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Chapter Text

The door opens with a loud bang and Gaius jumps out of his skin, nearly dropping his brand new and very expensive vial.  He glances half-accusingly at the door, through which the King of Camelot has just entered the room. All this excitement—it’s not good for his heart.

Arthur’s expression is thunderous and nowhere near apologetic about scaring an old man half to death. “Gaius, have you seen my idiot servant?”

“I thought he was with you, Sire,” Gaius raises a curious eyebrow. “I sent him to gather some herbs around mid-morning, but he should have been back by now.”

While Merlin disappearing at inopportune times is by no means an unusual occurrence, it certainly is strange that he’s gone now. It’s a rare moment of relative peace in Camelot, where nothing would demand Merlin’s disappearance—no slimy foreign envoys, no magical monster of the month. Not even the weather is anything out of ordinary. 

Arthur looks pointedly out the window. It’s just gone past sundown, and it’s only going to grow dark soon. “Well, he’s not,” Arthur grits out, looking supremely annoyed. “Well. If you see him, tell him he can look forward to an exceptionally full day tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Sire,” says Gaius worriedly. “He always turns up eventually.”

“I’ll make him wish he didn’t,” Arthur mutters viciously. And then, as dramatically and with as much commotion as the way he entered the room, he storms out, slamming the door shut in his wake.

Gaius sighs. 

Merlin isn’t back the next morning.

Once again, Gaius’ door opens with a loud bang. He really should’ve been expecting it, but this time, he does drop the vial. He sighs none-too-quietly at the mess it creates on the stone floor—the merchant who sold it to him had just left Camelot a fortnight ago, it would be some time before he passes by again. 

“MERLIN—“ Arthur bellows immediately. His trousers are on backwards, but it doesn't look as though he noticed. 

“He’s not here, Sire.”

“Well, where is he?”

“He didn’t return last night,” replies Gaius, “I thought he might have stayed in the antechamber.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake, if he’s passed out in the tavern again—“

“I don’t think he is, Sire,” Gaius interjects, thinking about all the previous times Merlin was most certainly not passed out in the tavern and also likely fighting for his life. “He’s been gone almost a whole day.”

Arthur sobers rather quickly at that, the mirth and annoyance evaporating from his countenance as the seriousness of the situation begins to dawn. He stares at Gaius with mild alarm. “You’re not suggesting that something has happened to him?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow as if daring Gaius to suggest otherwise.

“I’m suggesting that perhaps it’s worth looking into,” Gaius replies with a severe nod. There’s a sense of unease trickling down the back of his neck. He adds, “he doesn’t usually make a habit of disappearing off without informing me.”

Arthur rounds up his best knights.

“Check the tavern—”

“He’s not there,” Gwaine interrupts him immediately.

Considering that Gwaine has not moved from where he is currently standing, Arthur favours Gwaine with a look he usually reserves for a particularly thick nobleman and drawls, “have you checked?”

“No, but he’s never usually in there,” answers Gwaine, his easy tone belying his furrowed brows. “Not sure why you’d think he was. Despite my very best attempts to drag him there, he hardly ever goes.” 

Arthur clenches his jaw, decidedly not thinking about what Gwaine’s very best attempts would involve, then turns to look at Percival. “The stables, then—“

“His horse is still there,” Percival tells him. “I saw her when I stabled mine after the patrol this morning. If Merlin went somewhere, he must've gone on foot. So he couldn’t have gone very far.”

“Right,” Arthur sighs, not liking what he is hearing. He likes the way his stomach seems to tie itself into knots at the thought of Merlin going missing and being in danger even less. "Looks like it’s time to send out a search party.”

“Perhaps it would be prudent if you stay here, Sire,” suggests Leon hesitantly. He must’ve seen something foul in Arthur’s expression because he hastens to add, “we don’t yet know what we’re dealing with.”

“All the more reason for me to go,” Arthur snaps. He knows that Leon’s suggestion is more than reasonable—the king needs to stay close to the castle and be well-protected instead of gallivanting headfirst into danger, especially with no heir and no consort. “He’s my servant and under my protection.”

“Merlin is a friend to all of us,” Leon counters, evidently not backing down. “We will find him, Sire, I will make sure of it.”

Arthur receives the message loud and clear. You’re not thinking straight. Distantly, he knows that Leon is right. But it’s rather difficult, he finds, to think rationally when his mind is going Merlin Merlin Merlin, where is he, is he alright, at a pace that makes it nigh impossible to think about anything else.

Arthur purses his lips and nods. Further arguments would only delay them, and he knows that Leon is a fantastic tracker. Even if he missed something, Gwaine is with them.

It doesn’t matter if Arthur wanted to be the one to find Merlin first. He may not like the decision to stay behind, but then again he doesn’t have to. 

They found a discarded sack of herbs lying on the floor in the outskirts of the forest.

“There was a scuffle here,” Leon declares, squinting at the soil around where the sack was found. It doesn’t bode well for Merlin. “Two men, I’d say. No horses.” He stands, gesticulating vaguely at the ground around them. “One was knocked out. The other dragged the one who was knocked out, all the way up to—“ 

“Here!” Gwaine shouts from a considerable distance away. When the others reach him, he is frowning, a scrap of red fabric held between his fingers. “This was caught on that branch there. They must’ve snagged his shirt when they were dragging him away.”

“Merlin’s?”

Gwaine favours him with an unimpressed look. 

“Sorry,” Percival holds his hands up. “Had to ask.”

“The man has two shirts,” Gwaine points out. “This red just happens to be one of the two colours Merlin wears.”

Percival concedes  with a tilt of his head. 

“There are hoof prints here,” Leon notes with a sinking feeling, examining the ground around them. “Two horses for two men. It was two against one, then. One waiting here.”

The first thing that comes to Leon’s mind is he can’t imagine how Arthur will take the news. Then, inevitably, a rush of shame for not thinking about Merlin first. Merlin, his friend who was taken. Gods. He wouldn’t have stood a chance. 

“Shall we follow the tracks, then?” Gwaine's face is hard. His jaw is jutting out in a challenge, as though he has made his mind up and nothing Leon says will convince him otherwise. He knows that Gwaine has arrived at the same conclusion: that Merlin’s disappearance is by design, not by accident. It wasn’t a simple routine trip gone wrong or even a robbery gone awry. Merlin didn’t trip over his feet and break his neck, the way Arthur worried he might. Whoever captured Merlin were organised. They planned it well in advance and targeted Merlin from the very start. 

“We won’t have long,” Leon peers at the sky, squinting against the sunlight. Despite the blinding brightness, rolling rain clouds are looming in the distance. They must make haste before the rain comes and washes the prints away. 

So they ride, hard as if the devil itself was nipping at their heels, careful not to lose the tracks. It’s the height of summer, the solstice just a fortnight away, and the sun is relentless upon their back, the way it always is before a storm. Now that they know for certain that Merlin has been taken, every passing moment becomes that much more precious.

It would be difficult, though perhaps not impossible, to mount a rescue mission without knowing who they are up against. And Leon for the life of him can’t think of why anybody would have a personal vendetta against the ever-cheerful Merlin. Unless, of course, that it’s Arthur they’re really trying to get to. It is a well-established fact in Camelot that, despite the differences in status and upbringing, Arthur regards his manservant as a close friend and confidante. The whole of Camelot has witnessed how they rib and mercilessly tease each other one second before following each other to the jaws of death next. 

Naturally, it’s all a bit scandalous for some of the more reserved nobles that King Arthur would trust and demonstrably favour his servant to such an extent. That he would even tolerate such shocking behaviour from a lowborn, of all people. But they don’t see what Leon sees. And from what he sees, he hopes to god that he won’t see Arthur lose Merlin. 

In Camelot, Arthur is losing his fucking mind. 

“Gods, how hard is it to dodge when someone is swinging a sword at you?” Arthur hollers, not bothering to look at the poor man he just knocked on his arse. “You have two jobs. Hit and avoid being hit. It shouldn’t be that difficult, surely? Carry on like that and you’d be dead before the battle even begins!” 

Is Merlin hurt? Is that why he can’t return to Camelot and attend to Arthur? Has he forgotten that his job is to serve the King of Camelot, and that he should put that job above all else? Is something keeping him from doing that job? Is someone? Has he run off and deserted Arthur?

Sir Robin cowers from where he was unceremoniously sprawled on the ground. He’s flushing scarlet, but Arthur can’t bring himself to feel guilty. He knows that he is being unnecessarily harsh, but then again so will the enemy. 

“Let me give you an advice, lad,” he hears Sir Bedivere mutters from the corner of his mouth. He is stretching out an arm to aid the green knight back up on his feet. It shouldn’t stoke his ire, but it does. “Always best to leave him alone when he’s like this.”

“And what am I like, Sir Bedivere?” snaps Arthur before he can stop himself.

“Sir Robin didn’t take your servant,” replies Sir Bedivere smoothly. It’s not an answer to Arthur’s question, but it’s an answer nonetheless. Bedivere lowers his eyes in deference, but it only belies his challenging tone. 

“Who said anything about Merlin being taken?” Arthur grumbles, even as his stomach knots in fear at the image conjured by Bedivere’s words, “defeats me why anybody would bother stealing a servant who is as useless as he is stupid.”

Bedivere didn’t grace him with a reply, which only goes to show his boundless wisdom. He offers to spar with Arthur instead, and it’s an offer that Arthur takes gratefully. 

Arthur doesn’t know how long they spar for, only that the sun is low in the sky and that his knights haven’t returned by the time they finish. He doesn’t doubt their ability—they are the very best that Arthur has seen. He tells himself that his knights not being back isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because surely it means that Merlin is still alive? They would’ve been back hours ago with Merlin’s body if Merlin had somehow thrown himself off of a gorge and broken his scrawny neck. 

He doesn’t stand by his window, gazing off into the distance and anxiously waiting for his knights to come back. He doesn’t pace either, though it was a very near thing. 

When his knights finally return, it takes only a glance at their grim faces for Arthur to realise that something is very, very wrong indeed. 

“He’s been taken,” Arthur surmises immediately. 

“We found this,” replies Leon, setting the red scrap of fabric on Arthur’s desk. He doesn’t look at Arthur’s face. “There was no other sign of him.”

Arthur glances at the fabric, his brows furrowed deep, before picking it up with a steady hand. 

“We thought that it may have been the work of two men,” Leon continues, “we found the hoof prints from their horses. It is likely that Merlin was ambushed.” 

“They know his schedule,” Arthur realises. His heart sinks. “They know his duties, what he gets up to. They know that he was going to go out to gather herbs for Gaius.”

“Everyone has seen him helping Gaius with the rounds, it wouldn’t exactly take a leap,” Gwaine adds. Arthur has never seen him so grave. “It could’ve been absolutely anybody.”

“Perhaps they had him followed,” Leon suggests. 

“But why on earth would they go for Merlin?” Percival wonders aloud. “He’s a servant, not a lord. Who goes around kidnapping servants?”

“A servant to the King,” Arthur realises, suddenly nauseous. A trusted servant, no less. One who knows Arthur’s schedule better than Arthur does. One who knows who’s coming and leaving Camelot, who knows which decisions are in deliberation. Oh, gods. One who attends to Arthur when he holds court and is privy to the inner workings of Camelot.

The information Merlin has, at the wrong hand—

“Merlin wouldn’t give up anything,” Gwaine interjects, interrupting Arthur’s line of thought. There’s a hint of steel in his voice, as if he knew what Arthur was thinking.

“I know,” Arthur agrees, sinking heavily into his chair. He meets Gwaine’s eyes and sees the worry he refuses to show reflected there. “But I don’t think that it would stop them from trying.”

Chapter Text

Merlin wakes with a dull ache on the side of his head. He doesn’t know where he is.

The absolute kicker, however, is the fact that he can’t feel the reassuring warmth of his magic. 

He closes his eyes in an attempt to stave off his rising nausea. He has been in plenty of sticky situations before, but never like this. Never without his magic. He knows that his magic has to be there, somewhere. It can't be gone, so it must just a little bit out of reach at the moment. He’s never heard of anybody who can lose their innate magic, nor has he heard of anybody having any success trying to purge their magic out.

If there was a way to do it, Uther would have found it years ago. And if Uther couldn’t, it wouldn’t be for his lack of trying. Isn’t that a strangely reassuring thought?

Has to be cold iron, then. Seems as though his captors know about his magic. And just like that, whatever reassurance he gained evaporates into thin air. 

He takes a deep breath, and then another. Closes his eyes and focuses on the rhythm of his heartbeat. Panicking will not help anybody, but gods if it isn’t all too easy. He wiggles his fingers and toes with apprehension. His limbs, at least, seem to be intact, if all terribly sore. He squints at the boundless dark to try and orient himself, hoping to find a clue as to where he has been taken. He fails miserably. He can't seem to make out any windows from where he is.

He feels bereft. It’s as though he is underwater, just grazing at the surface but can’t quite pull himself up. There’s an off-putting dullness to his senses—everything just seems more muted, less of itself. And inexplicably enough, lonely. All his life, he’s never been without his magic. It comes to him as naturally as breathing. To have something so intrinsic taken away—

Merlin’s eyes begin to prick. He shakes his head—Arthur would laugh at him if he knew. He’d tell Merlin to get a grip. Tearing up already, when he hasn’t even been kidnapped for a whole day. Or perhaps he has. There’s not really any way of knowing. 

He wonders if Arthur has noticed his disappearance yet. If anyone will be coming to save him, for once. They never have, before. 

Arthur can’t sleep. He’s too busy wondering where Merlin is. Are they feeding him, are they letting him sleep? Have they hurt him? Of course they have. It wouldn’t be like Merlin to go quietly when he could raise hell instead.

He swallows; he twists and he turns. He can’t seem to get comfortable and get his mind to silent. The air is too stifling, the sheets around him too much of a constraint. The rain patters loudly against his windows. While he normally would find this calming, tonight his thoughts are racing against each other and his nerves are steadfastly refusing to settle. 

Did Merlin get caught up with the wrong sort at the tavern? Did he mouth off one too many times? But surely they have to know that Merlin is under Arthur’s protection. The whole of Camelot would know not to touch Merlin. So who would risk the King of Camelot chasing at their heels for the sake of one servant—do they know what they have started?

He has to be taken to get to Arthur, or to gain information on the inner workings of Camelot. Why else would anybody kidnap a servant? 

Arthur wonders who they are and why they are doing this. If they took Merlin to get to Arthur, they would have known enough about Merlin and Arthur to know that Merlin is the person to take. And if they know enough to take Merlin, they would also know that there is no world where Merlin would betray Arthur. He’d break first. The thought is a terrifying one—it's impossible to tell which would be worse. 

Arthur knows that he has favoured Merlin’s company far too obviously. He should’ve known better. His father raised him better. It’s never wise to let people know who truly has the King’s ear, because this is exactly what would happen. He should’ve known that it would’ve turned Merlin into a target. 

(If Arthur wasn’t so anxious, he’d think about what Gwaine let slip that afternoon. About how Merlin was hardly ever in the tavern. He’d wonder where on earth Merlin was, all those times. He’d wonder about what Merlin was doing that he couldn’t tell Arthur. As it happens, though, Arthur is not going down that path. He’s too busy thinking about the what-ifs.)

When dawn comes, the servant who knocks on Arthur’s door is not Merlin. The servant knocks, for one, rather than slamming his doors wide open with all the delicacy of a charging boar. 

Arthur wants to hate them immediately. It’s not like he even needs waking—he’s hardly slept a blink and is already dressed. He rubs his face tiredly and sighs. 

“Enter.”

The servant who comes with his breakfast is only a young boy with wide, nervous eyes. He can't have been older than fourteen. 

Arthur bites his tongue and takes pity on the boy. He is already terrified as he is; evidenced by his trembling hands when he sets Arthur’s tray on his desk. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says, feeling ever-so-slightly contrite. 

The boy bows, unable to speak from his nerves. 

“Summon Sirs Leon and Gwaine to my chambers,” Arthur tells him, as gently as he can muster. 

The servant nods eagerly. “At once, your majesty.”

They don’t find anything. There wasn’t even a trail that they can follow—the storm has washed all traces of Merlin’s scuffle away.

Arthur doesn’t know what he expected. That Merlin would leave something that only Arthur could find, perhaps. It’s irrational, but he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. He has no doubts that his knights are most thorough, and it should’ve been enough. Except it wasn’t, because Arthur knows that he could never rest until he at least tries.

In the absence of any substantial lead, Arthur goes to Gaius. 

“Is there anyone you know who would seek to do him harm?” 

“Not that I know of, Sire,” Gaius frowns, “he’s quite well-liked in Camelot.”

Arthur’s lips twitch. It’s not difficult to imagine why Merlin would be so well-liked—the man is just so friendly to everyone. Some might argue too friendly. And a rather good judge of character too. It’s rare that Merlin expresses his downright dislike of somebody, and when he does, they always turn out to be bad news anyway. 

Before Arthur could respond, the door swings open and Guinevere rushes in in a flurry of skirts. She doesn’t seem to notice Arthur’s presence, if the way she makes a straight beeline for Gaius is any indication.

“Oh, Gaius, is it true?” She cries, “has Merlin been taken?”

“It is, my dear.”

Gwen gasps, distraught, before embracing Gaius heartily. Gaius leans against her and embraces her right back, grateful for the comfort she offers. Arthur shifts uneasily, feeling as though he is intruding on a familial moment, and hesitantly clears his throat.

Gwen springs back in surprise. 

“Oh, Arthur, I apologise, I didn’t see you there,” she flushes, averting her eyes. 

“It’s all right,” Arthur assures her gently. 

He takes in her appearance—she is dishevelled, no doubt from running through the castle to see Gaius. It has been a fair while since they last properly spoke—since Lancelot’s sacrifice, really—and Arthur feels a brief twinge of regret. 

He wants to ask her how she has been, but he knows the answer to that already. 

