, end it here, he's said enough—but it all comes spilling out anyway. "Merlin, I knew. Not that you lied: I thought you were simply mistaken. But that my father did."

Merlin stills. "What?"

"The way he said it," Arthur says, and lets his head thunk back against the chair. "He didn't deny it. I knew, and I still dropped my sword. I've known all along."

"But—" Merlin sounds horrified. "Why didn't you say anything? If it truly weighed on you so, you could have talked to me."

"Talk to you," Arthur scoffs. "I couldn't talk to anyone, Merlin—I couldn't tell a single soul. If anyone had found out, they would have turned their gaze to me. How could I know such a thing and still let him live? How could I have a name and face to put to my mother's killer and not want to see him dead?"

"He's your father," Merlin says, like it's that easy. "You love him. Why do you think I wanted to stop you? I would have understood."

Perhaps he would have; he seems to know a thing or two about keeping secrets. But how do you just talk about something like that? How do you even bring it up? It's so much easier to stay silent, and pretend everything's all right.

"In the end, I was the only one in the whole world who knew the truth," says Arthur. He keeps his eyes trained firmly on the ceiling. "What my father had done, what he really was. Every day I had to look him in the face and try and make sense of it: that the person I loved and respected more than anyone was capable of doing something so..."

He trails off; there aren't words.

"And you know, Merlin," Arthur continues, "no matter how I looked at it and turned it over, I just couldn't make it work. There were days I thought I'd go mad in the trying. Of course you lied—who wants to know something like that? I certainly don't! I've spent all these long months just sitting with it like this, thinking I shouldn't exist, because my own father doesn't even want me. It would have been so much easier if I never found out at all."

"Arthur," Merlin says softly, but for all he might wish otherwise, he is helpless to protect Arthur against this truth. "Arthur."

Arthur rolls his head around to look at him. "You know what he said atop the watchtower? That having my mother bear him a son was his worst mistake and his greatest regret. Some part of him wishes I'd never been born—and some part of me thinks he's right. All those lives lost in the Great Purge, and for what?"

Merlin looks stricken, speechless with horror. "You're forgetting about Emrys," he says at last. "He wouldn't exist if you didn't. He was only born because you were."

Arthur smiles sadly. "And what could two little souls possibly matter, when weighed against hundreds? Emrys won't even show himself to me, Merlin. Perhaps he finds me unworthy. Perhaps he wishes he'd never been born either."

"No," Merlin says fiercely, shocked and furious. "He wouldn't change a thing. Not a thing, Arthur, I'm sure of it!"

That's a kind thing to say. Arthur heaves one last sigh and gets to his feet, and to his great surprise finds he feels lighter than when he sat down. There was necessity in keeping his secret, but now that that time is passed, he's glad he could unburden himself at least a little. He'll carry that terrible truth with him for as long as he lives, but at least he no longer carries it on his own.

"Thank you," Arthur says. "For listening to me. Not just today, but—last night, too. I'm certain the last twenty-four hours can't have possibly lowered your opinion of me any further."

"No more than the last three weeks have lowered yours of me," Merlin points out.

It's the sort of thing you can only joke about when you're both certain that it is true and that you're unconditionally accepted anyway; the fact that Merlin felt bold enough to say it at all surprises a gratified laugh out of Arthur. "Just the opposite," he assures Merlin, and to break the tension reaches out to muss up Merlin's hair.

"Oi," says Merlin, but puts in only a token effort at swatting Arthur's hand away. He catches Arthur's eye. "Me too," he says, heartfelt. "And I know you said you didn't care to hear an apology, but you should know I am sorry."

A chronic liar and a misbegotten prince. What a pair they make. "What's done is done," says Arthur. "We can't change it. But Merlin, for God's sake—this is twice now. No more lying to protect me, hm? I've already told you, that's not your job."

Merlin smiles weakly. "Says you."

"Your job," says Arthur, "is to start packing. I want you to prepare a horse with as many rations as one man can carry. It's not even daybreak yet, so I can still make good time on my way to the Isle of the Blessed."

Merlin's jaw drops. "You cannot seriously mean to go alone."

"My men are needed here to keep order," says Arthur. "I'll move faster on my own, with less risk of detection and casualties." And if for some reason he should not return—well, he supposes Morgana would be queen. What a thought! But at least he no longer has to deal with the pressure of being the only living heir to the throne. "I have to go, Merlin. The blood spell can't be undone. Excalibur's our only chance. If that should fail, we are lost."

"You are mad," says Merlin, "if you think you're actually riding out of here without me."

Arthur frowns. "This is my fight. Morgause is a sorceress wronged because of the war my father waged against magic, a war he only waged because of my birth. Her quarrel is with me—it's nothing to do with you. It's far too dangerous for you to come along."

"What are you going to do, throw me in the dungeons?" Merlin lifts his hands and wriggles his fingers. "Good luck with that! I can spell open doors, remember?"

"Merlin—"

"I've never done as I was told, and I'm not about to start now," says Merlin. "Arthur, my place is at your side. So don't you dare try and stop me—because nothing could keep me from it."

Warmth floods Arthur's chest. He is so briefly overwhelmed with affection he hardly knows what to do with it all, and he's sure the look he gives Merlin is very embarrassing indeed. "Very well," he says helplessly. "Two horses, then, Merlin, if you insist on being difficult, and pack them quick as you can. I think we've lost enough time to Morgause and her curse."

Merlin takes the stairs to the top of the physician's tower two at a time. When he bursts inside he finds Gaius has been pacing before the fireplace, wringing his hands. "Merlin!" he says, upon Merlin's arrival, and lays a hand over his heart. "Oh, thank goodness—"

Merlin allows himself to be gathered and embraced, surprised as always by the strength in Gaius's grip.

"I'm all right," he says, "I'm all right, see, didn't I tell you? You have to let me breathe."

"Oh—of course, of course—" Gaius pulls away, hands on Merlin's shoulders. "I can't believe it. What happened? What did he say?"

Merlin fills Gaius in on as much as he can while he gets a few things from his room and a few more from their many cabinets of medical supplies (no doubt they'll leave this one banged up for certain). Since Gaius has been sleeping in the antechamber in Uther's rooms, they don't see each other as much in private; Gaius doesn't even know they talked to the dragon last night. Merlin doesn't tell Gaius everything—some confessions were for his ears alone—but he does manage to get out most of the events of the previous day, and that Morgana was in the castle just this morning on Gwen's behalf. And, of course, what happened after Gaius left: that soon they ride for the Isle of the Blessed. By the time he gets to the end, day has broken at last, sun streaming through the windows.

"He's not angry with me for lying," says Merlin. "He's just...sad. Tired. I understand that. It's a miserable business, keeping secrets, but especially one like that. I mean, look at what it did to Morgana."

Gaius smiles wistfully from the doorway where he watches Merlin pack. "Oh, Merlin. Look at what it's doing to you."

"Me?" Merlin repeats skeptically, shoving a roll of bandages into one of his saddlebags. "I'm fine. I'm used to it."

Gaius sighs and sits heavily at one of the worktables. "You misunderstand me. When I realized Arthur knew the truth, I knew that if he should come down hard on you, I would be partially to blame. You see, Merlin, I too spent many years keeping secrets to survive the Great Purge. I cannot tell you how many times I turned a blind eye to terrible evil—or worse, turned my back on someone in need. I'm not proud of the things I did back then, but I was frightened. Everyone I knew was dying, one by one. And I had convinced myself that I did it for the right reasons, and Camelot was where I might one day do the greatest good. I thought that eventually, after Uther's rage had calmed and the dust had settled, I could speak with him and change his mind—or at least use my position and his trust to help others to safety. But Uther's thirst for blood was never satisfied. Neither time nor age softened his hatred. There was no one he could not be convinced to turn on, even me. And in the end, I saved very few people besides myself."

Merlin has abandoned his packing, heart aching. He lives in a post-purge world, has had a whole lifetime to grow accustomed to how people fear and revile what he is, and the threat of violence should anyone discover him. What would it be like to have lived openly—and to have had to, just as openly, renounce such a crucial part of himself just to survive? How could he have borne it, watching everyone he knew die horribly one by one? "You saved me," he points out. "Not just with the witchfinder. Knowingly harboring a sorcerer right under Uther's nose—you risk your life for me every day. You've taught me so much."

"But I am afraid I have also taught you my fear," Gaius says heavily. "Don't you see? It was I who cautioned you against reaching out to Morgana. It was I who lied to Arthur about his birth for all these years and in so doing encouraged you to follow in my example. In trusting no one, in making too ready a habit of my silence, I have taught you to do the same. I thought once that it helped keep you safe—but now I find that time and again it has done just the opposite. A lesser man than Arthur would have had occasion to have you executed twice now for not speaking when you should have."

Merlin goes over to the worktable to sit next to Gaius. "It isn't your fault at all," he says. "I've lived my whole life being afraid. I made my own choices. I was an old hand at keeping secrets long before I met you."

"But it doesn't come as naturally to you," Gaius says. "You have railed against it for all the time I have known you. There's a big difference between being afraid and being a coward."

"And a bigger one between being brave and being a fool," Merlin shoots back. "I have to take responsibility for my own mistakes. I had good reasons to lie, certainly, but look at the damage that's come of it." Gwen almost getting executed for a spell he performed, Uther getting his hands on Excalibur, the witchfinder nearly having all of their heads, Arthur carrying the secret of his birth alone for six long months, Morgana's isolation leading her to betray them... "And I don't have good reasons anymore. All this time, I was so sure that if he knew what I was, he'd have me killed. Maybe back then he would have. But I don't think he would now."

Gaius sits up a little straighter, looking alarmed. "Oh, Merlin, you can't mean—"

"I do," says Merlin, and is surprised by how calm he feels. "I trust him—yes, with my life. I'll gladly put it in his hands. I don't need to lie about it to protect myself anymore. And lying about it certainly won't protect him. All it will do is put more distance between us." And that, Merlin finds, is a thought he can no longer bear.

Gaius looks as though he has aged twenty years. "At least wait until the curse has been broken! Merlin, if Uther should wake and find out..."

Merlin braves a smile. "I'm certain Arthur would at least give me a sporting chance and a head start."

"Merlin."

"He has trusted me with everything," Merlin says, and rises to his feet. "How can I claim to serve and believe in him if I give him any less?"

Gaius stands too. "You cannot be persuaded to change your mind?"

Merlin shrugs. "If not now, when? We'll be alone together on the road, and it's a long journey, Gaius. That's a lot of time and privacy. We'll have plenty of time to..." Merlin swallows, nervous suddenly. "You know. Talk it over." And, hopefully, time to talk Arthur out of doing anything drastic, should it go more poorly than Merlin hopes.

Gaius squeezes Merlin's shoulders. "I beg you, Merlin, be careful."

"I will," Merlin promises. "You don't have to worry, Gaius. The next time you see me, the black dagger will be destroyed, and the curse will finally be broken. Camelot will be free."

And perhaps, with enough luck and courage, Merlin will be too—because, finally, at long last—

It's time to tell Arthur everything.

Chapter Text

When Merlin and Arthur set out for the Isle of the Blessed, Merlin had a plan—a plan to, once and for all, tell Arthur about his magic. It was an excellent plan, crafted with sound logic and committed to with faith in his heart. He and Arthur have had many serious conversations over a campfire at the end of a long day in the wilderness. And with over a week's journey to the Isle of the Blessed, there would be many such nights ahead of them. Surely during one of them the right time would present itself—then Merlin could tell Arthur everything and put the business of secret-keeping behind him for good. If things went well, they could talk late into the night if needed. And if they didn't, well...at least Gaius wouldn't be around to see it.

It was a good plan. It should have worked perfectly. Unfortunately, it goes like this:

The weather, of course, turns horrible the second they leave Camelot, snowy and blustery and wretchedly cold. Visibility is reduced, travel speed slowed, and the mood turns quiet and dour. Whether this is all a result of Merlin's own naturally bad luck or by Morgause's design remains mysterious. "It's entirely possible she's scrying on us," he points out to Arthur later that night, after dark has fallen and they are forced to stop and make camp. "If she can summon blizzards, why not drop one on our heads to impede our progress?"

"I'm going to kill her for this alone," Arthur says flatly. "Magic is ridiculous! How are we supposed to fight the weather?"