“Word travels fast,” Arthur blurts out instead, then promptly wishes he hadn’t. 

“It was Mary in the kitchens who noticed it first, Sire, when Merlin didn’t pick up your dinner,” Gwen volunteers, twisting the fabrics of her skirt. “When he didn’t show up the next morning, she started wondering where he went.”

“Mary, was it,” Arthur raises his brows, unimpressed. He can’t say that he’s noticed Mary from the kitchens before. Evidently she’s quite keen on Merlin. Before he can think better of it, Arthur says, “Does she—er—“ Arthur clears his throat. “Does Merlin often make a habit of visiting her?”

“Oh no, Sire, nothing like that,” Gwen rushes to say, her cheeks flushing. She is most definitely not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “She just finds him quite sweet, Sire.”

“Oh,” Arthur responds intelligently. He’s sure half of Camelot does, to be fair. He catalogues the thought for later consideration, no doubt for when he is turning and tossing in his bed tonight. 

Then a thought surfaces, unbidden. Arthur turns to Gaius, and his voice is hard when he says, “does anybody know that he is supposed to gather herbs that day?”

Gaius frowns. “I told him the evening before, but that was all,”

“Did you mention it to anyone? Perhaps somebody tried to borrow him?”

“No, Sire,” Gaius’ frown deepens. “I didn’t mention it to anybody."

“Do you know if Merlin did?”

“I can’t imagine why he would, Sire.”

“Perhaps they tried to get him out to the tavern, or—“ Arthur prompts, but Gaius is shaking his head.

“Between the both of us, Sire, the boy is worked like a mule. He hardly has any time for himself as it is.”

Arthur flushes, recognising the chastisement belying Gaius’ words. “They knew he was going to be there, Gaius,” he tells Gaius with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They knew he was in the woods, gathering herbs. They were waiting for him.”

Gwen stifles a gasp. 

Arthur turns to her. “Did you notice anyone new in town, Gwen?” he urges her, a little bit desperately. This exercise hasn't been as fruitful as he had hoped. 

“None other than the passing merchants,” she replies. “But I’ll speak with the other servants, see if they noticed anybody new.”

“See to it that you do,” Arthur nods. “Thank you, Gwen.”

She dips her head in a shallow curtsey. “Anything to help find Merlin.”

“Make no mention of this to anyone,” Arthur warns them. While there is no doubt that the gossip mill is already turning, there is no harm in trying to contain the damage. “It wouldn’t do for the people to think that somebody is going around kidnapping the common folk and panic. If somebody asks, tell them that Merlin is in Ealdor visiting his mother.”

Like Arthur, Gwaine has also been very busy. Unfortunately, the nondescript newcomer who just casually plonked himself next to him didn’t receive the note. 

“How do I get an audience with the King?”

“Same way as everybody else, I suppose,” Gwaine grunts noncommittally. He squints morosely at his decidedly empty tankard.  “Queue up in the morning on the days where he’s holding an audience, and then wait your turn.”

“Not sure if I can afford to wait that long, actually,” the man comments mildly. “I believe I have something that he may be interested in.”

“Oh?” Gwaine lowers his tankard, interest piqued. He takes in the newcomer; Gwaine doesn’t think that he’s seen him before, and Gwaine is usually rather good with faces. The other man has mousy brown hair and dark eyes. He is plainly dressed, of average build and average height. The sort of person your eyes would flit past when scanning through a crowd. “And what might that be?”

The man reaches into his bag and pulls out a burnished silver brooch, wrapped in a ratty bit of blue fabric. The brooch is round, with a dove engraved over the cross. Gwaine’s heart stops dead cold; he’s seen Merlin fiddle with that exact brooch far too often not to recognise it at first glance. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, and within moments his dagger is pressed sharply against the newcomer’s side. “Where did you get these?”

His eyes are transfixed on the fabric—Merlin’s neckerchief—that the man used to wrap the brooch in. The blue is stained with large splotches of brown, from where Merlin’s blood must’ve trickled down the wound on his head and soaked into the fabric. The odds that Merlin is not in a bad way is dwindling with every fragment of clue they find, and Gwaine does not like it. 

“As I said,” the man replies, disappointingly undaunted by the dagger digging on his side and looking altogether too chuffed by the horror that is no doubt all over on Gwaine’s face, “I’m looking for an audience with the King.”

Chapter Text

Gwaine knocks on Arthur’s door, and upon seeing his severe expression, the bottom falls out of Arthur’s stomach. 

Arthur gives the man in front of him a cursory once-over and finds that he is not altogether too impressed. 

“My name is Thomas, Your Majesty,” the man begins, politely enough.

How very dare he. As if Arthur was interested in his name or where he came from. He feels rather like running this Thomas through from where he stands. And he would do it in an instant, too, except that it would not return Merlin to him unharmed. 

“I believe you have some information regarding the whereabouts of my servant,” Arthur replies through gritted teeth. His mother’s sigil weighs heavily in his pocket, still wrapped in Merlin’s bloodied kerchief. Arthur fights the urge to wrap his fingers around it. 

Thomas peers up at Arthur, and his knowing eyes are positively sparkling. There is nowhere else he would rather be than there, kneeling in the throne room, dangling bait before Arthur’s eyes and knowing that Arthur would take it. “Indeed, Sire.”

"He is only a servant," says Arthur through gritted jaw. “He doesn’t know anything of note.”

“That’s not why we took him,” Thomas tuts. “A little bird tells me that you’re strangely fond of him.”

Arthur furiously fights down an embarrassed flush. He was correct, then; Merlin was taken to get to Arthur. "If you tell me where he is, we may yet spare your life." 

"And if I don't?" challenges Thomas. "Will you stand by and forfeit his?" 

Arthur feels his hackles rise. "It is you who took him," he objects. "If you kill him, his blood will be on your hands."

"Ah, but we are offering you an opportunity to save him," Thomas retorts. "The decision is yours, if you would like to take it."

He knows what his father would say. Merlin is just a servant. Camelot doesn't treat with bandits and desperados, especially not for a servant. But Merlin is also his dearest friend, a man who has proven his loyalty to Arthur several times over. If Arthur won't lift a finger to save the life of a loyal friend, then what could be made of his word?

“What are your demands?”

“Oh, we do not ask for much, Sire,” Thomas looks most emphatically gleeful now, and Arthur has to restrain himself from standing up and throttling the man’s scrawny neck. “Simply that you revoke the ban on magic.”

Arthur’s heart stutters to a stop. Across the room, he can hear the collective sharp intake of his knights' breaths. This, he would not have expected. The air stills, and the silence that follows Thomas’ statement is so absolute that you would be able to hear a pin drop in the chamber. 

Arthur’s first reaction is that of absolute disgust. But then, almost immediately, he thinks of Merlin. And he’s very glad, suddenly, that this audience is only witnessed by his closest knights. 

Arthur feigns calm and resolutely does not look at the faces of his knights. He does not wish to glean their reactions to Thomas’ demand. “And if we don’t?”

“Then I’m sure that another manservant will not be difficult to find.”

The threat is spoken loud and clear. If he doesn’t revoke the ban, Arthur will never see Merlin again. Not alive and unharmed, anyway. The thought sends panic spiralling through his gut, gripping his chest tight like a vice. He knows that his knuckles are white around the armrests of his throne, but he dare not look lest Thomas follows his gaze. It takes everything Arthur has to peel his fingers off the wood one by one. There’s blood rushing in his ear, loud and furious, crashing like thunder.

Arthur is pleased to note that his voice doesn’t waver when he demands, “how do we know if he’s alive?” 

“I can show you to him,” Thomas offers graciously. “Unaccompanied, of course. And in return, I request to rejoin my brothers and sisters when we arrive.”

It’s stupid. It’s reckless, it’s dangerous, and he would be doing it all for a servant. It could be a trap. If they’re half as vicious as they present themselves to be, it would be a trap. It’s an underhanded move, if calculated. But then again, so is kidnapping Merlin. 

He is harshly reminded of his lack of an heir, and the fact that he is yet to appoint a regent. If it’s all a ploy and Arthur is killed, there will be a struggle for power in Camelot, and everything he has worked so hard to build will be for nothing. 

The brief hesitation is enough to widen Thomas’ grin. Any other king would’ve said no outright, Arthur realises belatedly. His stomach sinks. To consider Thomas’ offer at all, even for those short seconds, is incredibly telling. It’s complete madness. Any other king would have refused Thomas straight away. His father certainly would have. IIt just goes to show how important Arthur thinks Merlin is, how far Arthur may be willing to go to save Merlin. 

That Thomas knows this forces Arthur to reevaluate his opponent. Arthur regards Thomas once more, and he doesn’t see of a foolish, opportunistic man. He sees someone dangerous and frighteningly cunning.

“Sire—“ Leon starts to say, but Arthur raises a hand to stop him. He knows that he cannot send one of his knights in his place. Not when he knows he could well be sending them into a trap. For all they know, Thomas and his group could capture the knight, too, and where will Arthur be? Though Arthur has full confidence in his knights’ fighting ability, there is simply no way of knowing who they are up against at present, and just what they are capable of.

So he must delay, if only to break the silence.

“You know as well as I do that I cannot do that,” Arthur finally says. He shifts in his seat. “You have captured my subject, a member of my household. This alone is a crime against the crown that I can sentence you to death for for.” Thomas merely smiles indulgently at Arthur, not the slightest bit deterred. Through gritted teeth, Arthur continues. “Or you can return my servant to me, alive and unharmed, in return for your safe passage to your people.” 

“Feel free to remove me from the equation, my liege,” Thomas drawls. “But you don’t know who we are. You don’t know where we come from, or even how many of us there are. Even with me removed from the picture, know that others will take my place. We are already here. And it will be the same, over and over, until you listen.”

“You speak of treason,” says Leon. “You speak of an uprising.”

“We have no interest in seizing power, truly,” Thomas shrugs. He glances almost pityingly at Leon. “Far too much responsibility. We would just like the injustice to stop.”

Arthur nearly laughs out loud. For this man to speak of injustice, when he is committing at least three crimes worthy of a death sentence within the span of fifteen minutes! Is he somehow trying to prove that sorcerers are unfairly treated, all while being the reason his father cast his judgement to begin with?

“The others will wait a fortnight for news. Should I fail to return, they will take it to mean that you have refused our offer.” He doesn’t elaborate further; he doesn’t have to.

“Your quarrel is with me, and my father before me,” Arthur grits out through clenched jaw. “My servant has nothing to do with this, and you would do well to leave him out of this.”

Thomas smiles blandly, a smug little quirk of lips that tells Arthur that he knows more than he is letting on. “I regret that it has come to this,” he sighs, “I admit that this course of action has been rather drastic.”

Arthur’s fingers twitch.

“Your destiny has been foretold for centuries, Your Majesty,” says Thomas, imbuing his voice with some false regard. This destiny is nothing that Arthur has not heard of before, but where others have said it with awe and reverence, Thomas speaks it only disdainfully. “And when the Great Purge came, we have borne it all so patiently. But we have waited for so long, Your Majesty, and destiny doesn’t seem to arrive.“

Arthur’s temper rises again. “So you decided to take an innocent man—“ 

Thomas chuckles at that. “As I said, I regret that it has come to this,” he says. “But you cannot expect those with magic to continue taking their treatment all in silence. But respectfully, Sire, but I did not come here to argue about magic,” he says calmly once Arthur finishes his outburst, “I came here to deliver a message. And that message is this: We have your servant. He is alive. For now, at least. Once the ban on magic is repealed, we will return him to you.”

Arthur purses his lips; feeling inexplicably like a child chastised for throwing a tantrum. He glances at Leon, only to see his expression equally grim. His mood only darkens when he realises that he can’t see a way out of this. Not at present, anyway, when his lack of knowledge on Thomas and his group are proving to be so much of a disadvantage. 

Not when he doesn’t even know if Merlin’s all right. 

“Very well, I will consider it,” Arthur concedes. His stomach churns at the idea—of yielding to sorcerers, of magic reigning free in Camelot. Tearing down his father’s legacy, all for one man.  

Somehow, the thought of never seeing Merlin again is even more unbearable. “But I require proof that Merlin is alive. You will tell the others to bring him to the outskirts of the Darkling Woods, and we will meet you there.”

Thomas raises his eyebrow at Arthur’s use of the word we, but this isn’t something that Arthur is willing to go back on. 

“I give you my word that we will not attack, as long as you promise the same.”

After a long, tense moment, Thomas nods. 

“Very well.”

As soon as Thomas is escorted out, the chamber erupts into chaos. 

“Sire, it’s a trap—“

“Sire, you cannot possibly think about treating with them—“

“These people cannot be trusted—“

“Yes, I am aware, thank you,” Arthur glares them all into silence. But it’s Merlin, Arthur wants to say. He’s not a faceless name in the crowd, he’s Arthur’s oldest and truest friend. This is someone who would walk through storm and hellfire to follow Arthur to the end of the world.

He can’t say that, though. Not when it’s his acknowledgment of Merlin that has put Merlin into this danger. He swallows his words, and says instead, “Thomas is right. We don’t know who these people are.” He exhales. “We don’t know how many there are—we don’t know anything."

Arthur considers his options carefully. If they were to kill Thomas, Merlin will die. That in itself is unacceptable, but even more so when one considers that Thomas isn't working alone. They can simply take another victim, someone closer to court or more vulnerable, over and over until Arthur discovers who their ringleaders are and put a stop to them. How long would it take, and how many more lives would they claim? It would spread fear and discontent amongst his people.

They don’t even know for sure if Merlin’s alive. And Arthur would give everything to see Merlin’s stupid smile again. 

He turns to Leon. “Have Thomas followed,” he orders, “see if it gives us anything to go on. Keep an ear out in the tavern,” he instructs Gwaine, who nods without hesitation. “And quell the rumours where you can. Keep this quiet—clearly, someone is informing Thomas’ group of our movements, and I’d rather not alert them to the fact that we know that they have an informant yet. I’ve instructed Guinevere to say that Merlin is in Ealdor to visit his mother. Anyone seems to suspect otherwise, I want to know immediately. Understood?”

His knights bow. 

Arthur nods. “Dismissed.”

Merlin has been staring off into space for god only knows how long. It feels like centuries, though realistically, it probably hasn’t even been a candle mark. Time passes slowly in the darkness. 

He shifts slightly. It causes his cuffs to jangle. 

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” greets a pleasant voice. 

Merlin nearly jumps. He didn’t hear anybody coming in. Had they been in there, watching him the whole time?

He groans.

The voice tuts. “This isn’t the level of manners I expected from the servant to the King.”

“Sorry, must’ve been knocked out of my head when you hit me,” Merlin mutters. He squints at the shapeless dark in an attempt to make out his new companion, but he can’t see anything. “It hurts, by the way. And it’s really itchy.”

“The others will be so pleased to hear that you’ve regained consciousness,” the disembodied voice says, ignoring Merlin’s comment. Despite his attempt at congeniality, Merlin doesn’t miss the undercurrent of threat in his voice. 

“Any chance they can unshackle my arms?” Merlin suggests hopefully. It really is awfully sore. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

His captor sighs and says, rather menacingly, “that would depend on how—cooperative—you are being, I think.” 

Fear trickles down Merlin’s spine. 

“You do know I’m just a servant?” Merlin calls out to his abductor’s retreating footsteps. “Fairly sure you have the wrong guy—“

“Oh no, we definitely don’t,” the voice replies cheerily. “After all, it would be remiss of us to mistake Emrys for anybody else.”

Chapter Text

As soon as the name Emrys was mentioned, Merlin’s stomach sinks. 

“Who are you?” Merlin calls out. He is proud to note that his voice doesn’t tremble. His heart is racing so quickly that he reckons he can hear his own heartbeat in the dead silence of the dungeon. 

But his captor chooses not to reply, leaving Merlin to stew with his thoughts in the darkness.

Merlin wonders who his captors could be. He didn’t recognise their voice. He could start by recounting the past enemies that he faced and left alive, but the list would’ve been too long. And if his captors know him by Emrys, then they must be magic. And going by the way they have him cuffed, they’re certainly not the sort to revere Emrys or what he stands for. It’s nigh impossible to narrow down the list of his potential captor—the legend of Emrys is one that was widely spread even before Merlin knew it referred to him.  

He curses under his breath and waits. 

There is a knock on Arthur’s door. 

“Enter,” Arthur calls out. 

Gaius enters and makes a point to close the door gently, but Arthur is too lost in his thoughts to notice. 

“You sent for me, Sire?”

“Yes,” Arthur sets aside his quill and stands, walking around the table. He has the restless air of a man who has been pacing without stop; nervous and on edge, unable to get his thoughts to slow down enough to process. 

“The man, Thomas,” Arthur says, crossing his arms, “he mentioned something about my destiny.” He peers closely at Gaius’ face in an attempt to gauge his reaction. “Is this something that you are familiar with, by any chance?”

Gaius doesn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. When he speaks, his words are carefully considered and endlessly cautious. “I am familiar with the prophecy of the Once and Future King, yes,” he admits. “The legend says that Once and Future King is destined to bring forth the Golden Age of Albion. There are those who believe that you are the king who was foretold.”

The words ring familiar. They remind Arthur of something Merlin said a long time ago, though Merlin’s exact words elude him at this moment. He leans back heavily against the table and looks at Gaius askance. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”

Gaius visibly hesitates. He searches Arthur’s face; what he finds there must be convincing him enough to speak the truth. “It’s a legend among those who practise the Old Religion, Sire,” he says, “much of the Old Religion was eradicated during the Great Purge.”

Still, it seems like Gaius is leaving out crucial parts of the story. 

“Thomas seems to think that there’s something else,” Arthur prods, “Something about repealing the ban on magic.”

Gaius tenses at that, but it was so minute that Arthur wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching Gaius so closely. 