They stopped underneath an outcropping of rock large enough for the horses to take shelter behind, but it's so cold they won't last the night without setting up the tent. Merlin, being the one who packed, picked one of the larger thick four-man tents so they'd have room to put a small brazier with some of the hot coals from their campfire inside with them, and reduce the risk of freezing to death in the night. Arthur, naturally, disapproved; said a heavier load would just make them slower, the whole thing would take far too much time to set up every evening, and if Merlin was a real knight he'd be expected to simply brave the cold and shut up about it. He complained about it all fucking day, until the wind started howling so loudly they could no longer make basic conversation without great effort. And yet when they finally stopped for the night, he began unpacking it before Merlin could say a word.

Merlin's too exhausted to gloat about it, let alone bring up the subject of his own magic. He had pictured a quiet evening by the fire as they shared a hot meal, some time to unwind and talk—instead what happens is that he tends to the horses as quickly as humanly possible, openly using his magic to groom them and pile them on with blankets, grabs some cold rations out of their saddlebags that he splits with Arthur, and then nearly falls asleep before he finishes eating them.

Small blessings: at least they didn't have to worry overmuch with their campfire. No matter how frozen or damp their wood is, Arthur can light it with ease. It's a nice break from Merlin having to struggle with the flint and steel.

And it's nice to fall asleep with Arthur so close. Having his own room and bed in Camelot is a wonderful luxury, but sometimes Merlin misses the presence of someone else closeby as he nods off. It's such a comfort that he finds himself feeling almost optimistic in spite of how terrible the day has been. Surely tomorrow will find them in better spirits, and he'll have the time and courage to talk to Arthur then.

Right as dawn breaks Merlin wakes to a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Shh," Arthur hisses. He has one hand on Merlin's chest to keep him still and his lips close to Merlin's ear. "Footsteps," he murmurs, as quietly as possible. "Outside."

Merlin nods, his pulse racing wildly. Hardly the way he expected to wake up.

Arthur lets him go. Soundlessly the pair of them slip on their boots, then with his left hand Arthur picks up Excalibur from where it lays by his bedroll, and with his right he summons a little fire. Merlin can hear the intruder outside now, and see a vague silhouette against the wall of the tent; it seems like someone is rifling through their saddlebags. Why is it always bandits?

Arthur holds his flaming hand up, counting down with his fingers. Three—two—one—

Arthur throws open the flap of the tent and exits sword-first. There is a shriek and a burst of flame from outside. Merlin stumbles out after Arthur just in time to hear him ask, "Morgana?"

It is Morgana, dressed in furs and looking absolutely furious. "What's wrong with you?" she shouts. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

"What's wrong with me?" Arthur repeats, incredulous. "You're rummaging through our things! I thought you were a bandit! What are you even doing here?"

"The two of you just vanished with no explanation," says Morgana. "Did you think you were being subtle? I knew exactly where you were headed, and I wasn't about to let you go alone."

Merlin squints. "You...intend to help us?" he asks, dubious.

"Absolutely not," Morgana says, disgusted.

Arthur frowns. "Then you came to stop us."

Morgana falters. "...no," she says, sounding surprised and uncertain as any of them. "I mean, yes. I mean—look, I certainly wouldn't lose any sleep over the both of you freezing to death out here, but for some stupid reason Morgause seems to think Arthur is better off alive so he can become king. And if I'm here, she won't summon the blizzards."

This logic is so utterly vexing, Merlin doesn't even know where to begin. "If Morgause wants him alive that badly, she could just stop trying to kill him."

"I think she was hoping you'd die first," Morgana says flatly, "since you're so much smaller, and her only sister hates the sight of you so much more." Is she joking? Merlin can't tell if she's joking. "I was looking for an extra blanket for my mare. I left in such a hurry to catch up with you I hardly had time to pack properly."

Merlin turns to Arthur. "We've got to go back."

"Are you mad?" Arthur asks, scandalized. "We can't go back! I'm not returning to Camelot with my tail between my legs after we've already traveled this far!"

"We cannot count on her loyalty," Merlin hisses. "She still wants your father dead, remember? She could tell Morgause our whereabouts at any time!"

"I'm pretty sure Morgause already knows where we are, if the weather is any indication," Arthur says tightly. "And look now." He waves a hand at the gray and cloudless pre-dawn sky. "She's right. Morgause might be fine turning your scrawny arse into a human icicle, but she won't harm Morgana."

"So you want to use her as a human shield until she gets around to betraying us? For all you know she could be spying on us or have assassins or something following behind—"

"I am right here," Morgana puts in. "And I came alone. I think I'd know if someone had been following m—"

From the trees behind them there is a sudden snapping of twigs and crunching of snow. Everyone tenses, magic ready and weapons raised.

"Damn," says a voice from the trees, and then—

—out stumbles Gwen, pink-nosed and covered in snow. "Well, hello!" she says with forced brightness. "Fancy meeting you lot here. My horse is just back this way—would anyone care for some extra blankets?"

So much for Merlin's plan.

The upside of Morgana and Gwen secreting themselves along on this journey is that immediately upon their arrival it becomes about a thousand times easier. Not only does the weather improve considerably, but Morgana brought extra rations and Gwen extra blankets. More people means less workload; Gwen's a better cook than Merlin but he has a much keener eye for foraging, so they trade off, and setting up the tent and tending to the horses is easier now too. Perhaps best of all, more bodies crammed into the tent keeps it warmer at night, even if having Morgana so close makes Merlin want to sleep with one eye open. Merlin may not have wanted them here, but after only a few days in these new conditions, he's glad to have them along.

Unfortunately, a bigger group does slow their travel just as Arthur said it would, and on the fifth day of their journey they realize that even with the extra supplies Morgana brought, even with Gwen's magic able to grow them a few extra edible herbs and plants, even if the good weather holds and allows them to cut through the White Mountains—their food is still going to run out before they reach the Isle of the Blessed. Arthur is completely insufferable at having been proven right until that evening when they're sat around the brazier inside the tent and Morgana says, "But surely you can just go hunting. You've always so enjoyed slaughtering innocents for sport."

Merlin nearly chokes on his dinner, and he has to turn away to hide his wince. One peek at Arthur's expression tells him everything he needs to know: now that he can feel magic, Arthur is utterly incapable of shooting any small woodland creatures, even for their dinner. But to admit this in front of Morgana would open him up to no less than a lifetime of ridicule—so Merlin, his friend and ever-faithful servant, takes pity on him and intervenes. "Morgana's right. You've been doing nothing but sitting around on your lazy royal backside whilst you watch everyone else do all the work! The least you can do is go lay a few rabbit snares."

There is, after all, a very good chance that the rabbits will already be dead by the time Arthur gets back around to checking the traps.

Arthur heaves a huge sigh, and Merlin dutifully pretends not to notice his relief. "Fine," Arthur says, and stands. "Anything to stop you two moaning." But the look he shoots Merlin on his way out of the tent is profoundly grateful.

Poor Arthur, Merlin thinks fondly, watching him leave. This curse really has ruined him.

Gwen elbows Merlin, curious. He waves her away and goes back to his dinner—but he's smiling all the while.

And that's how the journey goes: during the day they ride hard and conversation is all but impossible, and during the evening they are all packed so close together Merlin can barely catch a second with Arthur alone, let alone enough time to broach the most delicate possible topic between them. The irony is something akin to torture: now that he's finally decided he should tell Arthur, he can't find the time or privacy—and even when they do get a spare moment together, Merlin can't muster up the nerve.

Take today for example: Merlin and Arthur have paired up to gather firewood and lay rabbit snares respectively while Gwen and Morgana see to dinner and the horses. They've got perhaps a whole half-hour out here alone together. Merlin is using his magic quite brazenly today—having the firewood float along behind him so he doesn't have to carry it all by hand, thinking about how much he's going to miss this once the curse is broken if he can't bring himself to tell Arthur about his magic—when Arthur says, "You know, I never thought I'd live to see the day you actually found something you weren't totally useless at."

Merlin is so surprised he nearly drops the firewood right then and proves himself to be quite useless at it indeed. "Are you trying to pay me a compliment?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur sniffs, from where he kneels over his snare. In the dying light of sunset, his hair looks like liquid gold. "It's just that normally you're so clumsy it's a wonder you haven't managed to drop that lot on your head yet."

Merlin licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "Well, I have had practice. You know. Loads." He tries to summon his courage. This is the perfect lead-in. Arthur has done half the work for him. "I mean—I mean, I—I—" He can't do it. "Look at you," he says instead, nodding down at Arthur. He has managed, after many failed attempts, to summon a small shivery ball of flame that hovers directly above where he works, so that he has enough light to see by even though the place where the snare lays is covered in long shadows. "You're a far cry from that first day in the forest."

Arthur gives the ball of flame a glance that, if Merlin didn't know better, would look almost fond. "I suppose it comes in handy now and then," he allows. "But you knew that all along, didn't you? You've had far more time to practice than the rest of us."

"I—" Now's the time. Merlin has to say it. Arthur is making it so easy for him. He'll never get another opportunity like this. He tries to think of how to word it: Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, I've had years to practice! or To be fair, I used to lose control all the time back in Ealdor! or even Don't worry, when I was younger I hated having magic almost as much as you did! But Gaius is right: Merlin has made silence too ready a comfort, and now it's impossible to let it go. "I suppose I have," he says, and then his perfect chance has come and gone.

Merlin claims he can't take the cold any longer and comes back to camp ahead of Arthur, hoping to steal a moment for himself and regain some equanimity. Unfortunately there is little privacy to be had here: Gwen and Morgana are just outside the tent, cooking dinner over the fire.

Gwen takes one look at Merlin's face and drops her work entirely. "Merlin, what's wrong? You look dreadful!"

"I—" Reflexively Merlin glances back at the trees. They are all that stand between him and Arthur, who could be back at any moment.

"Don't be shy," Morgana says, tone dry as he's ever heard it.

He wants to ask: Shall I assume I am in the company of friends, then? But she would just remind him that they still aren't friends anymore, so there's no point. Anyway, she and Gwen both know about his magic, and so there's no need to lie to them about this. "I wanted to tell him," he confesses. "I wanted to tell Arthur about—about—you know." He lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers. "I've been trying this whole time. And I just can't do it! My voice keeps getting stuck, or I lose my nerve—I'm just too frightened! I can't!"

"Really?" Morgana asks, feigning shock. "That doesn't sound like you at all."

"Morgana," Gwen chides. She rubs Merlin's shoulder a little. "It's understandable to be frightened, but truly, he has changed so much—what do you think he would do?"

"I don't know," says Merlin, even though he has considered what feels like every possibility and then some.

Morgana smirks. "I could think of a few suggestions, if you're coming up short."

"You're not helping," Merlin snaps. "I am trying to be better. I want to believe in him. If nothing else, I should like to be so brave as you," he adds, and gets the small and vicious satisfaction of seeing Morgana's mouth firm into a thin line of disapproval at the compliment. "But I know he'll be furious about the lying, no matter what he thinks of the magic. And I just can't spit it out!"

"Perhaps he'll work it out on his own and spare you the trouble," Gwen suggests. "Have you tried dropping hints?"

Merlin shudders. "Don't say that. If I don't tell him myself, he'll never forgive me!"

"Learned that the hard way, did we?" Morgana asks. "I wouldn't worry too much. Arthur's not always too quick on the uptake when it comes to other people."

"Morgana," Gwen says again, but this time she catches Merlin's eye. Merlin, who had been subjected to outraged stories for weeks on the matter, realizes she must be thinking of his unfortunate time as her houseguest, and at once they both burst into laughter.

Arthur enters their little clearing carrying even more firewood. "What are you three giggling about?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned with," Merlin says primly, and floats Arthur's wood over to the fire.

Arthur may indeed be slow on the uptake, but it isn't for lack of trying. It's the next afternoon when they've paused for their midday break, and though they did get a fire going to keep warm, nobody wanted to take the time to cook, so they're sitting around the roots of an old oak tree splitting cold rations. Excalibur, which Arthur is sure to always keep close, has been stuck into the ground beside him. And Gwen, eyeing it thoughtfully, asks, "Arthur, where did you get that sword? It looks so familiar, but I just can't place where I've seen it. It's been driving me mad."

Merlin's shoulders go tense.

"Merlin here had it made for me, if you can believe that," Arthur says, jerking his head in Merlin's direction. "Never let it be said that he won't take any given opportunity to overdo things to the excess. He's the one who packed a four-man tent, after all."

"You're lucky I did," Merlin mutters, embarrassed. If not for Excalibur, they wouldn't have even the slightest hope of breaking the curse—and if not for the tent, they would have frozen to death long ago, blizzards or not.

Gwen's eyes widen in recognition. "Ohhh, when the wraith attacked Camelot? I wondered what became of it! My father forged your sword, if you didn't know," she says to Arthur. "Said it was the best blade he ever made. When Merlin came to me looking for a sword to save you, how could I give him anything else? I'm glad it has a proper master now—but Merlin, what've you done to it? It looks magnificent!"

Merlin's ears are beginning to get hot. "I had some work done by—an associate," he says, utterly unable to stomach the idea of referring to the dragon as his friend. "It was nothing really."

Arthur, who is currently Merlin's least favorite person in the whole world, smirks. "It was a dragon," he boasts, because apparently he is absolutely incapable of modesty. "The sword was forged in a dragon's breath. It's supposed to be able to destroy anything and kill any creature, living or dead."

There's a short pause. Gwen starts, "But all the dragons are—"

"They're not," Morgana interrupts. She is giving Merlin a very shrewd look. "Uther keeps the very last one chained up beneath the castle as an example. I've never been down to see it—Merlin here is lucky it didn't turn him into charcoal."

That might've been preferable to most of the conversations he and the dragon have ever had, actually. Certainly it would be preferable to this one. Eager to change subjects, Merlin says, "Yes, well, the blade killed the wraith, so—"

But this is when things take a turn for the worse. "The dragon knows of prophecies," Arthur says, thoughtful. Then he turns to Morgana and asks, "As a sorceress, are you familiar with any yourself? Only I'm looking for someone named Emrys."

Bugger all. Merlin couldn't catch a break if his fucking life depended on it. He shoves a bit of jerky in his mouth so he doesn't have to talk.

Morgana lifts her eyebrows. "I'm hardly an expert in the matter—but I have heard that one."

Gwen leans forward. "What prophecy?"

"Apparently, some sorcerer and I are supposed to be working together to bring about an age of magic," says Arthur. That's a nicer and neater summary than they got from the dragon, thankfully. "But I know of no such fellow, though I'm most interested to meet him. I swear sometimes I have felt there was someone watching over me—remember when I was bitten by the Questing Beast?"

Merlin's ears are absolutely burning. He should have just spat the truth out yesterday and spared himself this agony. Gwen seems to have caught on to who this Emrys fellow really is and has gone quiet, and Morgana—oh, yes. She's giving Merlin a knowing look too.

"Morgause believes in the prophecy," Morgana says to Arthur. "That's why she has no desire to see you dead. And she believes Emrys is real."

"But she doesn't know who he is?"

Morgana catches Merlin's eye. "No. She doesn't know who he is."

That's right, Merlin remembers with a thrill. Morgana swore to tell no one he had magic—not even Morgause. Gwen and Morgana both worked it out so easily because they know what Merlin is: a sorcerer at Arthur's side, younger than him but only just, who was born with magic. It's only too obvious. But if you don't know Merlin has magic, he's quite easy to overlook.

Actually, Merlin's got to give Arthur a little more credit. His guess about Will hadn't been a bad one—there's literally no one else who fits. Merlin can only hope he doesn't ask anymore difficult questions.

And then, the next day, they arrive at the Isle of the Blessed.

It's nearing sundown, and the horses, tired from the day's ride, are now moving at a walk, which means the four of them are able to chat while they ride. Merlin doesn't really pay much attention to what they're talking about—knows only that they're laughing and teasing one another like they're old friends again, for with nine solid days of travel where they've spent every waking minute with one another, how could they feel like anything else? Morgana's animosity has receded in favor of her old wry humor and private smiles at Gwen, returned when they think neither Arthur or Merlin are looking. Gwen and Morgana both know about Merlin's magic, and Arthur has relaxed so very much about the subject that Merlin is all but able to work his spells freely. Despite the cold and the living outdoors and the hard riding and the cramped close quarters that offer no privacy, it's still been one of the nicest weeks of Merlin's entire life.

But when the hill crests and the Isle of the Blessed sits below them in plain view, their good mood is snuffed out. Morgana stops speaking midword, and the smile drops from Gwen's face. Merlin feels as if his heart could break. The journey has been so wonderful he nearly forgot about what awaited them at the end. But here is the island, looking every bit as dangerous as it did during Merlin's scrying session: completely frozen over, crawling with beasts, surrounded by griffins and wyverns that circle the sky.

Now that they're here, they may have to face Morgana as enemies once more. They will certainly have to face Morgause and whatever creatures she can summon against them. There's no guarantee they can break the curse, or that they'll even leave here alive.

The sun is behind them, slowly sinking lower. As they start down the hill, they lose the light entirely.

"That's it, then," Arthur says at last, subdued. "We can't travel in the dark, and it's too dangerous to get much closer anyway. I suggest we find a place to make camp, and then, in the morning—in the morning..."

No one says anything. None of them, after all, are certain what the morning will bring.

Camp is made with no haste; everyone is as quiet and slow as if they are walking to the gallows. And Merlin realizes the saddest part of the whole rotten mess is that none of them truly want to be here, doing this. They're all here because they believe they have to be. But no matter how they might wish it, they can't stop the night from falling. Eventually, they must sleep, and sleep they do, though Merlin tosses and turns for what feels like forever before he finally drifts off.

When dawn breaks, Merlin wakes to find that it is finally snowing again, and the tent is half-empty. No Morgana, no Gwen, no pair of bedrolls near the door or extra horses outside. Morgana and Gwen have gone.

And they have taken Excalibur with them.

"How could I have been so stupid?" Arthur rages, as he searches his things for something, anything to arm himself with besides the tiny blade tucked away in his boot. "I told her exactly what the sword could do! Destroy or kill anything—I might as well have waved it in front of her face and told her that was how we meant to break the curse! Of course she stole it—and I slept right through it!"

"She may have enchanted us," says Merlin. He's already dressed, his usual servant's attire even more threadbare than what remained of Arthur's wardrobe after he finished burning nearly all of it up. Arthur's armor protects him from blades and arrows, but it is useless against Morgause's dread winter. While Morgana was with them it wasn't so bad, but now, standing outside and rummaging through their saddlebags in the biting wind and blistering cold, Arthur wonders if the pair of them won't freeze to death after all. The snow is falling so thick that even the light from the sun is blotted out, and dawn has begun to look like dusk. "Sleeping magic probably wouldn't be hard for her to learn with Morgause coaching her. If they can speak through Morgana's dreams, she could have been giving Morgause reports on our progress every night."

And yet Arthur had actually let himself believe the rift between them was mending. But Morgana told him point blank that she would die before betraying Morgause. Never again will he fail to take her at her word; she does what she means to. "You were right, Merlin. We never should have allowed her to come."

"Morgana is stubborn—I'm sure she would have found her way along no matter what we did," Merlin says kindly. "Luckily for us, I packed this."

He pulls something ridiculously large and unwieldy out of the saddlebags. It's hard to tell out here, but Arthur thinks it may be a...bowl? "Merlin, what on earth—"

"Inside," Merlin bites out, and ducks back into the tent.

When Arthur follows behind, he sees that Merlin has dumped the last of the contents of his waterskin into the bowl and is crouching over it, his eyes gone gold as he chants.

And then Arthur realizes: this is the scrying font Gaius enchanted so many nights ago in the physician's tower.

"Merlin, you genius," Arthur says fervently. "I'll never complain about you being a packrat again, I swear it. Do you think you can find them?"

Merlin can't answer while he chants, but he does give Arthur a nod. He must have been practicing his scrying, because in almost no time a picture begins to solidify. Morgana rides across the lake that surrounds the Isle of the Blessed; the ice is frozen solid, and her mare does not falter. Excalibur is strapped to her back. Behind her rides Guinevere, looking around nervously. As they approach the island's shore, a figure steps out of the gloom to greet them.

Morgause. Arthur's fists clench.

Morgana dismounts and runs into her sister's waiting arms, and when Morgause catches her she holds her tightly, pressing a kiss into her hair. Arthur feels his throat close. No matter how deeply he hates Morgause, he does not doubt for a second that her love for Morgana is genuine.

Morgana clasps Morgause's hands tightly before letting go. She speaks a moment and then gestures back to Guinevere, who reluctantly dismounts and steps forward. Morgana keeps her hand on Guinevere's back as she introduces them, looking terribly anxious. But it seems to go well, for Morgause inclines her head and turns away to lead them deeper into the island.

Guinevere catches Morgana's hand and inclines her head to speak urgently, gesturing back the way they came. But Morgana shakes her head and pulls away, following Morgause and leaving Guinevere behind. Guinevere shoots one last longing look behind her, but in the end she goes with Morgana, just as Arthur knew she would.

"Poor Gwen," says Merlin, and lets go of the bowl. The picture disappears. "I'm sure she just didn't want Morgana to be alone out here, but I fear for her."

He sneaks a glance at Arthur, as though he half-expects Arthur to condemn them both. But Arthur is not his father; he understands why they do what they do—both of them. "I fear for her too," says Arthur. "Come on, then, we've got to move before it's too late. Every moment we delay is one that Excalibur could be lost to us forever."

"But how are we to get to them?" Merlin asks in dismay. "It's snowing so hard we can barely see, the island is surrounded by beasts, and you don't even have a weapon!"

Arthur sets his jaw. "Well, thanks to Morgause, I don't need one." With a thought he lights his hands aflame. "One thing I've learned this past month, Merlin—you can set just about anything on fire."

"Okay," says Merlin, hopping anxiously on the balls of his feet, "okay, we can do this, they're sure to be at the altar, and it isn't far—a few turns around some old stairs and we'll be there before you know it."

Arthur looks out over the frozen lake at the shapes moving in the distance, bracing himself for what's to come. This would be faster on horseback, but it's harder to fight on a horse, especially with fire; even the most battle-trained steeds would spook and buck them. "How on earth would you know where the altar is? We only saw it for a second in the scrying font."

"Er—technically speaking, you might say I have a good memory," Merlin says. "Besides, we're so close now. Can't you feel it?"

Arthur can. It's a pulse of dark power that somehow feels both familiar and totally alien; it makes his hair stand on end. Then he feels something else, on the edge of his perception—something alive. But this presence does not feel like animals in a forest or the inhabitants of the castle. It feels malevolent, wrong; it feels like something Arthur has to kill. And it is getting closer.

Arthur squints through the snow. Very far away, he spies movement. "Merlin, I think—"

"Yes," Merlin agrees. "Spiders."

"Stay behind me," Arthur warns him, and steps onto the ice. "And get your shield ready. I don't want to burn you."

The spiders are on them in seconds, small faint shapes coming out of the gloom, getting bigger and darker too fast for comfort. Arthur has faced them before back in the Caves of Balor, but back then he was all but helpless, trapped as he was on the side of that cliff. Now he has been burdened with a power that will save him—sword or not.

Arthur throws one hand out and torches them, his fire a hot orange glow almost blindingly bright against the darkness around them. The flames catch even though the spiders are still a good fifteen feet away, and Arthur watches them burn with his jaw clenched, waiting. "Hold," he tells Merlin. "There may be more."

Sure enough, as soon as the fire begins to die down, more dark shapes emerge from the flames. Arthur cooks them with another blast, but even as they screech and sizzle, more spiders appear to replace them, crawling over the smoking bodies of their brethren in a relentless wave without end. They're bigger than Arthur remembers, almost half his size, their glowing red eyes all the more menacing as they get closer. Arthur uses two hands to shoot flames, now, bringing twice the power, but there are too many—they flood around him and Merlin, surrounding them, and he feels Merlin's back hit his own—one of the spiders gets too close and begins climbing up his body—

Like magic, it is flung away. Merlin, Arthur realizes, because of course it's Merlin. Arthur blasts fire at it, incinerating it while it's still midair—and pays for his moment of distraction when a second spider leaps at him from the ground.

Arthur grabs at those long hairy legs before it can remove his face, struggling to rip it away from him. It's heavy, and its fangs, dripping with venom, snap only inches from his face. Even as Arthur grapples with it, he feels a gentle tug at his trouser leg that tells him he is about to be overrun—and if the struggle behind him is any indication, so is Merlin.

No. They didn't come so far just to die like this. Arthur may not have a sword anymore, but he still has his fire, an unending well of fury made manifest. Arthur digs down deep, lets himself feel every last ounce of hatred and anger he has for Morgause: for her cruel manipulations of him, for taking Morgana from him, for using his mother's visage for her own perverted gains, for leaving his father a broken man, for driving nine people to suicide with her wretched curse.