“Speak the truth, Gaius, and I can assure you that no harm will come to you.”

The way Gaius relaxes at Arthur’s words makes Arthur uneasy. It’s almost as if Gaius was afraid—but what did he think Arthur was going to do? And then, another thought comes unbidden; if Gaius is afraid of speaking the truth now, what else has been Gaius hiding from him?

“The prophecy mentions that the Once and Future King will unite all of Albion,” Gaius’ eyes flit up to meet Arthur’s in a fleeting moment before he lowers them again. Then he adds, haltingly, “and bring magic back to the land.”

Arthur releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. His first thought is that they must all be mistaken. The very idea that Arthur would allow magic to return to the land is preposterous—magic, the very thing that killed his parents and drove his sister to madness! Did they think that Arthur would betray his father’s memory, sully his legacy? What kind of son would that make him?

“Why?”

“Sire?”

“Why would they think that I would do such a thing?”

“It’s a very old prophecy, Sire,” Gaius deflects, “it has been passed down for centuries. And magic isn’t always outlawed, even in Camelot. The prophecy speaks of a time of Great Darkness, and the light that comes at the end of it. There are many who takes the darkness to mean the Purge.”

Arthur falls quiet. 

“Thank you for your honesty, Gaius,” Arthur finally says. He had thought that Gaius would answer some of the questions racing through his head, but it seems as though he is left with more questions than he started out with. “One day, I will ask you about life before the Great Purge. But not today. I have much to think about.”

Arthur knows his history. His father ensured that Arthur would grow up learning all there is to know about the land he came to conquer, and then some. He learned about the weak rulers Camelot previously had, ones who were too consumed by petty infighting and other trifling matters to pay attention to the people under their rule. He used to find it dreadfully boring as a child, preferring instead to play with his wooden sword, but the knowledge drilled into him is something he has come to appreciate as he grows older. Because knowledge learned is an advantage gained; as long as he knows more about Camelot than any potential opponents, he will always have an edge over them.

Arthur knows all of this and then some, but history always seemed so distant, so immaterial. It’s all too easy to forget just how much has happened in the world before he even took his first breath; how forcefully Camelot’s past shapes its present. It’s not until now that he realises just how little he truly knows. He might know about distant kings, or about the war that won Uther his throne. Or about how his father met his mother, and how magic took her. But it’s only now that he has come to identify the glaring gaps in his knowledge.

The realisation is slow to hit, but once it does, it is impossible to ignore: that things haven’t always been like this. That not only was there ever a time in Camelot when magic was openly practised, but also there was a time that his father allowed it.

And then it all changed, Arthur reminds himself. Magic killed his mother. That changed everything. 

And yet, he can’t seem to quiet the voice in his head that whispers, but there must have been a reason why it was allowed to begin with.

Gwen finds Mary in the kitchen, on her way to pick up her lady’s lunch. 

“Mary, can I ask you a quick question?”

“Of course,” Mary puts down her tray, eyeing Gwen curiously.

“Where did you hear that Merlin was taken?” 

“I think it was Gareth who said it first. You know, from the stables.”

Gwen hums. “Any idea who he heard it from?”

“I’m not sure,” Mary says apologetically. “What brought this on?”

“It’s just that I spoke to Gaius,” replies Gwen, “he said that King Arthur’s given him some time off to visit his mother.”

“Oh, that’s odd,” Mary frowns. “When I saw Gareth, he was brushing down Merlin’s mare.” 

“Gaius said that he went on foot,” Gwen blurts out, knowing full well that it makes no sense, hoping that Mary wouldn’t pick on it and question it further. She racks her brain and hastens to add, “something about the terrain being too treacherous, because of the rain. He doesn’t want to risk breaking his horse’s neck trying to make the journey.”

Mary brightens. “That’s awfully good of King Arthur to allow it,” she grins, “it would take ages to make the journey on foot.”

“Yes, certainly,” Gwen chuckles nervously. 

“Then again, I always think he works Merlin too hard, though you didn't hear it from me.” Mary confides with a secretive little glance, “well, thanks for letting me know! It’s a relief to know that someone isn’t out there kidnapping our lot.” She catches herself, then adds quickly, “And that Merlin is safe, too, of course.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Gwen nods furiously, even as her stomach churns at the thought of Merlin’s fate. She would give everything for Mary’s words to be true. 

“Well, I’ll go and tell Gareth after I drop this off, shall I,” Mary says, picking up her tray. She winks. “I’m sure Gareth will be pleased to hear that Merlin is alright too.”

When Merlin’s captors come back, Merlin was so bored that it’s almost a relief. 

“Who are you?” he asks immediately. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Cedwyn,” a voice replies. It’s the same voice as the one from earlier, Merlin notes.

“Oh, right,” Merlin mutters in response. “So I don’t know you.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” replies Cedwyn, mildly amused. 

A spot of awkward silence follows Cedwyn’s reply, which is truly outrageous, considering the gravity of the situation at hand. 

“Right,” Merlin says again. “Any chance you can let me out, then?”

“Now, why would I do that?” Cedwyn makes a tsk-ing sound. “Seems like I have the powerful Emrys under my thumb.”

Merlin tenses for a moment before deciding to blag it. “Haven’t heard of that name, sorry,” It’s a woeful attempt, but Merlin would be damned if he didn’t give it a good go. He gets a stinging backhand across his cheek for his effort, and the ringing sound echoes strangely on the stone walls. “Look, I really haven’t got a clue what you’re on about,” he tries again, putting a little bit more effort to sound more convincing this time. “I’m just a servant. You got the wrong bloke.”

He gets another backhand, this time harsh enough that he tastes blood where his teeth bit into his lip. He spits out blood.

“Don't take me for a fool,” Cedwyn hisses. It’s the first hint of real anger that Merlin can hear. “Now, would you like to try that again?” He goads. Merlin can hear the self-satisfied snicker in his tone. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Or you can cut to the chase,” Merlin challenges. “And tell me what you want from me.”

“Fine,” Cedwyn heaves a put-upon sigh. He sounds disappointed, of all things, but that disappointment doesn’t seem to be long-lived. “We’ve been watching you, Emrys. We’ve been watching you and King Arthur for a long time.”

Merlin stiffens. 

“And it seems to us that you have forgotten what the Goddesses sent you to Camelot to do.”

“Is that why you took me?” asks Merlin. A sense of unease is slowly creeping up the base of his spine. He fights to keep his voice steady, already. dreading the direction this is going. “To remind me?”

“We have lost much to the Pendragons’ reign,” Cedwyn sighs. “Our homes. Our family. You can forgive us for growing impatient.”

“How is abducting me meant to hasten destiny in any way?” Merlin demands. 

“An audience with the King has been requested as we speak,” Merlin feels, rather than sees, Cedwyn’s answering smile. “We will simply ask him to repeal the ban in return for your safety. Once the King hears of your fate, I’m sure he’d be more than willing to listen to our demands.”

Merlin has to laugh at that. “That’s your plan? Camelot doesn’t treat with bandits and ragtag revolutionaries,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “And I’m a servant. The King wouldn’t overturn his father’s laws for a servant.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” replies Cedwyn easily. “As I said, we have been watching you and the King Arthur for a long time.”

Chapter Text

The silence returns when Cedwyn leaves. 

Merlin’s stomach twists with anxiety, fear beginning to gnaw at his insides. He wonders if Cedwyn’s men would tell Arthur. If Arthur would come to rescue him, if he knew the truth about Merlin’s magic. If Arthur would rescue him at all, even without knowing about magic. After all, how many times has he reminded Merlin of his station, putting distance between them both? 

He takes a deep breath. 

Arthur has never been the sort to leave a man behind, Merlin tells himself. Despite all the insults and the roughhousing, Arthur has always looked after Merlin. He has always cared, in his own stunted way. 

If he’s not coming, perhaps he’ll send someone in his stead. Someone whose presence isn’t in such high demand, who can afford to leave Camelot to rescue a servant. Someone like Gwaine, maybe, or Percival. As long as someone turns up and he gets out of here, he can't afford to be too picky. 

His mind races with a thousand thoughts, trying to figure out Cedwyn’s game. Who is he, how did he know about Merlin’s identity as Emrys? He could count the number of people who can identify him as Emrys with one hand, but then again everyone seems to know about Emrys before ever Merlin did. More urgently, what is Cedwyn planning to do with the knowledge? If they’re keeping Merlin here to bait Arthur, then they couldn’t have told Arthur about Merlin’s magic. It’s far-fetched enough that the King of Camelot would ride out to rescue a servant, but a servant who also happens to be a sorcerer? 

Strangely enough, the thought fills Merlin with a semblance of calm. If his secret is safe, there may be a chance of rescue. He tells himself not to think of the far worse alternative—that they did tell Arthur, and no one is coming to get Merlin out. But if that is the case, then what is Cedwyn trying to achieve? Telling Arthur about Merlin's magic wouldn’t make sense if Cedwyn was being honest about what he was trying to achieve.

Merlin’s heart sinks again at the thought of Cedwyn's demand. Because there’s no way that Arthur would repeal the ban—not after what happened with his father. Not after Morgana. 

It’s more than likely that he’s on his own once again. 

“Forbaernan,” Merlin whispers, a little bit desperately. “Forbaernan, forbaernan.” 

He expected it, but it still stings when he feels nothing. No spark, no fizzle, no warmth in his veins. As if his magic was never there at all.

Merlin curls tightly, as tightly as his restraints will allow. His muscles creak in protest and the clatter of his metal chains dragging across the stone floor sound unbearably loud in the silence. There’s too many different ways that this could go. So he’ll wait, see how it all plays out. There’s no sense in driving himself insane with all the what-ifs.

“Alright Princess, so what’s the plan?”

Arthur doesn't bother glaring at Gwaine for the nickname. “Thomas has agreed to a meeting in the Darkling Woods, day after tomorrow,” he replies tightly. What other plan is there? “Four of my men, four of his. We go and see if Merlin’s alive.”

“And you’re confident that he is?”

“He’s the only advantage they have,” he points out. It pains him to reduce Merlin to a bargaining chip, but he carries on nonetheless. "If what they want is for the ban on magic to be repealed, killing Merlin will get them nowhere.”

“And if he is alive?” Gwaine prompts. “Please tell me that this will turn into a rescue mission.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. 

“You can’t be serious!” protests Gwaine. His face contorts in a mix between fury and disbelief. “You’re not suggesting that we turn back and leave him there?”

“There are too many unknowns, Gwaine,” Arthur tells him through gritted teeth. “You heard Thomas. They’re not infiltrating us, they’re already here. We’re being watched, except we don’t know who’s watching us. We need more time.”

“And you propose we buy that time by leaving Merlin in their grasp?” 

“They won’t harm him,” Arthur replies, injecting some confidence that he doesn’t quite feel into his voice. The alternative is unconscionable. 

“How can you know that?” Gwaine demands. “How can you even propose that we just leave him there? He’s your friend,” he hisses, bright red with rage. “Or have you forgotten already, Your Majesty—“

“Do you think I like the idea?” Arthur explodes, equally furious. He knows full well what he is doing; he is leaving Merlin to suffer at the hands of his captors in exchange for time to root out the traitors lying in wait. Does Gwaine think that Arthur is enjoying this, does he think that Arthur wants to leave Merlin in Thomas' grasp, as if Arthur hadn’t spent hours thinking endlessly of potential ways he could skirt around Thomas’ demands, only to come up short? They are holding Merlin’s life in their hands, and the risk is too high for Arthur not to play along. “Use your head, Gwaine! Knowing that they have Merlin is the only way we can ensure that Merlin stays alive, at least until we figure this out.”

“They’ve already shown that they can take Merlin. Someone who is at the heart of the King’s household and clearly under the King’s protection.” Leon adds quietly. “Who is to say that they won’t take another?”

"How do you think Merlin will feel, seeing us at the Woods tomorrow?" Gwaine mutters lowly, venomously. " When he sees us standing there, not even trying to help him, before turning back with our tails between our legs?”

The thought of ambushing Thomas' contingent and getting Merlin back in one go is one that has crossed Arthur's mind before. He could bring far more men than necessary, letting them trail behind at a considerable distance so that Thomas wouldn't notice. He could then delay the contingent to give his men time to catch up, then mount a surprise attack. But such a strategy would put Merlin's life at stake, even more than his captivity already does. They could slit Merlin's throat where he stands, and where would Arthur be? Not only would it put him back on square one with regards to rooting out the traitors of Camelot, he would lose Merlin too. The risk is simply too high. 

Arthur exhales slowly, fighting to regain his composure, but Gwaine isn’t exactly making it easy. His outrage comes from a place of good will, Arthur knows. A place of worry and genuine concern. But how dare he assume that Arthur doesn’t share his concern, his fears—

“I know you like your odds long,” Arthur bites out, struggling not to snarl. “But I’m not willing to gamble. Not when it’s Merlin’s life at stake.”

Not for the first time this week, sleep seems to be evading Arthur. When he did manage to catch a brief rest, his mind seems bent on torturing him with visions of Merlin being hurt. And he’d wake again with a start. 

Gwaine’s words echo in his head again, unbidden, and Arthur closes his eyes tightly against the nausea in his stomach. What would Merlin think of him, coming all that way to see him, only to not lift a hand to rescue him? He ought to know that Arthur is trying to keep him alive, as best as he can, given the circumstances. He must understand that it’s not just his life at stake—it’s Arthur’s whole kingdom. And there wouldn’t be a better opportunity to bring them to light.

It doesn’t make him feel better.

Arthur knows what it’s like to live under watchful eyes. To have someone supervising his every move, to have his every word and every gesture thoroughly scrutinised. It’s a burden that he has grown accustomed to bearing. He knows that servants talk, that the walls always have ears. But knowing that there are spies embedded within the social fabric of Camelot is something else entirely, and it fills him with a new sense of paranoia. He doesn’t even know who they are: they could be a vengeful former lord driven penniless and without honour to distant lands, a disgraced knight recounting bitter tales of better times, a grieving widow with fresh memories of her husband’s smiles. A child who lost their parents in the Purge, growing up with fantasies about what could have been. They could be anybody. His guards outside could be reporting on his every move, or on the people entering and leaving his chambers. The nameless servant who cleans his rooms in Merlin’s absence could overhear something that was never to be heard, or pick up something they were never meant to pick up. On their own, the knowledge would perhaps not matter much, but in the hands of somebody who knows how to connect the dots—

Arthur sits up. If he’s not getting any sleep, then he might as well do something with it. He lights a candle and walks to his desk, where the map of Camelot is still rolled open, weighed down on either side with books and a dagger to keep it from curling back up. If they were to meet with Merlin the day after tomorrow, it must mean that it takes one day to send word back to Thomas' camp. It means that Merlin isn’t too far away. A day’s ride from the City of Camelot, two at most. And if the Darkling Woods is to be the meeting place, it’s fair to assume that the Woods lie between Camelot and wherever Merlin is being held.

The Woods lie on Camelot’s north, and they’ve already scoured it back and forth to know with certainty that there’s no encampment there. Arthur squints at the map, trying to make out the writing on it. He knows that past the Woods, it’s mostly farmlands, and the nearest estate is more than three days’ ride, so it’s not likely that Merlin is being kept there.

He wonders if perhaps there’s an errant lord in Arthur’s court, discontent with his rule. Thomas’ operation seems to be too smooth, too sophisticated to be operated by someone without gold to spare. 

Arthur yawns with exhaustion, but then another thought occurs to him.

He stands. He needs to see Gaius, but first he needs to see Gwaine.

The sound of an impatient rap on his door awakes Gwaine from his slumber. Gwaine ignores it at first, throwing a pillow over his head, internally willing that the person on the other side of the door to leave and try again when the sun is up.

No such luck. Just as the thought forms in his head, the knocking escalates into a full-on banging. It’s well past midnight. Gwaine throws his duvet aside with as much force as he can muster and stomps his way to the door. 

He swings his door open with an ill-tempered glare. “What?”

“Is that a way to talk to your superiors?” Arthur drawls, unsympathetic to his plight. 

Gwaine squints at Arthur and makes a show of looking around. “I don’t see one here.” 

Arthur ignores the quip before drawling, “Are you going to let me in? Or have you got some poor girl on your bed?”

Gwaine rolls his eyes with a sigh and opens the door wider to allow Arthur in. It is honestly a marvel that he hasn’t been dismissed from Arthur’s service. Arthur waits for the door to close with a click before announcing decisively, “you’re not coming with us.”

It takes a heartbeat for Gwaine’s face to morph from bleary-eyed and confused, to alert, to suddenly incensed. His voice climbs up a pitch when he says, “What do you mean—“

Arthur interrupts him before he can finish, holding up a hand in a placating gesture before Gwaine can truly work himself into a state. “I want you to listen carefully,” says Arthur in a low voice, “You are to hang back when we depart at first light. Wait half a candlemark before following our tracks. But tell no one of this, Gwaine. If anybody asks, tell them that you're going hunting to let off some steam. 

“And then, once you’re there,” Arthur continues in a low voice as Gwaine's expression morphs from pure fury to understanding, “lie in hiding and watch. And be quiet, Gwaine. Once they leave for their base, I want you to follow them as far as you can. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Sire,” answers Gwaine at once.

"Good," says Arthur grimly. "It's time we find out who it is we are dealing with."

Things become more interesting on the third day of Merlin’s captivity. 

“Well, well. Look what we have here,” came Cedwyn’s voice.

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s rather dark in here,” Merlin grumbles from where he is curled up on the floor. Then he flinches, almost by instinct, expecting a hit that didn’t come.

Cedwyn lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Are you always so tiresome?”

Merlin opts not to deign him with an answer. He’s too thirsty, too weak, and desperately hungry to boot—he’s far too tired to be playing Cedwyn’s games. 

There’s a rustle of parchment before Cedwyn speaks again. “Your King has agreed for a meeting,” Merlin can hear the self-satisfaction coating Cedwyn’s voice. It makes him sick. “So not just a servant, then, eh Emrys?”