And everything he feels, he hurls from his fingertips and at the spiders gathered around them. The one aiming to take off his head burns first, but the fire is catching, and one by one one they all light up, the flames whirling away from Arthur to take on a life of their own. It circles around and around them and then spirals up towards the darkened sky, not unlike the firestorm in the training yard not so long ago—except this, Arthur has control over. This, Arthur has mastered. In the end spiders burn as easily as bandits, as easily as training dummies, as easily as the sword that was stolen from him scant hours ago—

The spiders burn, but, curiously, their corpses have begun to sink straight into the lake below. With a stab of terror Arthur realizes he's melted the very ice beneath them—and a plunge down into those frigid black depths is not something he and Merlin would survive, magic or no. "Back!" he screams at Merlin, who he has suddenly realized he doesn't feel behind him anymore. "Get back, the ice is melting!"

There's a crack beneath his feet. Arthur scrambles backwards, but the ice is so slick, he can't find his footing—

—and then some unseen force pushes him forward instead, throwing him a good thirty feet straight over the bodies of the spiders and the hole he made in the ice. Arthur rolls to break his fall and a moment later feels the impact of something landing beside him—Merlin, still golden-eyed, who stuck his landing perfectly. He turns to Arthur, easy-as-you-please, as annoyed as if Arthur had piled him on with too many chores. "Really, Arthur? Summoning a giant firestorm over a frozen lake?"

Arthur's jaw hangs open in shock. But he has no time or breath to reply—a wyvern shrieks from above and swoops down, breathing a great plume of flame from its mouth.

Arthur is not afraid of fire. Just as easily as he once put out the fire his father set in his own chambers, he reaches out with his magic and snuffs this too.

"Arthur, drop!" Merlin yells from beside him.

Instinctively Arthur flattens himself against the ice. There's a deafening crack from behind him. Arthur rolls just in time to see a massive slab of the frozen lake itself shoot right over his head and smash into the wyvern, shattering into a thousand pieces and knocking it right out of the sky.

But Merlin's not done yet. Before the wyvern can hit the ice and send them all under, Merlin catches it with his magic and swings it around to reverse its course, hurling it instead into the next wave of spiders. It skids across the ice, crushing them easily, and—at last—leaving a clear, spider-free path in its wake.

The island is close now. Arthur can make out its many crumbling black towers standing tall against the dark grey sky.

"Come on!" says Merlin, and jerks Arthur to his feet. They break into a run, and what few spiders remain are dealt with easily enough: Merlin pelts them with chunks of the ice he broke, and when he runs out of ice, he just starts flinging them at one another.

They reach the island's shore. There seem to be no beasts in the immediate vicinity, so Arthur takes a moment to catch his breath. "When—did you learn—to do that?" he gasps, hands on his knees. He's so used to Merlin fleeing the moment a battle begins that he's just as shocked by his fearlessness as he is by the magic. Throwing snowballs is a lot different than throwing himself and Arthur, or an entire piece of a lake.

Merlin's expression looks absolutely pained. "I've had lots of practice," he says. "I mean I've had lots of practice. Arthur, you should know. You deserve to know. There is one more thing I lied to you about, and I have to tell you, I have to tell you right now, but I—I—"

Merlin is trembling head to toe. Alarmed, Arthur reaches for him, grabs his shoulder to brace him up. "It can't possibly be worse than any of the others," he tries to joke, but Merlin's expression warns him that it is. Whatever it is has Merlin so frightened that it is making Arthur afraid, too. "Merlin—what is it? Please tell me. I want you to tell me."

"I want to," Merlin gasps. "I've tried over and over. But I—Arthur, I'm—I have—"

"Arthur Pendragon!"

Merlin and Arthur look up. Standing atop one of the tallest towers, now dressed in full armor and looking utterly impervious to the cold, is Morgause herself. Even though Arthur saw her only a short while ago in the scrying font, meeting her face-to-face still punches the breath from his lungs. It's been seven months now since they last parted, but seeing her like this brings it all back: meeting his mother, nearly killing his father...

Even if they never break the curse—for the sheer hell she's put Arthur and his people through, her life is forfeit. And Arthur is going to enjoy taking that life himself.

"Where are Morgana and Guinevere?" he shouts up at her. "Where's my sword?"

Morgause looks down on them with cold eyes. "I have no desire to fight you," she calls down. "You are the king of prophecy. Go home while you still can, and prepare to take your place on that fated throne."

Arthur can't turn back. It's already been ten days since they left Camelot—if his father is even still alive, how much longer can he hang on? Arthur could never go home and give up while his people are still locked in Morgause's clutches. "You can't get rid of me that easily! If I don't break the curse, my father will die!"

"Then let him die, and let the Golden Age begin," Morgause sneers. "It's no less than he deserves!" She regards him for a long moment, judging, and at last decides, "You need not join him in death, Arthur. But if you force my hand, I will strike you down. Turn back now, before it's too late!"

Arthur sets his jaw. "No," he says. "It's not in me to withdraw."

Morgause smirks. "Then we have that in common. Very well—you leave me no choice. Perhaps some time out will change your mind."

She lifts her hands and begins to chant. Her eyes start to glow, and the island itself trembles and quakes.

And then the ground opens up like water, and swallows Merlin and Arthur whole.

It's a cave-in. Arthur's been caught in rockslides and the like before, but plummeting down who-knows-how-far in pitch black darkness is still a deeply unnerving experience. He collides repeatedly with Merlin and the sides of the hole they're falling down, and though he tries his best to grab Merlin and hang on, the fall forces them apart.

Arthur thinks he blacks out for a few seconds when he lands; without his sight, it's impossible to tell. Eventually he becomes aware of Merlin shouting his name, from somewhere very far away.

Arthur groans. His head... "Merlin?" he calls. "Where are you?"

"Above you, I think," Merlin answers. His voice sounds so far away, but at least he seems calmer than he was a moment ago. They must be in a catacomb of some sort; it feels like somewhere big and empty, and Merlin's voice echoes around and around until Arthur can't even tell which direction it's coming from. "Are you hurt?"

Arthur sets his hand alight and gives himself a quick once-over. Battered and bruised, sore and absolutely filthy—but thankfully nothing seems to be bleeding or broken. "I'm all right, I think. You?"

"Never better."

Arthur huffs out a pained laugh. "I thought you weren't going to lie anymore," he says, and he's gratified to hear Merlin's shaky laugh too, somewhere in the distance above. What had Merlin been about to confess to up there?

"I tried to slow our fall," Merlin explains. "I didn't do a very good job. But I can sort of see the sky from where I am. I might be able to throw us out if you could just get a bit closer. Can you see a way up to me?"

Arthur can't see anything at all. He burns the flame on his hand a little hotter and lifts it to look around.

It is indeed some sort of crypt, wide-open at the bottom. The walls are made of crumbling stone, with roots and dirt forcing their way through, and the structure suggests that they used to hold whatever dead made their final home here. There seems to be no exit on Arthur's level; what few doorways remain are rotted and filled with dirt and roots. And from where Arthur stands it is very difficult to see above him, even after he feeds his fire a little more magic.

Arthur gives it a little more, a little more—but it's too hot, taking up too much air. The fire itself may not hurt him, but Arthur does still need to breathe.

"It's too dark," Arthur calls, frustrated. "I can't see the ceiling, and I can't burn any hotter without suffocating myself down here."

There's a thoughtful silence from above. "Hang on," says Merlin. "It's a long shot, but maybe I can..."

Merlin trails off, muttering from somewhere above him. Arthur tips his head back and waits.

A long moment passes.

Then, faintly, so faintly it's almost impossible to see at first, the chamber begins to glow with blue-white light. Arthur frowns and puts his fire out, the better to figure out where it's coming from. Brighter and brighter it glows, and with his new awareness of magic, Arthur can feel it coming closer, a sensation of goodness and comfort made manifest. And he can tell now that the place he fell from is near the far wall. He holds his breath, waiting—

And then Arthur sees it, floating down out of the opening above: a bubble, filled with gently swirling light.

There is a memory seared into Arthur's very consciousness, of the long-ago afternoon when he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Morgana, watching King Bayard and his men depart Camelot from high atop the castle after their failed peace talks ended with Merlin's poisoning. Arthur remembers how filthy and sore his trip to the Caves of Balor and subsequent stay in the dungeons left him, how glad he was for the fresh air and wind on his face, and gladder still to know that Merlin was awake and recovering. He remembers Morgana's private smile and fond nudge of his shoulder, the kind she only gave him back when things were still easy and simple between them.

But most of all he remembers the brief conversation they had, because he has turned it over in his mind a thousand times since.

Okay, let the bragging begin. How'd you manage it?

I'm not sure. All I do know is I had help. Someone knew I was in trouble—and sent a light to guide the way.

Who?

I don't know. But whoever it was...

Arthur didn't have any idea back then. He'd never met any dragons, or heard of any prophecies. He was practically still a boy, secure in his father's belief that magic was the ultimate force of evil in this world. He didn't even know, when he first saw that light, that it was nothing to fear. It was the first time he had ever seen magic used to do something good.

But he knows now. A sorcerer, who walks beside Arthur in shadow. A protector, who serves him in secret—destined always to aid Arthur in his hour of need, when what he faces cannot be conquered alone.

Whoever it was, I'm only here because of them.

"Emrys?" Arthur whispers.

The orb floats closer. Hand trembling, Arthur reaches out to touch it.

Awareness floods his senses. The feelings of good and right are so strong, so real and so tangible—but that's not all there is. Magic is personal, and it's expressive. And now that Arthur can feel it himself, there is no mistaking who this orb belongs to.

"Merlin," Arthur murmurs, frowning. But that doesn't make any sense, because he was so sure—

Oh.

Oh.

And finally, finally, all the scattered puzzle pieces that make Merlin up in Arthur's mind slide into place for good.

All those times he went missing. All those battles he seemed to flee from and the strokes of freakish good luck that occurred in his absence. His natural skill with magic, his sudden fearlessness, and the sheer power it would take to throw something so large as that giant chunk of ice. His anger at the suicides, and his unfailing belief that magic is good. How reluctant he was to spar with Arthur, and how rattled he was after their meeting with the dragon. His interrupted confession only a few scant minutes ago. And oh, the many, countless, endless times he has saved Arthur's life.

Merlin and Emrys—one and the same.

Arthur stumbles back from the light, badly shaken. Every time he thought he was doomed and alone: instead, there was Merlin. He had Excalibur made to help Arthur slay the wraith. He stopped Arthur from killing his father. He fought his way through the flames to get to Arthur's side in the training yard and taught him to summon rain. He walked through a river of blood on the watchtower stairs into unknown danger to heal Arthur in time to save his life.

And all the time they have known each other, he's lied to Arthur. He's been lying to Arthur from the moment they met.

Arthur squares his shoulders, strides forward, and begins to climb.

Up and up Arthur goes, gripping slippery icy rocks and dirt with his bare hands, followed the whole way by the gently glowing orb of light. It's so dark he can barely see, so cold his fingers are going numb. The terrain is dangerous, and the climb is difficult, but he's not afraid. Not this time.

He wants to look Merlin in the face and hear him say it. He wants to meet Emrys for the first time all over again.

Arthur reaches the top. There is a scant amount of light coming from above here, and the smell of fresher air. A familiar pair of wiry arms pulls him up over the side onto a flat stone floor, and together in a tangle of limbs they go rolling away from the edge. And when Arthur pulls away and sits up—

Here is Merlin. Here is Emrys, at long last. He is somehow everything and nothing like Arthur expected: he looks quite pale, and there is dirt on his face.

All along, the person Arthur searched for was right by his side.

"You," Arthur chokes, voice gone strange and hoarse. "You—"

Merlin's eyes are round and wide. "Me?"

They get to their feet. "I know what you did," says Arthur. "I know everything." The Caves of Balor, the Questing Beast, Cornelius Sigan...all this time, it was Merlin, sneaking around doing magic behind Arthur's back. Arthur is shaking head to toe, struck with equal parts gratitude and rage. In this moment, he isn't sure if he wants to break Merlin's nose or kiss him full on the mouth.

There are so many questions he could ask; so much he could say. But he knows why Merlin lied. He knows how hard it was for Merlin to keep the magic a secret. He knows why Merlin serves him, even though he knew how Arthur hated magic.

Because Merlin already told him.

It can get so lonely, being born apart from the rest of the world, unable to truly be yourself around anyone. It can feel like you're cursed. Or worse—like you're a monster.

Of course I wasn't laughing at you! I know you're not a fool, Arthur! Do you have any idea how many times I was sure you had figured it out? How badly I wanted to tell you, and couldn't?

If I had told you the truth, what would you have done? Would you have listened to me? Would you even have believed me?

It's not as simple as a matter of trust. Think for a moment—imagine the position you would have been in. You would have had to choose between betraying your father's law or betraying someone you loved.

It's not just dangerous for those who have magic, it's dangerous for anyone they confide in, anyone who helps them.

I stand beside you because of who you are and what you've done, not because of some stupid prophecy.

Arthur, my place is at your side. So don't you dare try and stop me—because nothing could keep me from it.

Arthur reaches out, grabs Merlin by the shoulders, and yanks him into a hard embrace.

Merlin stands rigid and stock-still at first, but after a moment his arms come up hesitantly around Arthur's shoulders. He seems flummoxed. "Arthur—what—"

How can he not know that Arthur knows? "You really are an idiot," Arthur mumbles into Merlin's hair. But more than that, even after everything—

He's still Merlin. He's still just Merlin.

It's the opposite of the way Arthur felt when he learned how he was born. It was all but impossible for him to reconcile the man he thought he knew with the man his father truly was; in his head they almost became separate people. But realizing that Merlin and Emrys are the same person makes so much sense he wonders how there was ever a time he did not know. Of course they're the same person. How could Emrys have possibly been anyone else?

At last Arthur pulls back, keeping his hands tight on Merlin's shoulders, inexplicably afraid that should he let go he will lose this new truth forever. "When we break the curse," Arthur says roughly, "what's going to happen to your magic? What's going to happen to your real magic?"

Merlin's face goes bloodless. "What?"

"You promised not to lie," Arthur reminds him. "So tell me the truth, Emrys: when we break the curse, what's going to happen to you?"

Merlin grabs onto Arthur's wrists to keep himself upright. His mind has gone white with shock. "Fucking hell," he breathes. His life is flashing before his eyes. He cannot believe it, cannot comprehend that this is it, this is really happening: Arthur knows. "Fucking hell!"

"Come now, Merlin," Arthur says. His tone is soft, but his grip on Merlin's shoulders is like iron. "Did you truly believe I would never work it out?"

"But—but—but all this week!" Merlin explodes. "All this time, I've been trying so hard to tell you! Only a few minutes ago, even! And now you just—" He stops, agog. "How did you figure it out?"

Arthur jerks his head up at the light, remarkably calm given that Merlin's entire universe has just been turned inside out. "Don't you remember sending this to me when you were poisoned?"

What? But then Merlin realizes. "Gaius said I spoke to you while I was out. But when I woke I couldn't remember a thing. I wasn't sure if I could summon the light like that again."

"At this point," says Arthur, "I'm not sure if there's anything you can't do. I can't believe you're the world's most powerful sorcerer! You were fighting with one hand tied behind your back, and you still threw an entire bloody wyvern!"

Merlin flushes to the tips of his ears. He is slightly dizzy. He can't believe any of this. He never thought there'd come a day when Arthur would not only accept his true nature, but be impressed by it. He hardly knows what to do with himself. "Does that mean you're not executing me, then?"

Arthur's expression grows serious. He looks unhappy with the question, but not surprised. "You lied to me for such a long time," he says. "About everything."

"I'm sorry," says Merlin, because he is. "But I had to. And I wanted to tell you. You can't possibly know how much I wanted to tell you."

Arthur shakes his head. "Before all this, I probably wouldn't have told me either. I wouldn't have understood at all. I might've even..." He shudders. "I'm sorry too. All those things I said about sorcerers, the way I acted...did you really mean it, when you said Emrys wouldn't change a thing?"

Merlin's heart may explode right out of his chest. "Well, that depends," he says, still feeling a bit lightheaded. "You haven't answered my question. Are you going to execute me or not?"

That shocks a laugh out of Arthur. "Execute you!" he says. "Merlin, you'll be lucky if I don't knight you! Everything you've done—"

"—I've done for you," Merlin says. "And I did mean it, Arthur. I meant every word."

Arthur smiles at Merlin then, open and genuine, and Merlin's heart does a dangerous little flip-flop in his chest. Given the current circumstances, there is no way he can be expected to have any control over his face. Whatever stupidly grateful expression he's making at Arthur now, they're both just going to have to live with it.

A shadow passes over the top of the pit they've fallen into, and a griffin shrieks in the distance. Merlin and Arthur start, looking up at the tiny patch of sky above them.

"Merlin, why are you here?" Arthur breathes. "You're risking your life to break the curse—but shouldn't you want everyone to be like you?"

"That stupid dragon asked me the same thing," Merlin says hotly. "And I'll tell you what I told him: I'm never going to be happy to know that other people are suffering, especially because of magic. Hurting people, driving them to madness or worse, that isn't what magic is meant for!"

Arthur gives Merlin an unbearably fond look. "But you haven't answered my question either—if we break the curse and take away the magic, what'll happen to yours?"

"I hadn't even considered it," Merlin admits. "I was fine when the curse began, after all. Nothing changed for me." There was that strange sensation that woke him during the night—come and gone before he knew it, but for that brief moment it felt like he was dying. Still, other than that... "But it doesn't matter. I won't let Morgause get away with this, not even to save my own skin. I refuse."

"All right," Arthur agrees. "Get us out of here, then. Oh, and Merlin—"

"Yes?" Merlin asks, a little breathless.

Arthur gives him a stern look. "No more holding back, understand? I want you to bring your full strength to bear if need be—and that's an order."

No longer having to pretend, not even in front of Arthur...that's one order Merlin will be only too happy to follow. "Yes, sire," he says, cheeky, and then grabs hold of Arthur's arm. "Brace yourself—"

Merlin is not very practiced at flinging himself around with his magic, not in the least because it would be very easy to break his own neck, but he's learning fast. He uses his magic to hurl himself and Arthur up, up, up—

Gray light around them, wind freezing their faces—

Merlin lets go. They drop and land in an undignified heap in the snow.

Something hisses nearby. Merlin scrambles to his feet to find that they've landed in a clearing with a few trees and crumbling walls, and they are quickly being surrounded by a ring of reptilian cockatrices, fangs dripping with venom. There's no opening—no matter which way they turn, they're met with sharp teeth and gaping maws. Merlin backs up until he feels Arthur's shoulders behind his own.

Arthur lights his hands afire. "Be careful," he warns. "One drop of cockatrice venom—"

Merlin's read that passage too, thanks very much. And now that he doesn't have to explain away the spells he knows, he can use them freely.

"Gehæftan!" Merlin shouts to the earth, and tree roots spring up from the frozen ground and pull two of the cockatrices down into the catacombs, leaving no trace they were ever there at all. This prompts the others to jump at them, but Merlin grabs the nearest one with his magic and hurls it into another. "Frore!" he commands the water, the ice on the ground, and it freezes them until they shatter.

There's a blast of fire from behind him. "Merlin—!" Arthur warns.

Merlin turns to find a cockatrice leaping at him. "Andslyht!" Merlin bades the wind, and blow it does, repelling the cockatrice back, and then when it is far away enough Merlin shouts at last: "Forbærnan!"

And the fire obeys. It shoots from his hands, burning the last cockatrice alive.

Merlin turns to find Arthur's mouth is hanging open. "You can call fire!"

And Merlin tips his head back and laughs, delighted. He hasn't gotten to use so much magic in ages and ages. "Yeah," he agrees, giddy, "I can call fire."

They stare at each other a moment, grinning stupidly, and then Merlin spies movement over Arthur's shoulder. "Speaking of," he says, "duck—"

As soon as it's clear Merlin blows another wave of fire forward, taking out the small group of serkets that had been heading in their direction.

"Behind you!" Arthur shouts, but before Merlin can turn he throws out his hand to incinerate a serket that had been sneaking up on them. A few more appear on the tops of the nearby crumbling walls, chittering, and Merlin sees Arthur reach reflexively for the empty scabbard at his side, cursing when his hand closes around nothing. "Get behind me," he says, as he did right before he nearly plunged them both to the bottom of the icy lake.

"You get behind me," Merlin says, affronted. "I'm the more practiced sorcerer."

"I'm the one with the lifetime of combat training!"

In the end, it doesn't matter; they are surrounded once more by serkets, and so they wind up back-to-back again. And when the serkets leap at them, they are ready.

It is flawless, seamless teamwork. Merlin has never fought like this: out in the field with Arthur, instead of hiding himself away at a safe distance. The serkets are much bigger than those spiders, and harder to throw, but Merlin can do more than just throw them now. Arthur told him not to hold back, and he doesn't. All the elements are his to command now, and he commands them to defend Arthur, freely and openly, for the very first time.

Not that Arthur seems to need Merlin's help. Even without a weapon and less than a month of practice under his belt, he's holding his own. Merlin feels the heat of Arthur's fire on the back of his neck, sees the light flare up and die down again and again, and hears the serkets shriek as Arthur burns them. Merlin thought that would be him, once—that someday Arthur would look upon him and know what he was and send him to the pyre. But Merlin doesn't fear Arthur's fire anymore. In fact...

When Arthur summons the next blast of flame, Merlin reaches out with his own magic and adds his fire to it, takes control of that burning wave and sends it in a wide circle around them before letting it spiral away into the sky. It's the exact thing Arthur did to deal with the spiders—only stronger, because this time it is both of them together instead of just one.

The clearing grows quiet, save for the howling of the wind and hissing of many smoking serket corpses. When no more serkets make themselves apparent, Merlin and Arthur separate.

Arthur lowers his hands, surveying the damage. "Bloody hell, Merlin."

"Bloody hell yourself," says Merlin, trying not to sound too pleased. "Come on, let's get out of here before anything else shows up. The altar is just this way."

Arthur follows Merlin through the maze of deteriorating hallways and winding staircases. "How is it you know where we're going?" he calls as they run. "Have you been here before?"

Merlin looks back over his shoulder. "What, do you think everyone wakes up after they get bitten by a Questing Beast? I had to come here, to make sure you didn't die!"

"You what?"

"Tell you all about it sometime," says Merlin. "For now—"

He turns the last corner and then skids to a halt. They've made it to the altar—but Morgause made it first. Behind her stand Morgana and Gwen.

The altar is as Merlin remembers it from his last visit and from when he scried on this very location not so long ago—in the center of the island, in what was once a great hall, now a large area open to the sky. The black dagger sits upon the altar with Morgause standing close beside it. Morgana, just behind her, is holding Excalibur. And Gwen, standing beside Morgana, looks so relieved to see them she might cry.

"Merlin, Arthur!" she says. "Oh, thank goodness—I was afraid you'd been killed!"

Merlin braves a smile. "Are you all right?"

"Of course she is," Morgana snaps. "As if I'd ever let anything happen to her!"

Arthur's gaze is transfixed on the knife. It must be strange for him, Merlin thinks, after seeing it so many times in his nightmares. But Arthur doesn't let it distract him for long; he tears his gaze away and faces Morgana. "And yet you brought her here, and fight to keep her cursed!" Then he addresses Morgause. "What do you plan to do with my sword, hm? You really think you can destroy it?"

"You really think it can destroy the black dagger?" Morgause shoots back. "If the blood spell was cast by a lesser being, perhaps, on an ordinary day, in an ordinary place—but I am a High Priestess, drawing on the power of the ultimate celestial darkness, the Triple Goddess, and the island itself. Not even Excalibur can best me."

"Then hand it over," Arthur growls. "Presently I've a need for it."

"That, I'm afraid I cannot do," says Morgause. "Morgana?"

"Morgana, don't!" Merlin begs, as Morgana steps towards her sister. "You know you don't want to do this. That sword is our only chance!"

"And why should I want to end the curse?" Morgana demands. "How can you ask me to go back to being alone? It's not fair that our kind has to suffer as we do!"

"No," Merlin agrees. "But we don't have a choice about that. Our choice is in what we do about it. And this isn't the right way. Magic wasn't meant for this. Nine people are dead. I know you have a good heart. I know you don't want to hurt people!"

Arthur spreads his hands, pleading. "We are not doomed to follow in our father's footsteps, Morgana. We can walk through fire and come out the stronger for it. Our suffering does not have to turn us into monsters—not when it can turn us into better men."

Gwen sighs. "Or women," she puts in. "But he's right, Morgana. It's never too late to change your mind."

Morgana's gaze flickers between them, torn; her eyes linger longest on Gwen. She bites down on her lower lip, eyes bright with emotion, and her knuckles whiten around Excalibur's fine leather grip. Hesitantly, she steps forward. And then, at last, at last—

"You're all daft," says Morgana, and hands the sword to Morgause.