“He would do it for anyone,” Merlin snaps tiredly. It comes out raspy, and his dry lips crack a little bit when he forms the words. He wonders how much longer he can afford to avoid the water.

Despite his none-too-optimistic words, Cedwyn’s words leave hope soaring in Merlin’s chest. The thought that Arthur is willing to negotiate with a ragtag group of sorcerers at all to get Merlin back is one that fills his chest with warmth, even if it’s simply because Arthur isn’t the sort to leave a man behind. 

“Perhaps,” Cedwyn concedes. “But he’s certainly doing it for you. I must be honest, I didn’t think this would work so well.” He adds, sounding thoughtful. “Perhaps you’re more important to him than we initially thought.”

Merlin’s stomach twists again. This time, he doubts it’s because of the hunger. He keeps his mouth shut.

“We ride tomorrow,” Cedwyn announces. His voice is too calm, too cool, and it has dread pooling in Merlin’s stomach. “So let’s make sure he knows how serious the situation is, shall we?”

Cedwyn lets out a long whistle. 

At the echo of the approaching footsteps, Merlin closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

When Arthur walks down the steps to the courtyard, the rest of his party are already there. 

“Good morning, Sire,” Thomas greets him pleasantly, bowing as though he meant it. He looks around, counting out the horses and the knights stood beside them, then asks in surprise, “will Sir Gwaine not be joining us today?”

None of your business, Arthur wants to snap at him. “No,” Arthur answers curtly instead. And then, to avoid suspicion, he adds, “I gave you my word yesterday that we will not mount an attack. I will not see this jeopardised.” 

Thomas nods, seemingly satisfied enough with Arthur’s answer.

He’s gloating, Arthur notes. Revelling in the inner working knowledge of Camelot that he has accumulated. Gwaine and Merlin are very close—not that they hide it in any way whatsoever—that not only is Gwaine’s absence from the party noticeable. It is also suspect. 

Arthur mounts his horse. Once Thomas leads the way, it shouldn’t matter if Gwaine’s true whereabout are discovered. Anybody running to deliver word to the rest of Thomas’ group would not make it quickly enough to compromise their plan. 

The ride to the meeting place is long and thick with tension, especially without Gwaine’s inane chatter to break the silence. He almost wishes that Gwaine was here, if only to distract Arthur from the dread that grows heavier with each passing step and the worry gnawing endlessly at his gut. Arthur tells himself that worrying is irrational—after all, whatever happened to Merlin has already happened. His worrying isn’t likely to change the outcome. He knows this in theory, but it doesn’t matter in practice, because every thought in his head seems to lead to Merlin.

It’s the not knowing that’s driving him mad. It’s all the different what-ifs playing in his head, unstoppable like a raging torrent. They could have been played for a fool. They could have been riding all this way only to be greeted with Merlin’s dead body and Thomas’ band of discontent sorcerers ambushing them instead.

Thomas assured them that they won’t mount an attack. That they’re not interested in deposing him or seizing control of Camelot. But what good is the word of a traitor to the Crown?

The ride carries on in relative silence, with only the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the sounds of the woods for company. Ahead of them, Thomas is leading the way atop the horse he rode into Camelot with, winding his way deeper and deeper into the forest. He seems to know exactly where he is going. Arthur wonders if he grew up in Camelot, to know these woods so well. He doesn’t have much of an accent, so he can’t be from somewhere very far. Just outside of the Lower Town, perhaps. 

Being so close to the castle, the Lower Town bore the brunt of the Purge. The Purge of the Lower Town began immediately after Uther announced his new law, and the smoke lingered in the air for weeks, seeping into the walls of every building. By the time word of the Purge reached further parts of the land, those who were able to escape or go into hiding had long done so.

Arthur wonders if Thomas lost loved ones then. Or if he is a sorcerer, himself. He’d already broken at least ten of Camelot’s most severe laws, what does it matter if he breaks another one? It’s not as if Arthur can kill him at the moment.

Arthur watches Thomas closely for the rest of the ride. Thomas is too well-spoken and rides too well to be a simple peasant. He is cunning enough to hatch a plot that stretches back for a long time, charismatic enough to rally support to his cause. And he’s clever enough to keep the plot from being discovered.

Where does this man come from, and how has he managed it? How far does his web of spies stretch, and how deeply do they infiltrate the castle? 

“We’re nearly there,” Thomas calls out, breaking Arthur’s train of thought. 

Arthur looks up at the sky, where the sun is nearly setting. They have ridden for a long time, taking only the shortest breaks to water and rest the horses. He wonders how Thomas’ groups will find them—the part of the woods they have arrived in is quite deep with no nearby landmarks that Arthur is aware of. 

Arthur’s question is answered when they eventually slow to a stop. Thomas lets out a five-note whistle. 

Arthur’s anxiety, momentarily forgotten as he focused on Thomas, returns in full force. He doesn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, he can hear the crunching of leaves and the snapping of some twigs, alerting him to the arrival of the people who took Merlin. The air vibrates with suspense and Arthur can feel the rigidity returning to his spine. He sits straighter on his saddle, his heart pounding forcefully against his ribcage.

Four men, including Merlin, walk into the clearing. Arthur fights to keep his face impassive as Merlin is roughly marched towards him, his wrists bound, a dirty sack over his head and a dagger firm against his back. Merlin is wearing the same clothing he wore the day he went missing, albeit the fabric is now grimy with dirt and blood. His clothes hide much of his skin, but Arthur doesn’t need to see his bruises to know that Merlin is hurt. Arthur has watched Merlin long enough not to be able to tell. It’s in Merlin’s gait, the hunched way he holds himself and the way he moves with excessive care. 

Arthur is scared, suddenly, to see Merlin’s captors take the sack off Merlin’s head and see how much damage has been inflicted. 

“For god’s sake, is there really a need for all this?” Arthur snaps, his nerves getting the better of him. “He’s a servant. He’s hardly going to fight you to the death, is he?”

“Can’t be too cautious, Sire,” Thomas replies with a slimy quirk of his lips. “We find that even the slightest-looking man can be deceptively strong.”

Fierce pride swells in Arthur’s chest at the thought of Merlin fighting back. He spares a brief moment to regret the fact that he never trained Merlin more and that he hadn’t done so recently. He swears to himself that this will change when—not if—he takes Merlin home.

The man marching Merlin forward shoves Merlin roughly to his knees with far more force than necessary. It breaks Arthur’s heart to see Merlin like this, pliant and defenceless and utterly at the man’s mercy. It’s all he could do not to spring forward and grab Merlin and take him back with Arthur to the safety of Camelot. 

Arthur grits his teeth, fingers tightening around his reins. 

The man bows at him mockingly and, with a flourish, takes the dirty sack off of Merlin’s head. 

Arthur inhales sharply. Behind him, he can hear his knights doing the same. 

Thomas and his men never promised to treat Merlin well, and it’s obvious that they hadn’t. Merlin’s eyes are swollen nearly shut, his dirty hair matted with dried blood. His skin is pale white under his mottled bruises, shallow cuts upon his cheek.

The man behind Merlin buries his fingers in Merlin’s hair and yanks viciously backwards, forcing Merlin to look up at Arthur. “See?” The man grins, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. “Told you he’s perfectly alive.”

Merlin blinks several times in quick succession, disorientated. His eyes are like bright blue slits under his swollen lids. He squints at the harsh light before making out Arthur’s presence, and he smiles weakly, cracking open his split lip. 

Arthur sees red. 

He draws his sword in one fluid motion, but the man is equally quick, almost as though he was expecting Arthur to do exactly as he did. The man lets go of his fistful of Merlin’s hair before unsheathing his dagger and holding it up against Merlin’s exposed neck. He presses slightly, threateningly, enough to draw blood. Arthur watches as red appears and trickles down Merlin’s throat. 

Merlin doesn’t even flinch.

“I’d put that away, if I were you.”

But Arthur can’t hear the burly man over the blood roaring in his ears. Merlin is the only thing he sees, weak and mistreated and hurt. Arthur tightens his grip on his sword, simultaneously wanting nothing more than to rip this man’s throat with his bare hands, because how dare he—

“Sire,” Leon says in an urgent voice. 

It’s not the knight, though, that snaps Arthur out of his incandescent rage. It’s Merlin, letting out a quiet hiss as the blade slices deeper into his skin. He is looking down at the blade, keeping his head up as though unafraid.

Arthur lowers his sword and watches as the burly man does the same with his dagger. His own words echo through his head again, the little promise he made to Thomas that he wouldn’t attack. He’s ready to break it a thousand times over and start a war besides, to root out every single one of Thomas’ sympathisers by fire and force, whatever it takes. 

He wants so badly to reach out to Merlin, to reassure him that he’ll be home soon, to tell him that he’s doing everything he can and just needs a little time. He doesn’t. 

“Is this how you treat your prisoners?” Arthur says instead, his voice tight and brimming with disgust. 

“No worse than how Uther treated his,” the burly man replies. “And you inherit his hatred, continuing to hunt down our kind, the way your father hunted us.”

“You protest against what you perceive as an injustice by taking my servant,” Arthur counters, pointing out the preposterousness of their logic. “Someone who has done you no harm. Simply because of his proximity to me.” How is his hatred of sorcerers unwarranted, when this is what they do to innocents? Is his mistrust unreasonable?

Thomas hums, glancing at Merlin in contemplation. Merlin’s eyes dart quickly to him, and then to the burly man, and the panicked look in Merlin’s eyes takes Arthur by surprise.

“I have agreed before that this course of action is perhaps bordering on the extreme,” Thomas drawls. He looks down at Merlin, smug like a cat who got the cream. “But we are not here to debate the morality behind our actions, or even yours. We are not interested.” He waves his hands in a grand gesture. “As you can see, your servant is very much alive. We have held up our end of the bargain, Sire. Now it is time for you to hold up yours.” 

Chapter Text

If the ride to the meeting place was thick with tension, the ride back to Camelot was quiet and subdued. 

Arthur’s stomach churns sickeningly the whole ride back. The fears he didn’t know he had come to life; that Merlin would be taken from him, that someone would discover the truth of what Merlin meant to Arthur, only to use the knowledge against him.

This is why kings are meant to rule alone, Arthur thinks furiously. This is why he was taught to be a distant figure, striving for duty and nothing else. He simply cannot afford for something like this to happen.

The knowledge that someone is hurting Merlin, and will continue to hurt Merlin, weighs heavily on him, the sight of Merlin chained and forced to his knees seared into his brain. He knows that when he closes his eyes, later that night when he’s in bed, he’ll be back in that clearing again, watching the man lift the sack over Merlin’s head and seeing what Arthur’s favour has cost Merlin.

Even heavier is the knowledge that he can stop it, but he’s not sure if he wants to. If his severe view on magic had wavered before, it is all but cemented now. Thomas seems to have only proved that sorcerers are evil, wanting nothing but to sow discord and chaos. A fierce hatred burns in Arthur’s heart and surges in his veins, hotter than anything he has felt before.

(Is this how his father felt when the sorceress took his mother from him?)

“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur admits to Leon later, when they stop for a break and the others are several paces away to water the horses. The words feel thick and clumsy on his tongue, bitter and unusual, taking considerable effort to push out. Help me, he wants to cry out. “I can’t overturn the laws for one man.” 

A king is simply a tool to serve his people—he is not meant to be above the law. He is meant to put the needs of the many over the needs of the few. 

But he can’t lose Merlin, either. 

Leon is silent for a long time. “No,” he finally agrees, “you can’t.”

Arthur sighs. He can’t recall a time when he feels more at loss. It certainly doesn’t help that whenever he felt this way, Merlin had always been there with his wise words and encouraging smiles. The sting of Merlin’s absence sharpens, felt keenly in the hollows of his chest.

“Merlin’s a good man,” says Leon slowly. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

Arthur thinks about the last time Merlin smiled at him. It was quiet and lovely and perfect, but already it feels like forever ago. He was reading the reports on his desk and Merlin was polishing away at his armour in the corner, completely absorbed. He doesn’t remember what it was that made him look up from his report, but he remembers looking at Merlin, his chest full and warm with easy affection. He remembers feeling a soft smile breaking upon his lips, natural as anything. And he remembers Merlin looking up too, meeting Arthur’s eyes and smiling softly in return. 

His heart gives a painful twist at the memory.

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” says Leon suddenly, wrenching Arthur back to the present. 

Arthur looks up at him in surprise, but his next words came tumbling out before he could stop himself. “It’s my responsibility to protect him.”

“You couldn’t have known what they were planning."

“No,” agrees Arthur, “but I should have, nonetheless.” 

“Merlin would never blame you,” replies Leon. “He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

Arthur falls quiet. He can only hope that Leon is right.

“It has been a long day. Perhaps we could stop here for camp?”

Arthur merely nods. 

Cedwyn and his men gloat gleefully all the way back.

“Did you see his face?” snorts Cedwyn. “Just a servant, indeed.”

When Merlin remains silent, Cedwyn gives him a harsh kick. He doesn’t flinch.

Did he see—what a daft question. Of course he saw. Arthur was the only thing he saw. He was so golden, haloed by the sunlight, and it was impossible not to feel an addictive rush of hope when Merlin looked at him. 

He watched, too, as Arthur’s face contort from feigned impassivity to one of pure rage. He transformed, before Merlin’s eyes, from the king loved by his people to the legendary knight famed throughout the land. Merlin had never been afraid of Arthur but at that moment he looked lethal, every bit the deadly warrior the bards say he was. 

He wonders how Cedwyn and the rest of them didn’t tremble with fear and fall to their knees.

There was pain in Arthur’s eyes when he looked down at where Merlin was forced to kneel. He wanted so badly to reach out to Arthur, telling him that it’s worse than it looks, that he’s had much worse. But it felt as though his jaw was wired shut, his tongue too thick and his mouth too dry. He hadn’t had water since they left wherever it was that they kept him and it had been a long hard day of marching. 

“Why didn’t you tell him about my magic?” Merlin finally asks, burning with the need to know. He feels like he knows the answer but he would like to hear it from their mouth. 

“Maybe you are as thick as he said you are,” Cedwyn sneers. “Why else? If we told him, he wouldn’t bother trying to save you.”

“Bet you expected a rescue mission, didn’t you,” one of them hisses, all yellow teeth and stinking breath. “Don’t worry. Your time with us isn’t over yet.”

Merlin turns his face away.

Yellow Teeth grins in triumph—the idiot probably took Merlin’s reaction as a sign of weakness. “Emotional, are we?”

“Your breath,” Merlin chokes out, making a point to scrunch up his nose despite his bruises.

Well. That wipes the grin off of Yellow Teeth’s face. He snaps his mouth shut, which comes as a great relief for Merlin. The relief is short-lived, because the next thing he knows, Yellow Teeth is reaching for his dagger.

“Don’t start,” warns the messenger man. Merlin looks at him, intrigued—this is the man who led Arthur to him. The messenger looks like a delicate man, speaking in a soft voice that belie the obvious command.

“Why not?” Yellow Teeth demands before adding, petulantly, “I’m not stupid—I wasn’t going to kill him.”

“Oh, well, in that case—”

Merlin doesn’t get to hear the messenger man finish, nor does he get to see where he’s being taken to, because it’s at that point that Yellow Teeth knocks him right out. 

The moment Arthur sets foot in his castle, he sent out a summon to Gaius and Gwen to join him and his returning knights. When they finally arrive, looking nervous but cautiously hopeful, he addresses them first. “Merlin is alive.”

Gwen lets out a small gasp and Gaius seems to sag with relief. 

Arthur wonders how much to tell them. He doesn’t want to lie to them, but at the same time, he doesn’t want them to worry more than they already do.

Gwen seems to guess it from Arthur’s grim expression. “Is he hurt?”

“Not badly,” Arthur decides to say. He has certainly seen men surviving worse, and having seen pictures of torture contraptions that Uther has outlawed, he knows it could infinitely be worse. The lines on Gwen and Gaius’ face seems to ease when he elaborates, “a bit banged up, but otherwise fine.”

He decides to change the topic, abruptly and clumsily, before they can ask further. “Gwen—has there been news?”

“I spoke with Mary, who said that she originally heard that Merlin was abducted from Gareth,” she dutifully reports. At Arthur’s befuddled look, she clarifies, “he’s one of the stableboys. He was the one who said that Merlin couldn’t have gone to Ealdor as his horse is still stabled. As you requested, Sire—I told everyone who asked that Merlin was going to visit his mother. I spoke with him the other day, but he doesn’t seem to be too convinced.”

Arthur nods. “Were they close?” 

It was Gwen’s turn to look befuddled. 

“Gareth and Merlin, I mean. Is there any particular reason why he wasn’t convinced?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Sire. Just said that it was too far a journey to make on foot. I told him that Merlin was worried about an oncoming storm and didn’t want to risk breaking his horse’s legs, but he wasn’t convinced. Apparently, he’s been telling everyone that he’s worried that someone is going around kidnapping the common folk.”

Arthur frowns. A widespread panic among his people, on top of everything else, is simply not what he needs at this stage. There is a reason why every single person who was present when Thomas made his demands was sworn into secrecy—if the truth about Merlin’s fate comes to light, not only would it spread fear and uncertainty, it would also cast serious doubt over Arthur’s ability to protect his people. After all, how can he be expected to keep his kingdom safe if he can’t even keep his own servant safe? 

“I told everyone who asked that Merlin is off visiting Hunith, as you asked,” adds Gwen. “And people do ask, because they know that Merlin is my friend. I hope it means that they will believe me over Gareth.”

“I hope so, too. Good work, Gwen. See what else you can find.” 

Gwen curtseys.

Arthur addresses Leon next. “Leon?”

“I followed Thomas before we set out, but didn’t find out much,” offers Leon apologetically. “The innkeeper said he mostly keeps himself to himself. Dines alone and drinks alone, other than the first night when he met Gwaine.”

Arthur nods. “He knows he would be watched.”

“Indeed, Sire. The innkeeper also said that he’s never seen Thomas before and none of his patrons seems to recognise him.”

“That doesn’t mean that he’s never been to Camelot before,” Elyan points out reasonably. “He could’ve just stayed in a different inn.”

Arthur makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“I didn’t notice anybody new in town,” Gwen adds, frowning. “Some new merchants in the market, but that is all. I don’t think they would be overly familiar with the castle.”

“So it’s more than likely that the person passing on information lives or works in the castle,” Arthur says. “Somebody who is familiar with the gossip mills and who associates with whom.”

Percival leans back on his chair. “Gossip spreads like wildfire in Camelot—I imagine that number would be quite high.”

“But why would they do it?”

“Perhaps they lost someone in the Purge,” suggests Gaius. “If they demand that the ban on magic be lifted in return for Merlin’s freedom, it would make sense if their reasoning has something to do with magic.”

The room falls quiet. That wouldn’t narrow the list of suspects, either—half of Camelot lost somebody they knew in the purge. 

“Perhaps we’re overthinking this,” says Leon quietly. At Arthur’s questioning glance, he elaborates. “Thomas could well be exaggerating the depth of his knowledge. It would be in his interest to bluff, after all. But anybody could make the same observations as he did without trying too hard, or without being in Camelot for long,” Leon continues. Arthur straightens in his chair. “It doesn’t take infiltrating the court or even the royal household to know what Thomas does. It’s obvious for all to see that Merlin is one of us.”

“They’d take Merlin because it’s easier,” adds Elyan, meeting Leon’s eyes. “Compared to taking any of us, that is. Merlin is not a knight—he wouldn’t be able to defend himself as well as the rest of us can.”

Arthur hums, considering. Perhaps they are right. He had been so preoccupied with the idea of a traitor in Camelot that he hadn’t considered the notion that Thomas could be lying. An oversight, if there ever was one. 

“That could very well be the case,” Arthur concedes. “But we also have to consider the alternative—that Thomas does have eyes and ears in Camelot.” Because if that was the case, any plans to rescue Merlin could reach Thomas before Arthur had a chance to mount it. If Arthur indicates that he’s not going to lift the ban, Thomas would find out soon enough too. 

“I can’t imagine anyone conspiring with Thomas to hurt Merlin,” Gwen shakes her head. “Quite a few people have approached me now to ask after him. Merlin’s really quite popular with the other servants.”

Arthur has noticed that, too. People tend to have a soft spot when it comes to Merlin—even the most uptight steward and the curmudgeonly cook. They would grouch and grump at Merlin, but a hint of a dimple and they’d begrudgingly fall at his feet. 

“Anybody you know who is jealous of his role?”

“God, no,” Gwen snorts. “It’s an honour, sure. But no sane person would take a look at his workload and think, yeah, I’d like that.” Gwen glances apologetically at Arthur, belatedly realising what she had said. She flushes. “No offence intended, of course, Arthur.”

“None taken,” Arthur replies, albeit a little bit stiffly. “All right,” He sighs. “Let’s get some rest. We’ll reconvene when Gwaine returns.”

Chapter Text

When Merlin wakes, he is back in his cell. 

Merlin has never been one for idleness. Between serving Arthur, running around being Gaius’ apprentice and saving Camelot from the latest danger, he doesn’t have much time to sit around and twiddle his thumbs, let alone indulge in a spot of navel-gazing. But the thing about being in captivity is that, for once, Merlin has an abundance of time to be alone with his thoughts. And it’s almost a form of torture in its own right. 

Merlin wasn’t sure what to expect when Arthur came into view. He tried to clear his head going in to great success—after all, it’s easy to do not to think about the impending meeting when he can simply focus on his throbbing pain and stinging cuts instead. 

He half-expected Arthur to look down on Merlin with dismay and disappointment for being reckless and getting captured. The other half of him expected a brawl to break out—an ambush, perhaps, with knights breaking out from where they were hidden by the trees, charging down upon Cedwyn’s men and setting Merlin free.

The truth, of course, was somewhere in the middle, leaning perhaps toward the latter. Merlin’s heart gives a painful twinge when he remembers the look on Arthur’s face. It’s rare that Arthur’s vice-like control would slip like that, especially in front of his enemies—he would usually stand detached, cold and implacable as though nothing could touch him and no offer could interest him. Not this time, though—they have finally found how to make Arthur crack. 

He remembers Arthur drawing his sword and thinking Arthur, no. He remembers thinking don’t let them get to you. This is exactly the reaction they were hungry to see—the reaction they were counting on. They wanted to be proven right, to know that that their strategy is working, and now they have what they were after. Merlin is sure that on any normal day, Arthur would see it too. On any normal day, Arthur would grit his jaw and clench his knuckles instead of leaping into action. Not today, though. Today, Arthur's wrath clouded his judgement, and it was plainly reflected in his every action. 

But then, the situation cools and Merlin watches Arthur walk away. Seeing him turn back towards Camelot, leaving Merlin behind in the hands of his captors with nothing but a look of apology, feels like an arrow to the chest. He understands why they did it, of course. It’s a story as old as time: that somebody would be abducted for ransom only for the kidnapper to return dead bodies once the ransom was paid. Arthur had heard too many of those stories not to demand proof that Merlin was alive before he even considering treating with Cedwyn. Now Arthur has his proof and a fortnight to meet Cedwyn's demands. 

Merlin may understand, but it doesn’t stop him from hurting. It didn't stop him from thinking don't leave me. 

He tells himself that Arthur must’ve considered Cedwyn’s demand rather than dismissing it outright. Despite the beliefs he grew up with, despite the laws his father has set. Arthur wouldn’t agree to meet if he didn’t at least consider it. If Merlin’s life was forfeit the moment Cedwyn made their demand known, Arthur would never have left the safety of his castle and Merlin would be dead right now. 

It gives him hope that Arthur will come for him, one way or another. He wouldn’t let Merlin rot there, forgotten and locked away and alone. But before he can glean too much comfort, Cedwyn’s words echo through his head again: he wouldn’t save you if he knew.

Merlin lets out a slow breath. There is an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the bruises that bloomed on his ribs. 

He’d like to think that Arthur would never abandon him, even if he knew the truth about Merlin’s magic. He’d like to think that he’d be the one to change Arthur’s mind about magic, to show him of its beauty and its potential for good. But the fact remains that Arthur had lived all his life believing that magic is evil. He hunts sorcerers down without pausing to consider whether they have truly committed a wrong and executes them without batting an eye. 

Merlin draws his knees to his chin, his movements slow and careful. He tells himself that it wouldn’t always be like this. That there will come a time when he doesn’t have to slither in the shadows, constantly looking over his shoulders. And maybe one day he’d be able to tell Arthur the truth about who he is. About the power he wields and how it has always been Arthur’s. About how he has always been Arthur’s. And he hopes that Arthur would look at him and smile, see the man Merlin is and has always been, and say that he understands. Perhaps Arthur would even tell him that Merlin wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, fighting his battles in the dark. 

Merlin’s eyes burn at the thought, at how much he wants this abstract, intangible future that Kilgharrah has been dangling in front of him since the very start, but he doesn’t have any tear to shed. Not now, anyway. Not in front of this band of ragtag band of bandits who have stripped his magic from him. 

Let his captors think whatever they want to think, Merlin decides. Perhaps Arthur would save him, even if he knew about Merlin’s magic. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. As long as he gets out of here, what does it matter? He’s not going to let Cedwyn and the rest of them turn him against Arthur.

Merlin wakes again. He doesn’t know how much time has lapsed, but he must’ve fallen into slumber at one point. 

He sits up gingerly. 

It’s difficult to gather your thoughts and try to hatch an escape plan when your throat is parched and your stomach twists, cramping with hunger. It’s even more difficult when his senses are dulled so considerably. Merlin tries, nonetheless. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and then he weighs his options. 

The facts are these: if Arthur refuses to change his law, Cedwyn will kill Merlin. And Merlin wouldn’t be able to fight back with his magic locked away. He needs his magic back to give himself a fighting chance. 

“Forbaernan,” Merlin tries again in a hushed whisper. He opens his palms and feels nothing—no warmth surging in his veins, no heat in his eyes. It only succeeded in turning Merlin’s stomach, his nausea rising up his throat. He grits his teeth and tries again, raising an arm towards the general vicinity of his cell door, “Allinan.”

Nothing happens. Merlin huffs out a frustrated breath. If he can’t reach his magic now, he might as well try to plan what he will do once he can. He racks his brain. Once his magic is back, it will be a question of whether he would be able to escape without anyone noticing. There is also the matter of Cedwyn’s men, who Cedwyn claims are well-positioned within Camelot. Somebody will eventually discover his escape, and once they notice, it will be a question of whether he will be able to reach Camelot before Cedwyn can pass the news. 

The rest would be pretty routine. He’s somewhat confident that he’d be able to deny any accusation Cedwyn’s men can level at him—who would Arthur rather believe, after all, the manservant who has served him for years or criminals with an agenda to complete? 

Merlin’s stomach churns at the thought of standing before his king, looking him in the eye and lying to him. He’s done it countless times before, but it doesn’t mean he ever wanted to do it to begin with.

There’s something in Merlin’s water. 

He didn’t notice it at first. He had been denied it so long—his mouth was far too dry not to gulp the whole thing down in one go. Now that they wouldn’t be presenting him to Arthur again anytime soon, Melin notices a significant improvement in their hospitality. The water bowls and dry hunks of stale old bread come more readily now, and it becomes impossible not to ignore the taste.

Merlin smacks his lips, cringing, then wincing when it splits his too-dry lips. He’s tempted to push the bowl away, but there is no certainty when he’ll be able to drink next. He doubts that the strange taste can be written off simply as the taste of the local well—after all, his luck has been so rubbish so far, why would this time be any different?

This leaves him with the alternative explanation: that Cedwyn has added something in there. And Merlin has been Gaius’ apprentice for far too long not to know how water can be tampered with without altering its taste too much. 

Merlin’s eyes prick again. He misses Gaius, suddenly. He misses sitting down with Gaius after an arduous day, inhaling whatever Gaius dishes out before inevitably getting smacked for his lack of table manners. He misses the distinct smell of Gaius’ quarters—an incomprehensible mix of musty, old-book smell and the concoction of the day, bubbling merrily away. It’s often a strange scent, sometimes downright vile, but it smells like his home. 

Gaius must be really worried. Merlin has no doubt that Gwen is looking after him well, caring for him like she would her own father, but he still wishes he could tell Gaius not to worry. He’s fine, he’s always fine, and even though it looks like he’s in a bit of a pickle at the moment, he’ll figure it out. He always has. 

Until he does, he needs to figure out whether there’s any point in refusing the water. On one hand, he doesn’t know what the water will do to him. On the other, he’s so thirsty that he’s fairly sure that he will dehydrate before whatever in the water can take effect. If he pretends to spill it down the side, they will probably just refill it with more tainted water. If he outright refuses, he doesn’t doubt that they will get to force it down his throat. 

For the first time, he feels tendrils of hate wrapping around his heart. Is it not enough that they’ve taken him and his magic and tortured him? What else is Cedwyn trying to do? He wipes a stray tear with annoyance; he didn’t even realise that he had been crying. It only frustrated him further—as if he needed to lose any more fluid. 

Merlin makes his decision and drinks. 

Chapter Text

When Gwaine finally returns, his shoulders are sloped and his expression is gloomy.

“I followed them as far as I could, but I lost them further north,” he reports darkly, his eyes trained on the floor. “I don’t think they noticed me, but they were very careful in covering their tracks. They didn’t leave anything that I could follow.”

Arthur tamps down his disappointment. “You have done well,” he nods in approval. “At the very least, we can now narrow down the potential list of places where Merlin is being held.”

Arthur unrolls a copy of his map of Camelot, placing weights on either side of it to keep the parchment from rolling back up. “Our meeting point was somewhere here,” Arthur places a pewter piece on the part of the map that says Darkling Woods. “Where did you say you lost them?”

Gwaine takes a different pewter piece and places it between the Darkling Woods and the Fortress of Idirsholas. “Somewhere here,” he says, “just over half a day’s ride from where you saw Merlin.”

“It takes a day to ride out to the Darkling Woods,” Elyan notes out loud. “Another day to get to wherever he is being held captive. The ruins of the Fortress would take more than two more days’ ride from the Woods.”

Arthur hums. “So they're holding him somewhere between here,” he points at Gwaine’s marker, “and here,” he places another marker on the Fortress.

Leon frowns. “I don’t think there’s any structure there that can act as a base to Thomas’ group.”

“There was an old citadel on a hill somewhere here,” Arthur points to the west of Gwaine’s marker. “It’s mostly in ruins, though.”

“Near where Gorlois was buried?”

“That’s the one,” says Arthur, brows furrowed in concentration. “We’ll send a patrol there first thing tomorrow to scout the area.” 

The ruined citadel he remembers doesn’t provide much of a shelter, and Arthur can’t remember if they had any functional rooms to speak of, let alone a structure big enough to house a number of men. Thomas’ group must be relatively small in number if they were housed there.

Gwaine exchanges a look with Percival, but it’s Leon voices the question out loud, “What do you have in mind, Sire?” 

Arthur hesitates, considering. “We have less than a fortnight to meet Thomas’ demands.”

“Are you planning to meet his demands?” Leon asks cautiously.

That’s the question, isn’t it. Arthur hadn’t even brought the matter up to the larger court. Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure a law can be written and passed in less than a fortnight. A hastily passed resolution is always the recipe to plunge any kingdom into chaos and anarchy. It doesn’t take an advisor to know that any decree ought to be examined from every angle before it is made official. 

And then there is the question of whether he wants to. In all honesty, he should’ve given it a deeper consideration by now, but his thoughts have all been of Merlin.

The short answer is that no, he doesn’t. He is yet to see compelling evidence that magic isn’t the wicked, corrupting force his father said it was. The repulsion he feels at the idea is instinctual—magic took his family from him, even before he had the chance to take his first breath. A sorceress promised his father an heir, only to take his mother’s life as the price. An enchantress stole Morgana away, twisting the sister he loved into a cruel enemy, hell-bent on revenge. A sorcerer promised to heal his father, only to go back on his word and kill his mother. And now they’re taking Merlin, who is more than a brother and more than a friend.

But losing Merlin has never been an acceptable outcome either. 

Arthur looks around at every person in his small council, closely watching their reaction when he asks, “what do you think of magic?”

It’s fascinating watching a myriad of emotions flickering across their faces. 

“Speak honestly,” he requests, imploring, when the silence stretches out. “I give you my word that no harm will come to you, and what you say won’t leave this room.”

Gaius speaks first. “As you know, Sire—before the Purge, I dabbled in magic before I swore an oath to your father to give it up,” he clears his throat, ignoring the astonished look Gwaine, Percival, Elyan and Gwen levelled at him. “In my experience, magic is simply a tool. It is up to the wielder how they intend to use it. It can be used to kill as well as heal.”

He shoots a nervous, surreptitious glance at Arthur as he says this, as though worried of Arthur’s reaction. Arthur doesn’t blame him—it must be difficult to speak about something so openly when you have become used to speaking about it in hushed silences, or indeed not at all. It’s a treasonous topic, this—to even suggest that perhaps not all magic is evil—but Arthur bites his tongue, fighting the almost-immediate instinct to dismiss Gaius’ claim and decry it as heresy. He said that he will listen, so he will. 

“That is my experience as well,” adds Gwaine before Arthur has a chance to respond. “While many of the surrounding kingdoms supported Camelot’s strict ban on magic, lands further out don’t tend to,” he says. “The Kingdom of Mercia, for example. While their people have always been wary of magic, they didn’t ban magic outright until the treaty with King Uther some years ago. Caerleon, on the other hand, restricts the kind of magic you’re allowed to use to simple, everyday magic. But there are others who are far less strict.”

Arthur knows this, of course, though only in theory. He remembers how his father used to speak disparagingly of these other kings’ cowardice in confronting the evils that magic pose. He’s never seen it in practice; magic users in other kingdoms tend to either make themselves scarce when they know that delegations from Camelot are coming for a visit or ordered to stay away to prevent a diplomatic incident. 

He knows all this, but Gwaine’s words still come as a bit of an awakening. It is rare that Gwaine mentions his life before Camelot, and he has fit in so well that Arthur had nearly forgotten that Gwaine wasn’t always living here. Gwaine had spent years travelling Albion, seeing things in person that Arthur had only ever heard of or read about, and not asking him about it now feels like a massive oversight. 

“What do they use magic for, then?” Leon shifts in his seat, his interest piqued.

“All sorts, really,” Gwaine replies. Arthur rolls his eyes at the non-definitive answer. “Simple charms, protective wards—nothing too powerful.”

“Mostly, people just use it to aid with daily life,” agrees Percival. “Cleaning stains off clothes, keeping bread from going stale too early, that sort of thing. You’d have the thieves too, of course, nicking people’s coins faster than they can notice. But most people who practice magic don’t have the power to do something extravagant.”

Arthur falls quiet, torn between thoughtful and uneasy. He’s never encountered magic being used like that. Or indeed, used in any way that sounds almost harmless. He’d ask why, but he knows the answer to it already. 

Arthur looks at his friends in the eyes and knows that they are telling the truth. There’s no reason why they would make something like this up. He’d ask why they never mentioned this before, but he knows the answer to that, too. 

The question niggles in the back of his head, a thread that would unravel his world as he knows it: has he been wrong about magic his whole life? Is there more to magic than wickedness?

But then, he thinks of the people he had lost to magic—his mother, his father, his sister. He thinks of the undead knights and Cornelius Sigan, about the sorcerers he has encountered all throughout his life that swore nothing but fire and destruction upon Camelot.