Morgause smiles. Her eyes begin to glow. "I cannot destroy a sword forged in a dragon's breath," she says. The ground beneath her feet cracks open, and fire shoots up through the snow. "But I can plunge it into the darkest depths where you will never see it again."

And with no further delay, Morgause drops Excalibur in—and the earth closes around it, swallowing it whole.

Merlin hears Arthur shout in rage beside him. Triumph gleams in Morgause's golden eyes.

No. No.

Merlin refuses to let it end this way.

Merlin reaches out with every last ounce of magic he has—time seems to slow around him—and with a crack like thunder the earth opens back up, along the same lines, flames shoot up out of the ground, and then—

Merlin pulls. He fights Morgause and her power, fights the very pull of the earth, and reaches for what was never hers to take. Sweat beads on his brow, and he pants with the exertion, but he can't let it go, not now. For Arthur, he thinks, for Arthur—

And then out of the fiery depths rises Excalibur.

With a whoop of triumph Merlin sends it flying straight and true into its master's hand. And as soon as Arthur's fingers close around the grip, it is wreathed in flame.

Merlin was right: he is easy to overlook. Morgause never saw it coming; by the time she realized who was fighting her, it was too late. Her eyes are wide and furious. "Emrys!" she screams—in comprehension, in rage.

Arthur has already started running for the altar. Morgause fires a spell at him, but Merlin deflects it. She tries to intercept Arthur, but she's too late. Arthur lifts Excalibur high and brings it down hard against the altar—

And with a resounding crack like thunder, he is rebuffed.

The sword bounces off with such force it sends Arthur flying backwards. He crashes into the ruin of a nearby wall and drops, rubble falling on top of him. He does not move again.

"I told you," Morgause says grimly. "My work cannot be undone. You cannot break the curse."

Not for the first time, nor for the last, Arthur dreams of his mother.

In the dream he finds himself again standing in Morgause's crumbling fortress, surrounded by flickering candles. His mother stands before him, smiling through her tears, and as the candles burn brighter and brighter, a shadow splits itself off from the wall behind her. It's his father, with the black dagger raised high.

Every time Arthur has this dream it is the same. His feet stay rooted to the ground, and he watches his mother die. His true curse is that he can't ever, ever stop that killing blow; he has always been helpless against his father.

But he's not helpless anymore.

Arthur barrels forward and slams full-body into his father, taking them both down to the ground. They roll, grappling for the knife. The flames climb higher and higher. Heat presses in on them from all sides. And then—

Pain. Arthur looks down at himself to find the hilt of the black dagger protruding from his body instead of his mother's, underneath his ribs on his left side. His father looks horrified, but it's too late; what's done cannot be undone. Arthur touches the knife. His fingers come away coated in warm blood.

Arthur looks up to find his mother is looking at his wound. But just before the flames obscure his vision entirely, their eyes meet. She nods; gives him one last knowing smile. She's not crying anymore. And if Arthur didn't know better, he could almost say she looks victorious. He could almost say she looks proud of him.

Arthur opens his eyes.

No more fire. No more heat. He's lying half-covered in rubble on his side in the snow, numb fingers still curled around Excalibur's grip. The wind freezes his face. His ears are ringing. His body hurts all over.

His vision focuses on the altar and the black dagger resting upon it. If ever there was a cursed object, this is it: one prick of the finger, one drop of blood—that's all it took to make his father want to tear this world asunder and leave it burning at his feet. Arthur hates it. The magic around it feels so ugly and wrong, and yet at the same time strangely familiar. Looking at the black dagger feels just like looking into a shattered mirror.

Merlin stands before the altar, firing spell after spell at the knife: fire, ice, lightning. None have any effect.

And—oh, Merlin. There are tears running down his cheeks. Always crying over Arthur while he's unconscious, that one; it's so embarrassing.

"Your power is great, Emrys," says Morgause, "but it is no longer limitless. Magic requires a balance: in order to give it to the people, I had to take it from somewhere. All the lives lost during the Great Purge, all the magic snuffed out...it used to belong to you, and now it belongs to them. How can you argue that that is not as it should be? How can you want to reverse it when there is every chance that doing so will extend your own life by untold centuries—centuries you will spend completely and utterly alone?"

Merlin straightens his spine, dragging an arm across his eyes. "You have a silver tongue, Morgause, but it won't work on me. I will do everything in my power to end this!"

But it's not in his power. Arthur can see him giving it everything he has and then some, and the dagger remains impervious. Morgause is right: the curse cannot be ended.

Everyone in Camelot—and the kingdoms beyond—will have to live with their magic forever. There will never come a day when Arthur does not have to guard himself against the fire. And if they survive this, he will have to go back home empty-handed and tell nine families that he failed them here today.

He will have to watch his father wither away and die, one agonizing day at a time. He will be the last person his father ever makes an orphan.

The curse has killed nine people so far, and soon it will claim a tenth. Arthur cannot save them, and he cannot put an end to that which took their lives. But if he can't bring them peace—

He will bring them vengeance.

Arthur tightens his grip on Excalibur. He staggers to his feet. And with a wordless cry of fury he lights his blade afire and rushes towards Morgause.

"Arthur!" Merlin gasps, and at the same time Morgana cries, "No, don't—"

But Arthur doesn't stop, and Morgause barely draws her own blade in time to keep her head. Arthur doesn't give her even a split second to rest before he comes at her again. They circle around and around the altar as they fight, their swords clashing together almost too fast for him to process; his body acts on instinct alone. The footing is treacherous—snow flies up under their boots as they fight—but his fury focuses him, and he does not falter.

"Stop it!" Morgana shouts again. Guinevere is holding her back. "Arthur, stop it—"

"Why should I?" Arthur snarls. "She has damned us all!" He lifts his free hand and hurls a blast of fire at Morgause—

—but at the same time Morgana shouts a spell, and his fire is rebuffed by the same barrier spell Merlin uses.

Morgause doesn't dare take her eyes off Arthur, but she does turn her head to shout, "Keep back, Morgana, I don't want you to get hurt!"

Her eyes glow. There's a split second where the sky darkens even further and Arthur feels his hair stand on end—but this time it is Merlin who shouts the barrier spell, and the lightning misses its mark, arcing off instead towards the water.

Arthur is furious. "Stay out of this, Merlin!"

Morgause, winded, takes a step back. She flips her sword. "This is between us, wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur bares his teeth. "On that alone."

Morgause gives him a grim nod. Then she whips her own hand out and without a word summons a dome of blue-white light to cover the place where Merlin, Morgana, and Guinevere now stand.

"Morgause!" Morgana screams. She runs to the edge of the dome and pounds her fists against it, but it does not break. "Let us out of here! Gwen, Merlin, help me break it before they kill each other—"

Only seconds ago Morgana and Merlin were enemies, but now they work together: Merlin's eyes glow as he begins throwing fire against the barrier with her, and roots slither out of the ground at Guinevere's feet to try and shatter it. Already fine cracks begin to appear where they aim their magic, running through the light as though it is made of glass. Arthur tears his gaze away.

"They are very powerful," Morgause warns him. "It will only hold them for a few minutes."

Arthur flips his sword, leaving an arc of fire in its wake. Excalibur, as always, is perfectly balanced. "Trust me—I won't need that long."

The duel begins in earnest. Morgause is just as fast and deadly as Arthur remembers from their fight seven months ago, but back then, he wasn't fighting with a flaming sword forged in a dragon's breath. He meets her every strike with equal strength and perfect precision and through sheer fury begins to drive her back, back—she'll hit the wall soon, and with nowhere to go, killing her will be only too easy—

But Morgause has a new advantage over Arthur too: in their last duel she was forced to conceal her magic, and now she can use it freely. And she's not like Merlin or Morgana; they both speak their spells. Morgause is incredibly powerful with many years of training behind her, and she can cast without a word.

Arthur's pitifully brief training with Merlin didn't prepare him for this. There is no warning at all except the telltale glow in her eyes, and then a dozen tree roots rise up out of the ground and dive towards Arthur.

With a thrill of panic Arthur remembers what happened to the cockatrices Merlin attacked with roots—but when the first one catches his ankle it does not attempt to plunge him down into the darkness, only holds him fast.

Morgause still doesn't want to kill him.

Good. Arthur still very much wants to kill her, and he can use that to his advantage. He slices through the root around his ankle, and burns another that tries to catch his wrist—he calls enough fire to turn them all to ashes, and then—oh, how did Merlin say it— "Frore!"

To both their amazement, the ice on the ground begins to climb up the armor on her legs. Arthur readies his sword—

Morgause's eyes glow. The ice turns back into water, and she dodges nimbly out of harm's way. But Arthur can see now that he has shaken her. Morgana would have told her to expect only fire, while Arthur was careful to pay attention to every incantation that left Merlin's lips. He's nothing if not a quick study, after all; this isn't the first time one of Merlin's spells has come in handy. "Why so surprised?" he taunts. "You cast this curse! You know how strong it is! You should not have given me this power if you weren't prepared to have it turned on you."

Morgause grits her teeth. "I am prepared." Her eyes flash again, and flames appear on her own blade. Then she leaps at him.

The battle is fought with both blade and magic, now, so fast Arthur can barely keep his footing on the icy ground. He blocks Morgause's sword strikes with his own blade, melts her ice and incinerates her tree roots with his flames. She can summon fire too, but he can snuff it out, just as he did for his father, just as he did to the wyvern. She is blindingly fast, but not always fast enough; after his next blast of fire Arthur sees that he has singed the ends of her hair.

Their blades lock. Sparks fly off Excalibur's sharp edge. "I don't want to kill you," Morgause pants. "You are the king of prophecy, meant to do great things! But if I have to—if I have to—"

"You're going to have to!" Arthur pushes against her blade with all of his strength; he can feel her arms trembling with exertion. "Don't forget, you're only alive today because I allowed you to retrieve your blade in our last duel! I am the better swordsman—and I don't make a bad sorcerer, either!"

So saying, he releases his sword with one hand to shoot flames at her, but in the split second that action takes she slithers away from him again. "How?" she demands. "How are you wielding it so easily?"

Arthur swings wide, aiming to decapitate her; their swords clash as she blocks. "None of this was easy!" Arthur gains ground with every strike. "Do you have any idea what you put me through?"

"I gave you what you wanted!" Morgause says desperately. "I showed you your mother! It is only because of me that you know the truth about how you were born!"

"And I suffered for it!" Arthur lands a hard overhead blow that nearly buckles her arms. She is tiring, slowing; she may be more experienced, but he is more angry; she could not possibly wield that same Pendragon rage that flows through his veins. Arthur fights like wildfire, unstoppable and inescapable. He is going to burn her alive. "You nearly broke me! But in the end—"

Morgause does try to kill him, then; thrusts her weapon forward with both hands, aiming at the still-healing wound he sustained atop the watchtower, in his left side. But it's the exact mistake she made seven months ago, and Arthur disarms her the same way: by using her close range to slice open her sword arm, forcing her to drop her weapon.

Last time he backed off. This time he rushes forward, pressing his burning sword into her chainmail until she is lying with her back flat against the ground.

It's over.

"Everything you did just made me stronger," Arthur pants. "In the end, I'm unbreakable."

There is a sound like shattering glass. Arthur lifts his sword, aimed directly at Morgause's heart—

And Morgana throws herself between them.

Arthur only just stays his hand in time. "Morgana!" he gasps, horrified. "What are you doing?"

Morgana's eyes are red-rimmed; there are tears tracked down her face. Her arms are around Morgause, her body pressed so completely against her sister's that there is no way to touch Morgause without harming her. "If you want to kill her, Arthur Pendragon, you're going to have to kill me first!"

Arthur is so furious he is momentarily struck speechless. "Innocent people are dead because of her! She's cursed all of us forever! Who knows what more evil she will do if I let her walk free!"

"Oh, and no innocent people have ever died because of you?" Morgana spits. "You can fight and fight to protect a murderous tyrant like Uther, but not Morgause? What would killing her solve? It won't break the curse!"

"It'll make me feel better," Arthur growls.

"How can you say that? How can you say you want to be a better man than Uther when you want to kill her for no other reason than your own selfish—"

"Morgana," Morgause interrupts softly. She slides one of her own arms around Morgana's shoulders to comfort her. "Morgana, stop. It's over. He won. You have to let me go."

"I won't!" Morgana lets out a sob, and presses her face into Morgause's shoulder. "I would rather die than lose you!"

Morgause tries to shift her off to no avail. "Please, sister. Let me die with honor. I have achieved all that I set out to do. I am not afraid, and I have no regrets."

"Then you're a fool!" Morgana, still weeping, looks up at Arthur with fury in her eyes. "You kill her," she swears, "and I will never forgive you. Never."

Damn it all.

Arthur grits his teeth. With everything in him, he wants Morgause dead: for the nine people driven to their own ends, for the way she perverted his mother's image to use against her own family, for the slow and miserable death she's doomed his father to, for the traitor she made of Morgana, and most of all for all the pain and suffering she's put him through. She is vile and loathsome and it's not fair—she shouldn't get to live and get away with what she's done when even now his father lies on his deathbed. Arthur should kill her. He should put an end to everything.

But it was only a few hours ago that he realized he must always take Morgana at her word. She who dreams the future could not have possibly given him a clearer warning.

If he does this, he will lose her forever.

He wants Morgause dead. He wants her dead so badly. But there are other things he wants more.

After all, he's already going to lose his father. He cannot lose his sister too.

Arthur's hand trembles around Excalibur's grip. "Make me a promise," he says to Morgause. "Make me a promise, and I will spare your life."

It's a familiar request, and already he can see the resignation in her eyes. Neither of them is happy with this. They don't like each other, and they never will. But for better or worse, they both love Morgana—and there is much they would both do to keep from breaking their shared sister's heart.

Morgause lifts her chin, defiant. "What is it you ask?"

"I want you to never again raise your hand against me or my people," says Arthur. "Not directly or indirectly, though action or inaction, via magical means or otherwise. I want you to swear to me on that which you hold most dear. Do I have your word?"

"Morgause," Morgana whispers, lip trembling. "Morgause, you don't have to promise him anything. I won't let him hurt you. If he lays a finger on you, I'll kill him."

Please, Arthur thinks, white-knuckling Excalibur's grip. Please.

Morgause closes her eyes. "I swear it," she says at last. "On my sister's life, I swear it: from this day forth, the people of Camelot are safe from me."

And that Arthur does believe. He straightens up and backs away, and the fire on Excalibur's blade goes out.

Morgause gets to her feet, pulling Morgana along with her, and then draws her into an embrace. Arthur cannot bear to look at them one second longer and turns his face away.

Now that the tension has broken, Guinevere and Merlin rush forward too. From the corner of his eye Arthur sees Morgana turn and throw her arms around Guinevere. Then Merlin is at his side as always, hands fluttering over him as if to check for injuries.

"You frightened me," Merlin says, voice tremoring. "You hit the wall so hard, and you were so still. I thought that you had died."

"So little faith in me, Merlin," Arthur says hoarsely. "I told you, you scare far too easily."

But his heart's not in it. Arthur feels strangely numb and hollow, now: denied his vengeance and so far from home, what is there left for him? It was such a long journey here. Even if he turned back this very second, he still might not be fast enough to see his father one last time before the end.

"What will you do now?" Morgause asks.

Arthur's grip tightens around his sword, still drawn. He cannot turn and face her; it would be far too tempting to run her through. "I'm going home," he says flatly. What else can he do? "I will work to undo the pain wrought from the Great Purge and your curse. I'll make sure we lose no one else to either." And, if Arthur can get it to promise not to burn the whole kingdom down, he may even free a dragon.

"And what would you have done," says Morgause, "if you had broken the curse?"

Is there a point to this line of questioning? "Much the same, I imagine," Arthur says, embittered, "only I would not do it fatherless." Arthur forces himself to sheathe Excalibur and strides past Morgause without looking at her.

"You truly are a man of honor," Morgause calls after him. Arthur pauses midstep. "I wasn't sure at first. I could not believe any son of Uther Pendragon could truly be the king of legend. And so everything I did, I did to get a measure of your character. The duel we fought. The promise I extracted. The challenge you completed at the fortress. And each and every time, you not only proved yourself most admirably, but surpassed all my expectations. I was certain that you would slay your father. Instead you stayed your hand—not once, but twice. And now you have spared even me, though I know how it pains you to do so. No matter how I search for your father's bloodthirstiness in you, Arthur Pendragon, I find just the opposite. Every time, it is tempered by your mother's kindness."

Arthur turns. There stands Morgause, clutching her bleeding arm. He can still see the altar and the black dagger behind her.

"You may not believe this, but I really did know her," says Morgause. "I was but a child when Gaius smuggled me out of Camelot, but until then I spent a great deal of time at the castle, as Gorlois was Uther's close friend. And I can tell you this: your mother held fairness in high esteem—she had a very strong sense of right and wrong. Winter was her least favorite season because she so dearly loved to be out of doors. She detested fish and the taste of the physician's tonics—she insisted that honey be added to every one. But she had an abiding passion for raspberries. Raspberries were her favorite."

Arthur closes his eyes against the hurt and the love and the longing her words bring. This, given freely, is more than he was able to wrest from his father in more than twenty years—and yet he finds that Morgause might as well be talking about himself, because all these things that are true of his mother are true of him as well. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks roughly. "You've won. What more could you want of me? Have you not put me through enough pain?"

"Does none of it sound familiar?" Morgause asks gently. "How is it you think I was able to show her to you? I had to wait such a very long time. You had to be the same age she was when she died. For she is more than just a part of you. Two separate people you may be, but you are her reflection. You mirror her in every way. Her life was given to create yours; what made her up was broken down and reshaped to make up you."

Arthur knows that. Maybe he has always known that.

"Her life beats your heart," Morgause continues. Snow drifts between them. "Her air fills your lungs. And her blood runs through your veins."

Her blood—

Arthur's eyes jerk over Morgause's shoulder to the altar. He brings a hand up to touch the wound underneath his ribs on his left side.

Everyone has gone silent and still. Arthur turns his gaze back to Morgause, asking without words. In answer, she stands aside.

Slowly, Arthur approaches the altar, his footsteps crunching through the snow. This close, he can indeed see the small dried drop of blood at the tip of the black dagger. It's wrong, it's twisted, but it's familiar. It's his blood because it was hers first.

A faint blue sheen pulses over the knife. Arthur picks it up left-handed, easy, and pricks open the tip of his pointer finger.

It feels as though the life is being sucked out of him. The black dagger begins to smoke and hiss. Arthur drops it, vision flickering at the edges, watches the cursed thing melt and disintegrate into nothing before his eyes—and when it is over there is a crack like thunder as a pulse of energy washes over the island—

—and for the second time today, Arthur's world goes dark.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes lying flat on his back in the tent they left behind at the shore of the frozen lake.

Arthur squints against the sunlight filtering in through the canvas tent, grunting in dissatisfaction at how bright it is. Then a shadow blocks out the light. Arthur blinks, and Merlin's face comes into focus above his own. "Merlin...?"

"About time!" Merlin says. "Gwen passed out too, but she woke up almost half an hour ago. Maybe it's because you were closer to the altar? I don't know if they felt that back in Camelot but I hope they didn't all pass out at once, that'd be dreadful—" He pauses for breath. "You are all right, aren't you? Morgause seemed to think you would be, but it's Morgause, and you're being so quiet."

As if he could get a word in edgewise. Arthur gives himself a mental once-over. Is he all right? Two arms, two legs, his own teeth—everything seems to be present and accounted for, and he feels no pain aside from the usual post-battle ache, but...

"I'm cold," Arthur says, quite without thinking. Stupid. Of course he's cold: it's winter. He sits up on his elbows. "What about you?"

"Never better," says Merlin. "I didn't feel a thing when the curse ended. If Morgause really did take something from me to power it, magic, years—I guess since it was all spent, it just dissipated back into the world. And trust me, I'm more than all right with that."

Arthur blinks. "Good," he decides. "I'm glad."

"I want to show you something," says Merlin. "Stay there."

Arthur sits the rest of the way up. Merlin pulls the large wooden scrying bowl over to where they sit. He speaks the incantation only once, and in a matter of moments a picture begins to form.

It's his father's chambers, back in Camelot. But his father's bed is empty. Instead Gaius helps him walk to a seat by the window where a tray of hot food waits. And as Arthur watches, his father sits and begins to feed himself with slow and shaking hands.

"He's all right," Arthur breathes, and feels his throat close. "He's alive."

"He's alive," Merlin agrees quietly. "You did it."

Arthur, who is of course as humble and modest as any man can be, gracefully allows, "I had help."

He and Merlin trade equally embarrassing grins. Arthur indulges himself just a moment, looking Merlin over to see him with new eyes. His manservant, his friend, and, if the dragon is to be believed, the other side of his coin. How nice it is to truly know him at last.

Then Arthur clambers to his feet. "Where are the others?"

"Outside," Merlin says. "I think Morgana's coming back with us, but she wanted to spend as much time with Morgause as she could first."

The mere mention of Morgause's name is going to give Arthur headaches for years, he can tell already. He still hates her. He'll never, ever forgive her for the way she used his love for his mother to manipulate him. That's not going to change just because she told him how to break the curse. Technically, she was only honoring the promise she made to Arthur in exchange for her life—to not tell him would have been allowing harm to befall Camelot's people through inaction. As such, Arthur's not going to feel a bit guilty about continuing to loathe her for the rest of his days. He tolerates her now for Morgana's sake alone.

Arthur opens the flap of the tent and is blinded by the sun reflecting off the snow. The air out here is much less frigid than it was when he passed out, the sky clear and forget-me-not blue already, but still Arthur finds that he wishes he had a few more layers on.

"Arthur!" Guinevere appears as if from nowhere, smiling. "I'm so glad you're all right! How do you feel?"

"I'm freezing," Arthur admits.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Guinevere agrees. "I only just got used to having magic, and now I have to get used to not having it anymore."

What? But she's right: he's not cold physically. He's missing the fire that has been his constant companion for the past month. The curse really is broken. He doesn't have magic anymore.

Morgana and Morgause stand several feet away from the tent, conversing quietly. Morgause's wound has been cleaned and bandaged. As Arthur approaches, he hears Morgana say, "...but what if we never see each other again?"

"Oh, Morgana." Morgause takes Morgana's face in her hands and presses a kiss to her forehead. "I will always be with you, sister. And you will always be able to find me in your dreams." She spies Arthur, Merlin, and Guinevere approaching. "It's time."

Morgana pulls Morgause to her one last time. "Thank you for everything."

"Take care of her," Morgause says to Guinevere, and they trade a look Arthur does not understand. "Take care of her for me."

Curiously, Guinevere catches Morgana's hand in her own. "I will," she promises. "Always."

Morgause addresses Arthur one last time. "For staying your hand when you could have struck me down—you have my gratitude. I believe you may yet make a worthy master of that blade. Treat it well, and rule with fairness, and we will not see each other again."

Is that a threat? She and Morgana really are sisters. "Trust me," Arthur says evenly, "I would be very glad of that."

"Oh, I'm sure," Morgause says with a smirk. She gives them all a little nod, then turns to begin the long walk back down the hillside and the frozen lake.

Morgana watches her shrink into the distance and then turns to Arthur. "I'll never forget all you and Uther have done to my kind," she says. "Never. It's not in me to forget. But that means I won't forget this either." She struggles with herself a moment. "You have my gratitude too."

Arthur's throat closes. "I'm glad," he says. What more can he ask for than that?

A few more minutes pass. Arthur, Merlin, Morgana and Guinevere watch as Morgause reaches the Isle of the Blessed and disappears into one of its crumbling towers.

"All right," says Arthur. "If everyone's ready, then—let's go home."

If Merlin thought the trip to the island was nice, it can't compare with the one back home.

The snow has stopped. Moreover: it is melting, and fast. "Magic must always have a balance," Morgana says, once their group has taken notice. "Morgause summoned a very hard winter. And so, we shall have a very early spring."

By the end of their first day of travel, almost all of the snow is gone. By the second day, new green shoots are poking up through the earth. Flowers bloom and insects buzz. All four of them are able to take off their cloaks.

And since the journey home will take less time, and it is less urgent, they take most of it at a walk. And after nine days of hard riding to get here, that's a relief (for both Merlin and their poor horses). But more than that, it gives them time to talk. And Merlin, at long last, is able to tell his friends his story.

He begins on his first day in Camelot, how he used magic to brawl with Arthur there in the middle of the city (and still lost), and how that same magic later saved Arthur's life and nabbed Merlin his position as manservant. Sometimes Arthur gets wise to where a particular story is headed and jumps in ahead of time, interrupting. "You animated the snakes on Sir Valiant's shield!" he realizes, just as soon as Merlin speaks the man's name. And later, "You blew wind at that afanc!" And some time after that, "You summoned that storm in Ealdor! Will was never a sorcerer, was he?"