“King Uther was distrustful for a reason,” says Leon before Arthur can say anything. He doesn’t say it with as much conviction that Arthur expected from him—he looks as shaken by this new revelation as Arthur feels. “We have seen far more harm come of it than good.”

“By banning all magic under the pain of death, those who only ever used it for good also feel the consequence,” Gaius points out.

Gwen visibly hesitates. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to reconsider our stance,” she says, shooting an unsure glance at Elyan. “At least to have a process in place when somebody is accused of being a sorcerer, or being in league with one.”

Arthur stiffens. He remembers how his father sentenced Gwen to death, all those years ago. For allegedly healing her father, of all things. He looks at her now, stricken. She has been such a valuable friend all this time, he can’t imagine what his life would have been like had his father actually gone through with the execution.

“Our father wasn’t a sorcerer,” Elyan adds quietly, derailing Arthur’s train of thought. “We would know. Father never would have worked with Tauren if he had known what Tauren was doing.”

It all comes back in a rush of memory. He remembers how his father sentenced Gwen’s father to death for colluding with a known enemy of Camelot, only months after accusing Gwen of sorcery. He remembers how it all went down, how Morgana raged and the fallout that ensued after. 

He wonders absently if this was the moment they lost Morgana.

How many others, Arthur thinks with slowly dawning horror. The thought came suddenly, unbidden, but once it takes root it refuses to leave. How many others had died on the pyre, innocent but unable to prove themselves otherwise?

“We’ve seen our fair share of magic being used for evil,” Gwen continues, unaware of the battle raging in Arthur’s mind. She glances nervously at Arthur, but her expression is determined. “I have yet to see it being used for good, but a review of the laws surely cannot harm.”

Percival leans back on his chair with a sigh. “That’s going to be a long council session.”

Silence falls upon the table. Less than a fortnight is not nearly enough to mull the topic over and raise it with the court, but it is all they have if they want Merlin returned to them. 

“I’m not sure if it would be in Camelot’s best interest to repeal the ban on magic,” Arthur finally decides. “Especially not to meet demands of a resurgent group taking innocent people hostage. This isn’t just about Merlin—there is also the matter of setting precedence for future events. Complying with Thomas’ demands will only encourage other thugs to do the same. It would only go to show that Camelot does treat with thugs.

“Our focus now is to find the camp and root out Thomas’ men in Camelot,” he continues, “Leon, Elyan, you are to assist Guinevere with information-gathering. Gwaine, you are to lead tomorrow’s patrol with Percival. Thoroughly search the area for any structure where Merlin could be held.”

They all bow, and Arthur turns to address Gaius. “Gaius, I would like to speak to you and Geoffrey. I will meet you in the Hall of Records within an hour’s mark.”

Gaius bows.

Arthur turns to stand. “Thank you for your honesty,” he says in clear dismissal. “You have given me much to think about. 

“I want nothing short of pure honesty,” he addresses Gaius and Geoffrey. “What was Camelot like before the Purge?”

Geoffrey seems to be shocked into silence. 

“Magic was allowed in Camelot once,” Arthur says, noting that Geoffrey has turned pale. “What was life like in Camelot then?”

Geoffrey glances nervously at Gaius, looking like a deer caught in a hunter’s aim. 

“No harm will come to you,” promises Arthur, feeling somewhat sickened that he has to say it at all. Far from letting up, the unease he felt hearing Gwaine and Percival speaking of “simple, everyday magic” has only solidified in the pit of his stomach, heavy like a stone. Has his father hidden the truth from him the whole time? “I will not send you to the executioner’s block for speaking the truth.”

Gaius nods encouragingly at Geoffrey, and it’s only then that Geoffrey recounts Camelot’s erased history.

It takes a long time for Arthur to fall asleep that night, all the knowledge he had gained that day echoing relentlessly in his head. When he does finally sleep, he falls into a dream almost immediately.

Arthur opens his eyes and he doesn’t know where he is. He finds himself in a cold, dark place, with a musty smell that lingers in the air. He shivers. He blinks once, and then twice. It’s the most unnerving sensation, to have his eyes wide open but unable to make out any shape or colour.

“Hello?” He calls out into the dark. His call echoes eerily back to him.

There is a clanging sound across the room, like metal dragged across stone. 

“Arthur?”

The voice calling out back to him in surprise is hoarse and faint, but Arthur would know that voice anywhere.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls, heart pounding. “Merlin, is that you?”

“Yeah,” Merlin’s disembodied voice replies. “Yeah, it’s me.”

It comes from somewhere behind Arthur and to his right.

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here.”

“Keep talking to me,” Arthur started saying, but he was interrupted by more jangling noises.

It’s the sound of Merlin’s chain, Arthur realises with horror. Merlin’s shaking his chain so Arthur can follow the sound. Arthur walks a few paces towards it before choking out, “Merlin, I’d much prefer it if you talk to me.”

The ruckus abruptly stops. Then Merlin lets out a breathless chuckle and says, stunned, “never thought I would ever hear you say that.”

“Trust me, I can hardly believe it myself,” retorts Arthur, but he’s smiling, tears involuntarily springing into his eyes. It’s not until now that he realises how much he’s missed Merlin’s voice. Merlin sounds much closer now, so Arthur must be walking in the right direction.

Arthur abruptly stops when he meets an obstruction just ahead. He flexes his outstretched hand, groping at the air to try and feel the obstruction in front of him. His fingers find a metal bar and then another and his heart sinks.

“Merlin?”

“Right here,” Merlin replies.

Arthur crouches down, gripping tightly at the metal bars separating him from Merlin. He can hardly make out the dark shape in front of him, but something in him knows that it’s Merlin. 

“Are you here to get me out?”

Merlin’s voice sounds so hopeful that Arthur desperately wishes it was the case. He pats himself down—he is still in what feels like his nightclothes, lacking any armour and any weapon. He doesn’t remember how he got here at all.

“I don’t think I’m really here,” he says, his words thick with emotion, “I don’t know where here is.”

“Oh.”

“I will get you out,” Arthur vows. “I promise.”

“I know you will.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“No,” Merlin replies apologetically. “They knocked me out on the way back.”

Arthur thinks of Merlin, helpless and chained and collared and with a sack over his head, and replies furiously, “there is no need for them to do that.”

“Oh, I know,” Merlin says ruefully. “They just wanted to do it.”

“Did you mouth off at them?” Arthur demands incredulously. “Merlin—“

Arthur feels, rather than sees, Merlin’s responding shrug. 

“Try to stay alive, will you?” says Arthur roughly. “I will get you out as soon as I can. But you have to stay alive until then, all right?”

Merlin nods. Arthur can tell because he can hear the metal clinking against each other as Merlin moves his head up and down. 

Before he can say much else, Arthur startles awake. 

Arthur doesn’t linger, doesn’t take a moment to ponder what the hell it all meant. He stands up and gets dressed before marching down the castle to catch Gwaine and Percival before they leave for patrol. 

Unfortunately for Arthur, they were long gone by the time Arthur arrives. He finds Leon instead, deep in a conversation with Gaius, which drew quickly to a halt at his entrance. 

“They left at first light, Sire,” Leon informs him helpfully. 

“Can we intercept them?”

Leon raises a curious eyebrow. “Sire?”

“They’re keeping Merlin in a dungeon,” Arthur tells them. “It’s the ruined citadel. It has to be.” 

“If I may, Sire,” Gaius interjects, exchanging an uncertain glance with Leon, “How can you be so sure?”

It’s Arthur’s turn to hesitate, slowly realising how ludicrous it all is. All his conviction was based on a dream. “I had a dream last night,” he finally admits, with no small amount of sheepishness.

Leon stiffens ever-so-slightly, but the meaning is not lost on Arthur. 

The realisation, when it dawns, is like a bolt of lightning jolting down his spine. Arthur rushes to add, “it’s not—it’s not prophetic. It’s not something that is yet to come. I just—“ Arthur clears his throat, fighting down an embarrassed flush. “I spoke to Merlin.”

“How?” 

Admittedly, he had not given it much thought. It’s a question he should’ve asked himself first the moment he blinked back into wakefulness. But he had been so heartened by the conversation he had with Merlin, however brief it was. And in his rush to intercept Gwaine and Percival, he hadn’t tried to rationalise how he came to speak to Merlin. “I’m not sure,” Arthur frowns.

It’s magic, Arthur realises, albeit belatedly. It has to be. But where had it come from? Certainly not Arthur; he’s as magical as a pile of common rock. 

“Forgive me, Arthur, but I must ask,” Leon lowers his gaze, “do you think it possible that perhaps it was just a dream?”

It had felt so real, Arthur wanted to say. So vivid. In his heart of hearts, he knew it had to be real, even if he’s not particularly keen on saying it out loud. He understands why Leon would be reluctant; Arthur is acting rash. But they have nothing to lose from trying to intercept the patrol. “We have nothing to lose from intercepting the patrol,” he says instead. “Or at the very least, ensure that the area is thoroughly searched.”

“I’ll ride there myself,” Leon finally agrees. “I’ll tell the men that there have been rumours of a group of bandits terrorising the local area.”

Arthur claps Leon’s back in approval. “Good man.”

Chapter Text

After that very first dream, Merlin hears Arthur everywhere.

Sometimes Arthur appears just out of his reach, his voice so gentle and so tender that Merlin aches with how much he wants to touch him. Sometimes he’d appear by Merlin’s side, encouraging him to eat the chunk of stale bread Cedwyn tosses in once a day. “You’ll need your energy,” Arthur would say, his voice so gentle it feels like a balm on Merlin’s battered soul. “We’re working to get you out, but we need time. And we need you to stay alive until then.”

Merlin would listen to his king, sorely missing him with every bone in his body. He’d nod with the energy he doesn’t have and comply, lifting the dry, stale bread to his lips with a shaking hand. And he’d sip the murky water even if he doesn’t want to, because what other options does he have? The lack of fluids will kill him before Cedwyn will.

“How much longer?” Merlin would rasp in response. Time passes torturously slow in his confines. A candle-mark feels like a day, and a day bleeds to what feels like centuries. He doesn’t know how long he’s been held captive, but it stretches out like an eternity.

“Soon, Merlin,” Arthur would say, golden and warm. And Merlin would turn to his voice for comfort, relishing the way his name rolls from Arthur’s tongue. He’d cling to the hope Arthur’s words offer like a lifeline. But before he could say anything, Arthur would disappear again. 

“I don’t want to die here,” says Merlin when Arthur reappears. He doesn’t know how long he has been there; he lost track of time a long time ago. All he knows is that it hurts to move and it hurts to breathe. Even eating and drinking have become an onerous task. He keeps at it, though, taking minute sips of the water and soaking bits of bread in it to make swallowing easier. 

“You won’t,” comes Arthur’s voice, most emphatically. There is an apology in his soft voice, in the way his warm fingers wrap around Merlin’s. “Gwen and Elyan doing everything they can to root out their spies, Leon is leading a search party—”

Everything, except for conceding to Thomas’ demands.

Arthur takes the soaked bread off of Merlin’s trembling finger. “Let me,” he murmurs gently. He is so close that Merlin can feel Arthur’s breath on his face. 

There is mushy bread nudging his lips, and Merlin opens his mouth obediently. His cheeks flush at the thought of Arthur feeding him—something about it feels very intimate, like something only lovers would do. There is a line that they must have crossed somewhere, but Merlin is willing to overlook it for now. 

“Thank you,” Merlin breathes out once he swallows the bread, letting his head thunk against the wall once. 

Arthur is already there with another bit of soaked bread. “You’d do the same for me.”

Arthur isn’t the only one he sees. 

Lancelot appears first, all silent steps and sorrowful shoulders. He doesn’t speak at first.

“Is it really you?” Merlin whispers, scared. He reaches out a hand to touch Lancelot and only feels cold. “Lancelot?”

The ghost of Lancelot shies away. 

It has been years since they lost Lancelot, but Merlin’s grief remains sharp in his chest, fresh as ever. A tear that was never patched together. As though no time had passed at all. 

And the guilt—

“I’m sorry,” Merlin chokes out, swallowing against the burn in his throat. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He should be in Camelot, hale and alive. He should be sparring in the training ground with the highborn knights who finally see him as their equal. He should be with Gwen, laughing and lovesick and happy.

He shouldn’t be among the dead. 

Lancelot crouches down to sit next to Merlin. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. 

“I’ve missed you,” Merlin admits in a low voice. Gods, there are no words that can sum up how much Merlin misses Lancelot. Destiny weighs so much heavier without someone to share the burden with. “It was so much easier with you around.”

His tears finally spill, but he knows that he only has himself to blame. If only he wasn’t distracted by the Cailleach. If only he made sure that all the knights were unconscious. If only he was quick enough—

Merlin’s captors take him out from time to time, mostly to beat him senseless or taunt him mercilessly. Merlin would look around, trying to see if there’s any landmark he recognises from his travels with Arthur, but the light spilling in sears his pupils after so long without.

And sometimes, he sees Arthur there too. Sometimes he’d shout Merlin’s name and try to fight, only for his adamant fists to meet nothing but air. He’s not real. Sunlight may glint upon his golden hair, but he’s not truly here. 

“Merlin!”

“Don’t look,” Merlin would mouth at him. When their eyes meet, he finds Arthur’s are wide with horror. But Merlin doesn’t want Arthur to see him like this. Like a helpless, broken man. He doesn’t want Arthur to regard him with pity. “Look away, Arthur. Please.”

But Arthur doesn’t listen, and when has he ever? Merlin closes his eyes, clenching them tightly shut.

And other times, Arthur would just stand there, not saying anything, not moving a muscle as Cedwyn and his lackeys descend on Merlin.

“Where’s your king, Emrys?” Cedwyn hisses, yanking Merlin up by his hair. He backhands him so savagely that Merlin’s head whips to one side, blood splatters flying out his mouth. “Where’s the King you betray your kin to serve? He’s not coming to get you out, is he?”

Oh, Merlin thinks to himself. That’s why, then.

“Looks like he’s decided to leave you with us, after all.”

Merlin can’t help himself. “So really, you might as well let me walk.”

Cedwyn kicks him, and all the breath was knocked out of his chest. 

“You were meant to herald a new age. But my mother burned at the stake,” Cedwyn tells him, shaking, “and it wasn’t Uther who ordered the pyre lit.”

Merlin’s stomach roils, sorrow and regret and repulsion rolled into one. He remembers every execution in Camelot in excruciating detail. Arthur has burned exactly two people, a man and a woman, both found guilty of egregious crimes against the Crown. The man had used magic to kill the knight who captured him. The woman, who must’ve been Cedwyn’s mother, had placed a curse upon Camelot, releasing a plague that killed dozens in the height of summer. She had looked on defiantly as they tied her to the stake, refusing to scream even as the flames licked at her feet. She swore vengeance instead; at the whole of Camelot but Arthur most of all. 

“An abomination!” she had shouted. “You never were meant to be among the living! And if it wasn’t for your cursed birth, the Purge would never have happened!”

“She released a plague,” Merlin grunts. “Dozens perished—“

“Can you blame her?” Another strike. “After all that Uther did? “

Merlin glances to where Arthur is standing. “Arthur is not his father.”

“They raided my brother’s camp, you know. Slaughtered men, women and children like cattle,” Cedwyn tells him viciously. “It wasn’t Uther who led the charge.” 

Merlin falls silent. He wants to deny what Cedwyn is saying because he knows Arthur. There is good in him—he would never do something so ruthless. Despite Uther’s best efforts, Arthur is nothing like the man his father was. But it strikes him, then, how very little he knows about the prince Arthur was before Merlin came to Camelot. 

“I am sorry,” Merlin wheezes, even if he knows that his words are futile and would only fall on deaf ears. What comfort can he offer to a man who lost his family? “Things will change. It won’t always be like this—“

“How long are we meant to wait?” Cedwyn shakes him roughly before wrapping his fingers around Merlin’s neck, pulling him upright by his throat. “How many more will die until destiny arrives?”

“Ced,” another man says, his tone a warning. Merlin vaguely recognises his voice, but it’s a bit difficult to tell when his eyes are swollen nearly shut and he has more pressing concerns at hand, like the fact that Cedwyn’s beginning to squeeze and Merlin cannot breathe. 

“Cedwyn!” 

Cedwyn flinches as if burned and lets Merlin go at once. Merlin drops to his knees, coughing and gasping for breath. He looks up at the other man and recognises him as the man who led Arthur to the clearing.

“I told you,” Merlin hisses. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I apologise for my friend,” the other man says as he approaches Merlin, glaring at Cedwyn. “He can be a bit of a brute.” He reaches out an arm to help Merlin up and introduces himself, “my name is Thomas.”

Merlin eyes the outstretched arm dubiously. “Thanks,” he mutters. He doesn’t take Thomas’ hand. He glances up instead to where Arthur was standing, but Arthur is already gone.

Thomas drops his proffered hand. He looks at Cedwyn and frowns, “this wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The plan wasn’t working too well, is it?” Cedwyn drawls. “Considering that the King has made no motion to repeal the ban at all.” He turns to address Merlin, baring his teeth. “Or maybe he’s decided to leave you with us, after all.”

“And torturing him is supposed to hasten it?”

“No, but it does feel good.”

Thomas makes a disgusted noise. “A fortnight, Ced. We’ve given the king a fortnight. He still has some time yet.” He gives Merlin an appraising once-over. “Still think we got the right man, then?”

“You think we don’t?”

“No, I still think we have King Arthur’s servant,” Thomas rolls his eyes, speaking slowly as if to a particularly slow child. “But not necessarily that his servant is Emrys. Surely the Emrys that was prophesied wouldn’t just stand there as his people are murdered—”

Cedwyn hums. “He’s not denied it once, has he.”

“What does it matter?” Merlin grunts. “I said from the start that you’ve got the wrong bloke. You didn’t believe me.”