Merlin smiles sadly. "Sorry, but no. He lied to save me."

Arthur looks as though he can't decide if he's more angry or impressed. "I can't believe how well you had us all fooled. I thought you were too much of an idiot to pull something like this off."

"The worst of it was having to do magic without saying any spells," Merlin complains. "If you're not cursed, it's much easier to call fire when you can simply say—" And here he holds out his hand. "Forbærnan!" A small crackling fire appears in his palm.

Arthur watches, fascinated. "So if I tried to do it—forbærnan!"

Nothing happens.

"I think you'd need practice," Gwen says gently. "Most people have to learn it from books, don't they? So you'd have to do it over and over until you got it just right. Like exercising a muscle."

Arthur looks so disappointed that Merlin can't help but tease, "Don't tell me, after all this, that you're actually going to miss it? I could always teach you to do it from scratch."

Arthur pulls an expression of total disgust, familiar because it looks a little too put-on. "Don't be ridiculous, Merlin."

Merlin grins. "If you say so."

The night before they reach Camelot they are drenched by an unexpected spring shower, and it falls to Merlin and Morgana, who can still command fire, to relight their sopping wood so they can dry their waterlogged clothes. "We make a good team after all, eh?" Merlin asks her, once they're all huddled back inside the tent, blankets round each of their shoulders for modesty's sake. "We certainly did back at the Isle of the Blessed. I could never have broken Morgause's barrier without you."

"Of course you couldn't have," Morgana sniffs, lifting her chin. "I'm capable in whatever I choose to do, Merlin. Anyone would be lucky to have my help with anything."

She sounds like Arthur, Merlin thinks, though he's smart enough not to say it out loud. "But we helped each other," he points out. "We shared a common goal. Does that not mean we're friends again?"

"Absolutely not," Morgana says, in a tone that brooks no argument. Merlin wilts; she spares him a second glance. "But I may, on occasion, if and only if it suits my purposes, choose to count you as an ally."

Gwen elbows Merlin. "Try not to bungle that up," she stage-whispers, "and maybe then you can see about the rest."

Morgana makes a point of ignoring them, but that's all right; Merlin's happy with this much. It took a long time and a lot of pain and isolation to embitter Morgana's heart. He'll count himself lucky if it only takes twice as long to soften it again. And until then—for all the mistakes he's made, the least Merlin can do is be willing to wait.

There is a hero's welcome waiting for them back in Camelot. Merlin, who has been scrying, knows that the celebrations have already been going for four days. And when the castle crests over the last hill they are treated to the call of the watchman's horn, used to announce only the most esteemed arrivals. A cheering crowd greets their prince at the drawbridge; guards line the streets. Merlin sees the familiar faces of the boy who summoned tree roots the first day of the curse sitting atop his mother's shoulders, and the guardsman named Hebes who once summoned wind, and Sir Leon looking better-rested than he has been in weeks, and—yes, even the baker.

But the most familiar face of all waits for Merlin at the castle doors.

Merlin dismounts and goes to meet Gaius and is treated to a bone-crushing hug. "I'm so proud of you, Merlin," Gaius says. "And I'm so relieved to see that you're safe. Tell me—did you do what you planned to do when you set out from here?"

What a long time ago that was, Merlin thinks. When he last left Camelot, telling Arthur seemed impossible. Now it seems impossible that Arthur didn't know all along. "As it turns out, I didn't have to," Merlin says, and thinks back to that little bubble of light floating between them in the dark. "He—he recognized me, Gaius. He sees me now." Merlin grins and blinks back his emotion. "He really, finally sees me. All of me—magic included."

Merlin barely has time to take in the slackened expression of surprise on Gaius's face before a familiar hand musses up his hair. "With ears that big, you're quite hard to miss!" says Arthur jovially. He has dismounted his horse too and worked through the crowd to them. "It's good to see you, Gaius. How is my father?"

Gaius stares at Arthur in shocked disbelief—but to his credit, he recovers quickly. "Would you like to come see for yourself?"

Up the castle steps they go, through its many winding corridors. Everyone they pass is glad to see them. All the windows are thrown open, to let in their early spring.

And at last they reach the door to the king's chambers, and Gaius lets Arthur inside.

Merlin can see them, from his place in the hallway. Uther still sits by the window. He looks so much older and weaker than when the curse began, and he watches the celebrations below with absent, empty eyes. But when he hears Arthur enter, he turns—and at long last, his gaze focuses on his son.

Uther slowly struggles to his feet, eyes wide, mouth open—and seeming, for once, utterly at a loss for words. "Arthur."

Arthur lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. He looks just as scared now as he did that very first day when he threw fire in the throne room—and, at the same time, just as brave.

"Hello, Father," says Arthur quietly, and turns to shut the door.

Things begin to settle back into a new normal.

Arthur's father is not the same man—he never will be. Some part of him was fundamentally broken by his experiences, and he's not going to get better. He's absent-minded and slow, does not always speak when spoken to, and there is a timid kind of weakness about him now that Arthur could never have imagined before that first fateful duel in the council chambers. Arthur still visits every day to speak with him and make sure he's kept comfortable, and takes up his father's duties in his stead, as he has done since the curse began. He outright refused any ceremony for such a matter, but in a few weeks he is to be officially named regent. One of the first things he plans to do is unlock and refurbish the hall of portraits. It's been neglected and shut away for far too long.

Arthur feels very young to be so close to being king—but already he is older than his mother ever got to be. And someday, he'll outlive his father too.

And he'll be a better man. He may falter and make mistakes, but they will be his own and no other's. He'll be stronger; if this curse couldn't break him, nothing can.

There's no more magical chaos in town that needs seeing to on the daily. After the celebrations die down and the hangovers fade, things go back to being more or less peaceful. Morgana does not move back into the castle—and Arthur suspects that she will not even think of it until after their father has passed, and his ghost no longer haunts those halls—but she and Guinevere often join them there for dinner. Sometimes they all go out to the Darkling Woods together too, for old time's sake, and Gwen and Morgana help Arthur lay his rabbit snares and Merlin gather his herbs. Arthur has yet to take up proper hunting again and doesn't know if he ever will; he continues to dread the day when Morgana notices and asks why.

Merlin refuses all offers Arthur makes of knighthood, insisting instead that he stay on as Arthur's manservant. "Look, I'm truly flattered," he says, his ears turning pink. "But I didn't do any of this for recognition. As your servant I spend almost every waking moment with you. I can't very well protect you so closely with any other job, and I can't exactly be a knight if I can't even use a sword. Besides, now I can just use magic to finish my chores, so it's fine, right?"

Wrong. Arthur's not happy with that arrangement at all. Even putting aside the fact that he can protect himself just fine, thanks very much, he is now hyper-aware that the world's most powerful sorcerer has been mucking out his horses and washing his dirty socks. But Merlin is so much more than a simple servant; he is the other side of Arthur's coin, and that makes them equals. It feels too dishonorable, too demeaning to keep going on like nothing's changed.

All the same, he can't say that he'd like to see less of Merlin, either. They're destined to walk in step together, after all—and Arthur never feels quite right anymore when Merlin is not at his side.

They'll figure something out.

Another thing Arthur begins working on as regent is overturning the ban on magic. Practically speaking, now that Arthur is in charge, no one is going to get executed just for what they are, but logistics require that he draft laws around the subject. Not all magic can be legal all the time. If nothing else, Morgause's curse taught them that it's only too easy for someone to wind up dead. For better or worse, her actions did open many hearts to magic, but closed off others forever, the families of the nine dead among them. And that makes what Arthur must do next even more difficult—for it is not enough to simply overturn the ban; he must also work towards making amends.

It is, of course, an impossible task. Nothing could ever truly make right the violence that was done during the Great Purge. But that does not mean Arthur is freed from his obligation to try.

Sometimes Arthur has doubts. "You know, I almost understand my father," he tells Merlin, late one night as he readies for bed. "His whole life he put his duty above all else. What he did was abhorrent, but he thought it was what he had to do for the greater good. He sacrificed everything—the one and only spot of joy he allowed himself was to marry for love. And when she died...to him, it must have seemed like the worst sort of unfairness. He must have thought his retribution was only just." He shudders. "Sometimes I fear I understand him so well I'll become him—even now."

But Merlin is always there, his faith in Arthur steadfast and unwavering. "I think it's because you understand him that you won't." He is close enough that he can nudge Arthur's shoulder with his own. "You're doing good work, Arthur. You're really changing things."

And Arthur can't help but point out, "I'm not doing it alone."

Overturning the ban on magic and making reparations with the sorcerers is a tricky business, and as such Arthur has spent many long nights in the physician's tower, speaking with Gaius and Merlin and sometimes Morgana—making sure he gets everything just right.

One evening he suggests, "Perhaps we should think about freeing the dragon. Merlin's been in his debt for longer than I care to think about."

Gaius gives Merlin the full force of his most judgmental eyebrow. "A debt, you say? You told me about no such bargains."

"Arthur," Merlin moans in despair. "We can discuss this later, surely—"

But Arthur's not above getting Merlin in a bit of trouble for being so stupid. "He promised the dragon he'd free him one day," says Arthur. "And I don't like the idea of keeping the dragon chained up just because of what he is. Only I don't see how we're going let him go without him turning around and burning Camelot to the ground."

Gaius looks deeply disturbed. "I'm sure we'll think of something," he says. "Merlin, have you written your mother lately? I think, before we make any decisions about that dragon, that I'm going to go write your mother."

And honestly, that should be that. The curse has ended, and things are mostly better than they were before it began. Arthur has lost much, but he has gained more. He should have no real complaints.

But there's something missing.

He'd never tell anyone. Not for love or money nor on pain of death would he admit it aloud. But he thinks about it sometimes, when even a spring breeze feels too cool, or he passes the forge and sees a sword glowing hot as the iron strikes. There's a word he whispers to himself when he's alone, hand held out and too empty. He keeps his heart and his mind open and he reaches for it with everything in him—but no matter how he searches, he cannot seem to find it.

And then Arthur finally gets Morgana to agree to spar with him again. They have fun, just like they used to. She gets to use her magic, even in front of all the people that gather to watch. And though he'd never tell her so, Arthur finds her just as formidable an opponent as he did when they were teenagers. They're rather evenly matched: every time Arthur wins one round, she wins the next.

Today, however, Morgana has finally pulled ahead of their weeks-long tie. As of now Arthur is flat on his back in the grass, Morgana's sword at his throat, regretting every choice he's ever made. To lose to a girl half the time is bad enough. But three times in a row?

"Come on, Arthur," Morgana sighs, "aren't you ever going to put up a fight?"

Merlin and Guinevere are watching from the fence. "Poor Arthur," says Guinevere. "I think he got too used to just being able to throw fire at everything. The curse really did change him."

Merlin uses his magic to pick up Excalibur where it was knocked from Arthur's hand and float it back over to him. "For the better, I think," he says. "So long as you don't count his swordwork. Excalibur did look much more impressive when it was on fire."

"I can hear you," Arthur reminds them through gritted teeth. He grabs Excalibur and gets to his feet. "Unless one of you wants to fight her instead, shut it."

They chuckle at him. Even Morgana is still smirking. Wouldn't he like to show them—

Something behind him. Arthur whips around.

"Arthur!" Morgana calls. "Are we going to spar or not? What on earth are you staring at?"

It's a pair of sparrows.

Little ones, practically still fledglings; they're perched on the top rung of the training yard's fence, hopping along it and chirping at him bold as brass. He waits, breath held—then they flap off, to destinations unknown. And as Arthur watches them fly free, he can't help but smile.

Perhaps it's just his imagination, but...

"Nothing," he says to Morgana, and turns back around to face her. "I'm ready."

"Come at me, then," says Morgana.

Now or never, Arthur decides. He takes a deep breath, gripping Excalibur tight. And then he says one more time: "Forbærnan!"

And at last, at last, that familiar heat shoots through Arthur's blood, greeting him like an old friend. He knows more than feels that his eyes have gone gold. Excalibur bursts once more into brilliant flame.

Guinevere and Merlin watch with dropped jaws. But Morgana gives him a smug smile and says, "I knew it."

Arthur grins back, elated. "I'm ready," he repeats, and lifts his blade.

Whatever twists and turns tomorrow may hold: bring it on.