Thomas raises his eyebrow at Cedwyn. “Is that right?”

“Don’t be daft, Tom. It would be in his interest to lie,” it’s Cedwyn’s turn to scoff. “And he’s lied this whole time, hasn’t he? The King doesn’t even know who he is.” He spits at Merlin’s feet. “Betrayed our lot for a tyrant he can’t even bear telling the truth to.” 

“Ced, go and take a walk,” Thomas orders. 

“Whatever for?” Cedwyn demands, indignant. 

“You’re not thinking straight,” replies Thomas firmly. “It’s not helping our cause. Besides, I’d like to get to know our guest.”

Cedwyn thankfully complies, even if he’s muttering venomously under his breath the whole way out. 

“Living right under Arthur’s nose can’t have been easy,” Thomas addresses Merlin with a surprising amount of sympathy. “Always looking over your shoulder, fearing for your life if somebody ever finds out.”

Merlin remains silent.

“That’s what we’re trying to change, you see,” he continues, producing a cloth to wipe the grime and blood from Merlin’s face. Merlin hisses at the sting. “I’m sorry about Cedwyn. But I hope you can understand where we are coming from.”

They throw Merlin unceremoniously back into the dungeon, his cuts cleaned and his clothes changed. They have upgraded him too, moving him into a cell with a window. 

Merlin wonders what the hell just happened. 

Unfortunately for Merlin, it’s not just Lancelot visiting him as hours continue to pass; it’s every single person he had loved and lost. It’s Freya, it’s Will, it’s the father he never had the chance to know. It’s Morgana the way he liked to remember her—fierce and headstrong, her heart yet to be consumed by contempt. 

Sometimes they say comforting words. Sometimes they acknowledge that he tried his best, that he did all he could—even if in the end, it wasn’t enough to save them. Their platitudes don’t matter, because Merlin knows the truth: that they failed them all first. 

Sometimes, like Lancelot, they don’t say anything at all. Above anything else, that is somehow the worst. 

Sometimes, it’s not the Will or Morgana or Freya that he knew at all. Sometimes they say that they’re only where they are now because Merlin always, always chooses Arthur above them. 

“Do you really think he’ll come for you if he knows the truth about who you are?” Morgana goads, words dripping with venom. “The man who throws things at you, who used you as a step to climb to his horse in the full view of the entire kingdom. That’s the man who is worth all this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” retorts Merlin. Between Morgana and himself, he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince more. “Because he doesn’t know.”

“He thought a sorcerer died to save his life,” Will points out. “That didn’t change much, now, did it?”

Merlin thinks about the Will that he knew, who died bleeding in his arms. “You’re not real,” Merlin tells him. 

Perhaps he’s finally losing his mind. 

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon, Merlin.”

“Oh, is it?” Merlin rasps out. It’s probably not in his best interest to irritate the man who is no doubt responsible for his upgraded accommodation—the standard is on the floor, but he’s enjoying being able to tell what time of day it is. But he’s hungry, he’s thirsty and everything stings. Worst of all is the fact that his magic seems to be no match for the cold iron around his—well, everything. “Come to beat me up again?”

“I’ve had a word with Ced,” Thomas says, frowning. “I apologise for how he has treated you. I’ve made him promise to keep it to a minimum.”

“Oh, thank you ever so much,” Merlin grits out. He tries to force himself upright to a sitting position, ignoring the protest of—oh, every single bleeding part of his body. He doesn’t quite make it. “Any chance you can convince him to let me walk, too?”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” Thomas chuckles; it grates on every single one of Merlin’s nerves.

“Why not?” challenges Merlin, though his voice is barely above a murmur. “I thought you didn’t believe I was Emrys?”

“I changed my mind,” Thomas shrugs easily. “No, you’re right, I didn’t believe you were Emrys. But that was until you slipped up.”

Merlin falls quiet, dread coiling tight in his chest.“In the hall, earlier, after Ced had his hands round your throat,” Thomas clarifies slowly, as though Merlin had forgotten. “What was it that you said? Oh, right, that it won’t always be like this.”

Merlin stiffens. 

“And I’ve seen the scars on your body,” Thomas continues. “No simple servant would have that many scars. You have the scars of a warrior. You are Emrys. Aren’t you, Merlin?”

Merlin bites his tongue. 

“You sounded hopeful then, Merlin. Why would a man without magic be hopeful for the day when magic returns to the land? Do you not wholly believe in your Lord’s beliefs?”

Merlin doesn’t reply. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. We know,” Thomas crouches down opposite him, as though he was trying to make himself look friendly and non-threatening. “But I am curious about one thing. I’ve heard so much about you. Your loyalty and bravery are legendary in Camelot, you know. A servant with no training who follows King Arthur into every quest and every battle.” Thomas leans forward. “Now, we know that you’re not as defenceless as people think. But help me understand, Merlin. Why are you so loyal to Arthur?”

“I thought you knew everything there is to know about me?” Merlin retorts bitterly. “I thought you had men in Camelot informing you of everything that goes on within the walls?”

“We know that it’s Emrys’—well, your, I suppose—destiny to help Arthur restore magic to the land,” Thomas offers. “But that can’t be the only reason why you do it. So what is the reason? Why would you follow the son of a man who made it his life’s work to eradicate the kingdom from people like us?”

“Arthur is not like his father.”

“Perhaps not,” allows Thomas, “but he was still Uther’s right-hand man, leading raids that murdered innocents.”

“Uther is gone,” replies Merlin. “There hasn’t been a single Druid camp raid since Arthur came into power—“

“And that makes it better, does it?” 

“He didn’t know any better,” says Merlin. “He was only a boy following his father’s orders—he had no choice in the matter.”

“Oh,” says Thomas, and for the first time, Merlin can hear a hint of true anger in his voice. “You always have a choice. And Arthur chose to become his father’s tool in eradicating magic."

“Disobeying Uther,” Merlin snorts. Even making that small noise burns. “You do know what happened to those who dared to disobey Uther Pendragon?”

Burned at the stake, along with those accused of sorcery. Banished to distant corners of the land, stripped of their titles, no honour to their name. Penniless. When you were raised to value honour above all else, it’s a fate even worse than death.

“Then he should have stood against Uther and faced the consequences,” insists Thomas. “Better to die than to assist with the Purge.”

“Uther was his father,” Merlin drawls. Thomas made it all sound so easy, so black and white. But the reality is never so clear-cut. Because despite everything, Uther had loved Arthur, in his own strange, twisted way. And, perhaps more importantly, Arthur loves him. 

It’s Thomas’ turn to fall quiet. He studies Merlin, something calculating in his gaze that makes Merlin want to instinctively turn away. “You really are fiercely loyal to him,” Thomas observes, leaning back. “You’d defend him, even if you know that he was in the wrong. And for the life of me, I cannot understand why.”

A part of him wants to save his breath and not let slip any more than he already has. Thomas has clearly made his mind up about Arthur; does it matter what Merlin has to say? But another part of him refuses to stay quiet; the part that wants to defend Arthur until his dying breath. 

“Despite his past, Arthur is a good man,” Merlin maintains. “He has grown from his mistakes to become a good king. He loves his people and his people love him.” He adds, because he cannot stop himself, “if you have many ears in Camelot as you claim you do, I’m sure you can find out why without too much trouble.“

“Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you,” Thomas replies with a sigh. Merlin wonders if he’s beginning to wear Thomas’ patience thin. “I’d like to hear it from someone who truly knows him.” He crouches closer against the bars, close enough that Merlin can see the glint in his eyes. “What makes Arthur a good man, Merlin? I’ve heard of how he treats you,” Thomas divulges, glancing sidelong at Merlin. “I know how he shouts at you, how he humiliates you in front of all of Camelot. After everything you did for him, all you must have sacrificed to keep him safe.”

Merlin falls quiet again. 

Because truth be told, it’s not like he has forgotten, either. The way Arthur throws things at him, the way he’d berate Merlin in front of the knights. In front of his friends. He remembers the way Arthur would so casually threaten Merlin with banishment, never realising how much of a genuine fear it stokes in Merlin. He remembers the harsh words falling from Arthur’s lips, seeking to remind Merlin of his place. How he’d throw Merlin in the dungeons just for the most trifling of things. 

Merlin knows, of course, that Arthur never meant any of it. He only said the things he said because emotions were running high and Merlin, as always, had pushed every single one of Arthur’s buttons the way he knew best. That doesn’t mean that it was all forgotten, though. Arthur’s words stick to his skin, weighing him down when he lies awake at night, tossing and turning in bed. They never truly wash away.

(But Merlin is just a servant, at the end of the day. Having seen how other nobles treat their servants, Merlin is well aware that he has a lenient lord in Arthur. He would have died from flogging a long time ago, had he served in Uther’s household. And unfortunately, that’s just the reality of it: this is how nobles treat their servants. They are not equals. They will never be. It may not be right, but that’s the way it is.)

“I’m just trying to understand,” Thomas iterates, his voice gentler. “I’m trying to see what you see in him. If, perhaps, I had been wrong about him.”

“Arthur cares for his people,” Merlin tells Thomas, but he can’t deny the beginnings of doubt taking root. “He’d risk his life to save a servant. That’s the kind of man that he is.”

“All of his people?” Thomas presses, and it sends an uneasiness down Merlin’s spine. “Or only those without magic?”

Merlin opens his mouth to reply, but Thomas is on a roll. “Does he consider those without magic people at all?” he continues ruthlessly. There is a glint of triumph in his eyes as he watches Merlin falter. “Would he have risked his life for a servant, if he had known that the servant had magic?”

Merlin wants to say yes. He wants to say that Arthur would do it for anybody, even if the person had magic. He did risk a great deal to save Mordred, all those years ago. But that was before Morgana turned against Camelot, he realises. That was before the enchanted amulet that ultimately killed Uther.

“Perhaps,” replies Merlin. “Perhaps not. I suppose I wouldn’t know.”

“You know him better than anybody,” Thomas cajoles. “You see a side to him that the rest of the world wouldn’t see. If anybody would know, it would be you.”

“But I don’t know,” snaps Merlin. And that’s the truth of it: he doesn’t know, there is no way he would know. If he knew exactly how Arthur would react, he would never have spent many sleepless nights agonising whether he ought to tell Arthur about his magic. “You’re wasting your time here. I don’t know.”

“All right,” Thomas finally says, stepping away from the cell door. He looks like the cat who got the cream, and Merlin hates the thought that Thomas had got exactly what he was looking for. “All right. I will leave you to rest.”

Merlin stews, of course. What else is there to do when you’re alone in a dark and dingy cell, with nothing but your own thoughts for company?

“Are you seriously still waiting for me to rescue you?” Arthur’s voice echoes, cold and taunting. 

Merlin’s eyes snap open. Arthur has reappeared, but there is something different about him this time. Arthur standing beyond the metal bars, arms crossed, looking down his nose with something between pity and disgust. 

“You’ll rot here, you know,” says Arthur conversationally. “There’s no point in hanging around and waiting. Do you think me a fool? I know about your magic.”

Merlin flinches, closing his eyes. “You’re not real.”

“Or perhaps you thought that I would comply with Thomas’ demands?” sneers Arthur. “As if I was going to tear down my father’s legacy for a lying traitor like you.”

Merlin tells himself that it’s a simple hallucination, conjured out of one too many hits to the head. Perhaps it’s the water.

“My father was right, you know, Merlin,” Arthur continues. “There can be no place for magic in Camelot.”

Chapter Text

When Leon strides out of the room, he leaves Arthur alone with Gaius.

“We’ll find him, Gaius,” Arthur says out loud. If he says it with enough conviction, perhaps he will start to believe it. He’s not sure who he is trying to convince more; himself or Gaius. 

Gaius smiles kindly. “I know we will.”

Arthur nods once, almost jerkily. They are doing all they can, short of buckling under Thomas’ demands: he has his most trusted people trying to suss out the traitors in his court, his best knights tracking down Merlin’s possible location. It doesn’t stop him from feeling like he could do more.

“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself, Arthur,”  says Gaius with a knowing look, breaking off Arthur’s line of thought. 

Arthur smiles gratefully, almost helplessly. He should’ve known that it would be daft to try and hide what he’s thinking from Gaius, who has known him since he was just a babe. 

“I know we’re doing all that we can,” Arthur frowns. “Yet I can’t help but feel as though I’m missing something essential.” 

Every move Arthur makes, he makes so carefully, hyper-aware of how each move will be perceived, that word could reach Thomas. But he knows, too, that he’s not been thinking straight, his every judgement clouded with emotion, the desperate hope that Merlin is alright. He doesn’t know how to lock it away at will, and it’s driving him up the walls. 

“Guinevere came yesterday, Sire,” Gaius informs him. “She was wondering if Gareth lost someone close in The Purge.”

“Oh?” Arthur quirks an eyebrow. 

“Gareth didn’t,” Gaius says apologetically. “But we came up with a list of people in the castle who did. She’s pursuing new leads, Sire, with Elyan’s help. They are bound to find something soon.”

“I hope so, Gaius.” Arthur sighs. He perks up—Guinevere’s line of inquiry has hatched a thought in his head. If Arthur was to go to his council meeting tomorrow and announce that he was going to do something so drastic as to repeal the ban on magic overnight, he knows the lords would revolt. The opposite must’ve been true as well—Uther’s proposal to punish magic with an immediate execution must’ve met at least some resistance. Considering what he now knows about the council—how passing new policies can be as slow and torturous as pulling teeth—there must’ve been nobility who opposed Uther’s policies. “Do we know if anybody in court lost someone to the Purge?”

“Public supporters were either exiled or executed,” Gaius frowns. “Many of them died with nought to their name.” 

But Gaius couldn’t have been the only person who had forsaken magic, thinks Arthur. “Were there others who renounced it?” Arthur presses. 

Gaius nearly flinches. Arthur pretends not to notice.

“Only Geoffrey and myself, Sire,” answers Gaius dutifully. “Uther promised clemency, but they still feared for their life. So they all left Camelot.”

It shouldn’t surprise Arthur, but he deflates nonetheless. “Do you know where they are now?”

Gaius lowers his eyes. “I’m afraid not, Sire.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Something bothered me about Thomas,” he admits. “He speaks too well, rides too well. And he knows Merlin’s schedule enough to plan his attack,” then he adds, muttering, “which is rather impressive, considering that not even I know where Merlin is half the time. Even though he works for me.”

“You suspect that Thomas is the son of a former lord, exiled in the time of the Purge,” Gaius surmises, eyes glinting with interest. “Someone who still keeps his connections in the castle.” He exhales.“Geoffrey and I will look into it at once, Sire.”

“See to it that you do,” says Arthur decisively. “You can cross-check it with Guinevere’s findings. And—“ Arthur trails off, his eyes straying towards the closed wooden door at the end of the room. He started walking there even before he knew what he was doing. 

“Arthur,” Gaius calls, worried, but Arthur doesn’t hear him. It’s instinctual—he’s drawn to the door, his feet moving as though they have a mind of their own before the rest of him can try to figure out why. 

He pushes the door, and it swings open without much effort.

It’s Merlin’s room, left exactly the way Merlin left it: an indentation in the pillow Merlin couldn’t have been bothered to fluff up, a threadbare blanket over his bed that he only haphazardly pulled up. The cupboard door is still ajar from where Merlin must’ve pushed it closed without looking back to check if it was actually closed.

Arthur releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and stares. 

He knows that Merlin is still missing—of course he does. But he stands there, and the loss hits him like a punch to the gut all over again. A splash of colour catches his eye. It’s Merlin’s spare tunic, forgotten and strewn carelessly on the floor, half-hidden under the bed. He wonders, absently, if Merlin would ever pick it back up. 

Arthur bends down to pick it, feeling the rough-spun fabric between his fingertips. 

“Arthur,” Gaius calls him again, somewhere from behind him this time. “Arthur, look at me.”

Arthur looks at him helplessly, like a lost little boy would look to his father for guidance. Gaius can see through him, that much is clear, but it wouldn’t be hard to read the raw emotions leaking through his every pore. It’s difficult to breathe through the guilt pumping in his veins. 

But there is no trace of blame on Gaius’ face; only endless understanding and bone-deep faith.

“I know we will find him,” Gaius assures Arthur. There is no room for doubt in his tone. It’s a reversal of sorts; didn’t Arthur just tell Gaius this, not half an hour ago? “I would be more worried about the kidnappers, to be honest with you.”

Arthur huffs a breathless laugh, accepting Gaius’ words for the comfort that they are. “He will raise hell,” Arthur smiles fondly, despite the sting in his eyes and the lump in his throat.

“He will.”

Arthur looks down, focusing instead on folding Merlin’s forgotten tunic. “It is a bit quiet, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” agrees Gaius, “yes it is.”

Arthur dreams of Merlin again that night. This time, however, they’re not alone—the brutish man Arthur saw at the clearing is there too, along with a handful of men behind him.

Merlin’s eyes meet his from across the room, bright blue slits barely visible under the bruise. Arthur’s stomach twists violently; he feels like he might be sick. He knows, suddenly, what’s going to happen.

“Don’t look,” mouths Merlin, but Arthur can’t seem to tear his eyes away. He’s still as a statue, unable to even breathe between the rage and the fear paralysing his every muscle. 

The brute yanks Merlin up by his hair and hits him across the face. Merlin’s head whips to the side with the force of it, blood splatters flying out of his mouth.

Arthur reaches for a sword that is not there and launches himself at the brute, at the rest of the men. He doesn’t particularly care who will bear the brunt of his rage, wanting nothing but to rip them apart with his bare hands. Except, of course, that nothing actually happens to them. Arthur isn’t there; he’s in Camelot, tucked safely in his bed. Merlin is still lost and he still doesn’t know where he is. 

The rest of the men join in too, each of them wanting to get at least a hit or a good kick in, jeering and shouting at Merlin as they beat him halfway to death’s door. And Merlin doesn’t even cry out; lies there and takes each hit with a pained grunt. 

Arthur steps back, panting, swaying, useless fists dangling at his sides. He nearly drops to his knees and is proud when he doesn’t. He stands there, unable to do anything but watch as they torture Merlin. He looks at the brute head-on, memorising his yellow teeth and the savage twist of his mouth. He needs to make sure that he remembers who to go after first. 

He’s shaking, he realises. His fingers are curled into tight fists, each crescent of his fingernails digging deep enough into his palm to draw blood and he’s shaking, desperate for a fight, itching to strike down this barbarian where he stands. But he’s rooted to the ground, he can’t move and he can’t look away as the men strike Merlin again and again. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs later, when Merlin is shoved with too much force back into his cell and it’s just the two of them left. There are tear tracks on Merlin’s face, carving clean lines through the dirt and blood caked upon his skin. Arthur reaches for Merlin’s hand, taking it as gently as he can and squeezing lightly, a litany of apologies spilling from his lips.  “I’m sorry, Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

Arthur wakes with tears on his face. Whether they were born out of desperation, or fear, or rage, he can’t tell. 

The day passes in a blur. Arthur has no idea how he managed to get through the ceaseless council meetings and the endless parade of things demanding his attention when last night’s nightmare has rooted itself so firmly at the forefront of his mind. The images flash behind his eyelids, over and over again, every time he dares close his eyes; the unfettered glee in his captors’ faces as they beat Merlin, Merlin curled up on the ground, barely making a noise as bruises bloom on his skin.

Arthur knew this could happen. He knew they would hurt Merlin—they already did, after all, when he saw Merlin at the clearing—and still he made the decision to leave Merlin in their hands. It disgusts him thoroughly, turning his stomach more and more with each passing moment. 

A gentle knock interrupts his line of thought. 

“Guinevere,” Arthur sighs in relief when he opens the door. “Please tell me you come bearing good news.”

He had half the mind to bring up the topic of magic in court if only to see who will strongly oppose a repeal and who will support it, but talked himself out of it at the very last minute. As he retired into his room at the end of the day, closing the heavy wooden door behind him, he felt like he could breathe again.

Guinevere dips into a low curtsey, despite Arthur saying multiple times previously that she doesn’t have to. Then she says, without preamble, “it’s not Gareth.” She glances up at Arthur to gauge his reaction before carrying on. “I’ve been following him for a bit. Elyan also spoke to him, but we couldn’t find anything out of ordinary about him. Gareth doesn’t have anything to do with magic or the purge. Not that we know of, anyway.

So we looked into his associates, checking it against the list Gaius compiled. We have reason to believe that it could be the steward, Alfrid,” Guinevere frowns. “He’s the person who knows everybody’s movements in the castle, after all. And Gaius usually informs Alfrid when he’s sending Merlin out to gather herbs, so that he can assign a servant in Merlin’s absence.”

Of course. Arthur could smack himself. It seems so obvious, in hindsight.

“Did he lose anybody in the purge?” He asks. “Any reason to support Thomas’ cause?’

“He lost his first wife,” answers Guinevere readily. “He’s remarried since, which is how he managed to keep his post at all. Elyan will trail him and I’ll see what else I can find.” 

Arthur nods. “Good work, Guinevere.”

She bows. Rather than looking encouraged, however, Guinevere frowns. 

“Arthur,” she begins, then stops, hesitating. Arthur looks up, meeting her eyes, and he can see her concern reflected in their depths. She clears her throat. “I’m—well, I’m worried about you.” 

Arthur softens, touched by her concern. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You look exhausted,” she says. “Have you been sleeping?”

Arthur considers not telling her the truth, entertaining the thought only for a brief moment, before finally deciding against it. He sighs. “Not really.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?” She bites her lip nervously. “You can talk to any of us. You’re not alone, Arthur. We’ll figure it out together.”

Arthur smiles. “Thank you, Gwen.”

“We’ll get him back,” she says, almost like a promise. “We will.”

The next time Arthur sees Merlin, Merlin is unconscious. They’ve moved him to a larger cell, it seems. It’s not half as dark as it was in the previous cell. Arthur could see Merlin, for one, could see the cuts and bruises marring his skin. If he thought that Merlin looked awful before, it doesn’t come close to how Merlin looks now.

With shaking fingers, Arthur brushes away Merlin’s fringe from his forehead. There are so many things he wishes he can tell Merlin and he can only hope that one day, he will be able to again. He cannot put into words how badly the idea of never seeing Merlin’s smile again terrifies him, and how much missing Merlin has carved a hole in his chest.

He knows that Merlin is stronger than he looks, that he is made of tougher steel than everyone gives him credit for. But every man has a breaking point, and Arthur hopes to the gods that this isn’t going to be Merlin’s. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Merlin’s, and closes his eyes, hoping that Merlin hasn’t given up hope. He is trying so hard but seems to be no closer.

“I’ll find you,” he swears. It comes out trembling, but Arthur puts everything he has into the words. Merlin is unconscious, and he can’t hear Arthur, but Arthur needs him to know. He cradles Merlin’s head with his hands. “I will. And I swear to you that I won’t stop until I bring you home.”

“Sire, these dreams of yours,” Gaius begins, a worried frown upon his brows. 

Arthur suppresses a sigh. He’s not had a good night’s sleep since the dreams began, and it’s starting to bleed into his days. He finds himself sympathising with Morgana, of all people. Gaius’ concern is very much valid, but if it allows him to reach Merlin—

“They’re just dreams,” replies Arthur, a bit defensively. Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. But it’s Merlin. It reassures Arthur to know that he’s there, still alive. It’s a lifeline that Arthur clutches at with both hands. “They’re not real. I should not think too much of it.”

“Perhaps,” concedes Gaius. “But if they’re not, it could be an attempt to throw you off the scent.”

They feel very real to me, Arthur doesn’t say. Gaius is right, of course. “The thought has crossed my mind,” Arthur admits. “But until the patrol returns, I’m afraid we won’t know for sure.”

He wonders where the hell they are. A week has gone, now, since Merlin was taken, and Arthur is growing more and more uneasy with each passing moment. The patrol was due to be back yesterday, but there had been no news. Were they found out? Is something keeping them from returning?

“You seem tired, Arthur, is all,” Gaius says kindly. “There are sleeping draughts—“

Arthur’s chest swells with affection for the physician. “I appreciate the thought, Gaius, truly.” But the thought that Merlin can reach him and that he can reach Merlin in this way is comforting in ways Arthur is afraid to examine. “But I’m fine, thank you.”

The next time Arthur sees Merlin, it doesn’t go so well. 

“You’re back again,” Merlin mumbles, rather uselessly. He sounds stronger than he was before, which is a relief. But his voice is dull, full of wariness that sends alarm bells ringing in Arthur’s head. 

“I am,” Arthur replies, equally uselessly. “It’s reassuring to note that you haven’t lost your powers of observation.”

Merlin doesn’t rise to the bait, refusing to return the half-smile Arthur sends his way. “Surprised to see you here, to be honest,” Merlin comments instead, bitterly. “I thought you said you were leaving me here to rot.”

Arthur frowns, dread coiling up the base of his spine. Something is very, very wrong. “I never said that,” he denies vehemently. “Whatever would give you the idea?”

Merlin scoffs.

“What on earth got into you?” Arthur demands, equal parts scared and furious. “I’m doing everything I can. You know I would never abandon you—“

“No,” Merlin interrupts him. “No, Arthur, I don’t."

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes with cold sweat down his back and a terrible unease burning up his throat. He should have anticipated this, and the fact that he didn’t was a glaring oversight. Because of course Thomas would try to turn Merlin against him, why wouldn’t he? Merlin is well-placed at the heart of Camelot. People would listen to Merlin—they would trust what he has to say. Merlin knows Arthur best, and people know Merlin knows Arthur best. He would be an exceedingly valuable ally for Thomas to have. Merlin knows the inner workings of Camelot and, as a massive gossip, he knows everything that goes on within the stone walls. It would be foolish for Thomas not to at least try. 

A part of Arthur refuses to believe that it would even be possible for Thomas to turn Merlin against Camelot. Against Arthur. Arthur certainly would have laughed if somebody were to suggest it to him just a month ago. Merlin’s loyalty is both boundless and unflinching—unconditional, even. Despite Arthur’s best attempts to push him away, Merlin would always be there at the end of every argument, standing alongside Arthur. 

He would have been back then, anyway.

Arthur picks up the goblet on his bedside table and hurls it against the wall. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

He lets out a shaky breath, putting his head in his hands. 

All men break eventually, but Merlin is unlike any man Arthur has ever met. Merlin has always been singular, an exception to the rules that governed men. It had lulled Arthur into thinking that Merlin would be an exception to this, too. All men would break, but Merlin wouldn’t. 

For the first time since Merlin was captured, Arthur was forced to consider that perhaps Merlin might.

When the realisation washes over him, it’s like falling into a frozen lake. Arthur had been complacent. Without realising, he had been waiting for things to work out in his favour. After all, it almost always has before. Why should this time be any different? Perhaps Merlin would break out and stumble upon one of the patrols Arthur sent out. Perhaps one of Thomas’ men would turn and tell Arthur everything he wanted to know.

Days continued to pass. None of those hopes materialised, and Arthur has only left Merlin in the hands of his captors. 

He can’t remember, now, why he left Merlin there. It all made sense at the time, but for the life of him, he can’t remember any of it now. Not with Merlin’s name on his lips and a terrible weight upon his chest.

Arthur stands. He gets dressed. He looks a mess, he’s sure, but there are bigger things to worry about. 

“We’re getting Merlin out,” announces Arthur to the room. 

“About time,” replies Gwaine. “When do we ride out?”

“We shall reconvene at the stables within an hour.”

Elyan glances out the window. “Sir Leon isn’t back yet,” he notes out loud. 

“He should have been back yesterday morning,” Arthur grits his teeth. Images of Merlin, blood crusting on his temples, bruised and battered almost beyond recognition, flash behind Arthur’s eyelids every time he dares close his eyes. “We cannot afford to wait much longer. We’ve left Merlin in there long enough.”

“Okay,” replies Elyan calmly, placatingly, clearly sensing the storm brewing on the horizon. “What is our plan, Sire?”

“We ride to the ruined citadel near where Gorlois was buried,” says Arthur, “and we get Merlin out.”

From the corner of his eyes, Arthur catches Elyan trading an uncertain glance with Gwen. He resists the urge to snap at them. He knows he is being short-tempered—irrational, even—and that Elyan is simply, reasonably, exercising caution. It’s exactly what Arthur advocated for, not too long ago.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t act too rashly,“ suggests Gwen, albeit uncertainly. She bites her lip nervously.

“We may run the risk of alerting Thomas’ men—“ adds Elyan.

“Or we won’t,” Gwaine counters quickly. “We won’t alert them, and we get Merlin back.”

“We can’t be sure, Gwaine,” Elyan shifts closer to Gwen, shooting Gwaine a reproachful look for his tone. “Even if we somehow manage to find Thomas’ stronghold without the information Leon set out to gather, we still don’t know what we’ll find. We don’t know how many men we can bring—“

Gwaine’s lips curl in a sneer. “Awful lot of things we’re not sure about.”

“Merlin is my friend too,” replies Guinevere, colder than Arthur has ever heard her. It sends a chill down Arthur’s spine, and even Gwaine seems to wither considerably upon hearing her tone. “I want him rescued as much as anybody. But surely rushing in could only cause more harm than good. We want him back safely, don’t we? We don’t want to waste time with an unsuccessful rescue attempt.” 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. He did not call this meeting for a discussion. On the other hand, he was going to announce his intention to ride out and rescue Merlin today. It is apparent now that the plan would be a somewhat contentious one. And fighting amongst themselves will help no one, least of all Merlin.

Arthur takes a deep breath. Guinevere and Elyan are right, of course: rushing in is a privilege only fools can afford, and a well-planned strike increases the likelihood that you would only have to strike once. He knows this. Whether he likes it is another matter. “Right. Let’s start with the things we do know, then. Guinevere?”

“Elyan and I trailed Alfrid, as you requested,” she reports dutifully. “There is nothing unusual about his habits; he leaves his house to work in the castle in the morning and he goes home in the evenings. Spends time at The Rising Sun in between.”

“He meets with Gareth at The Rising Sun,” corroborates Elyan. “Along with other young men besides. I recognised some of them. Aled, Grigor, Idris… Some of them, I must admit that I am unfamiliar with. We have passed their names on to Gaius.”

“Good,” nods Arthur. “Gaius?”

“Geoffrey and I are checking them against the records of people lost in the purge, including those who were banished,” says Gaius, heaving a sigh. “It is long and painstaking work, Sire. We could use an additional pair of eyes.”

Arthur glances around the room at his trusted friends. “We’ll wait for Leon before riding out,” he finally decides. “In the meantime—have copies made of the names Elyan and Guinevere gathered, and go through the records until Leon returns.” They bow their heads before making a move to stand. “A word in private, Gaius,” he nods at Gaius before turning again to address the rest of the group.“The rest of you, we reconvene after Leon returns. Dismissed.”

Arthur waits until the others leave, ensuring that the door is securely shut before saying, “they’re doing something to Merlin.”

Understanding dawns on Gaius’ face, evident in the way his eyes widen. “Your dreams, Sire?”

Arthur wants to insist that they’re not dreams. He knows it will make him sound afflicted, like a child clinging on to desperate hopes. It would cast doubt on the soundness of his mind. “It’s Merlin, I know it,” Arthur says anyway, helplessly. He runs a hand through his hair and adds, with deep-rooted certainty and the only slightest of wavers in his voice, “I know him.”

Gaius can call it whatever he wants—a manifestation of guilt, of sorrow. A figment of Arthur’s imagination working overtime to torment him with images of worst-case scenarios. But there is truth in what Arthur sees; he is sure of it. He can’t explain exactly how, but every part of him knows that it’s truly Merlin that he sees when he falls asleep. 

(He can still hear the sound of Merlin screaming. Arthur resists the urge to shake his head. He knows, now, what Merlin sounds like when he can’t bite off the sound of his pain. And once it is heard, it roots itself deeply into Arthur’s consciousness, impossible to forget, echoing round and round his head until it’s all that he can hear.)

“They’re poisoning his mind,” Arthur’s voice drops to a near whisper, choked tight with fear he struggles not to show. “Gaius—I fear that it is working.”

Whatever Gaius expected Arthur to say, it was not this. He studies Arthur’s face, searching. “Merlin would never turn against Camelot,” replies Gaius finally. “Arthur, there is no force in this world strong enough to turn Merlin against you.”

He says it so confidently, as if there is no greater truth in the universe. 

“He thinks I have given up on him,” murmurs Arthur. He doesn’t want to tell Gaius about the quiet resignation he already saw dawning in Merlin’s eyes, the bitter acceptance of his fate. Arthur’s voice finally breaks when he says, “he thinks I’ve left him there to rot.” 

“Just as you know him, Arthur, he knows you,” Gaius’ eyes are terribly kind. Arthur wishes he was more deserving of that kindness.

It’s meant to offer solace, for which Arthur is grateful. But Arthur knows himself, too. The worst thing about Thomas’ attempts to manipulate Merlin is that his accusations are not completely baseless. Arthur remembers how he has treated Merlin, the way he pushed Merlin away when he dared to draw too close. He remembers the harsh things he had said, often when his emotions run unchecked, sometimes in full view of others. The way Arthur shouted at Merlin, the way Arthur would call him names in public. Sometimes, Arthur could make it sound like he meant it, too.

Arthur can tell himself that it was a mirage he wanted his father to see, rooted in the fear that his father would take Merlin away. He can tell himself that it was only ever an illusion carefully constructed to protect Merlin, to keep the court from knowing truly how much he has Arthur’s ear. But the truth was always a bit more convoluted, a bit messier. The truth is this: Arthur was afraid of letting Merlin in. Merlin couldn’t know that Arthur cared because it would give him undue power over Arthur. It doesn’t matter that Merlin had that power anyway, only that Merlin couldn’t know. 

Now, though. The only thing Arthur could see was how easily his actions could be used to convince Merlin that Arthur would never come for him. 

And if Merlin believed it—

“He has faith that you will do the right thing,” continues Gaius, seemingly unaware of Arthur’s inner turmoil. “He always has.”

“I won’t stop until I bring him home,” Arthur vows. There are things he’d do differently, now, given the chance to do it all again.

Gaius merely smiles knowingly. “I know.”

Aled - Stableboy 

Alfrid - Steward

Grigor - City Guard

Idris - Servant of Lord Elric

Aelgar - Market Trader

Ifan - Servant of Sir Pellinor

Enaid - Laundress

Eira - Kitchens

Ada - Barmaid

Elinor - Handmaiden of Lady Brunhilde

Rhiain - Laundress…

There are almost twenty other names on the list, and at first glance, they don’t seem to have anything in common: different occupations, different ages, and even different statuses. The only thing binding them together seems to be their sympathies. 

Arthur’s stomach sinks.

This may only be a list of suspects, and Arthur may have no solid proof of their conspiracy against the Crown, but the indication is clear. These beliefs are woven into the very fabric of Camelot, going beyond class and beyond backgrounds, not as uncommon as Arthur would have once thought. 

The names only raise more questions than they answer. How many of those living in Camelot truly believe in the laws they abide by? How many guards truly believe in the laws they enforce? How many nobles believe in the laws they write? There is no doubt in Arthur’s mind, either, that these beliefs go further than the names on the list. Why hasn’t anybody said anything before? Are they afraid, do they only see Arthur as the judge and jury of his father’s laws? 

Arthur purses his lips at that, the thought leaving a sour taste in his mouth. And once the doubt coalesces into shape, it refuses to budge. Is this what everybody thinks, too—friends and foes of Camelot alike? 

Arthur exhales audibly. Perhaps these are thoughts he can store away for later. He’ll have time to ruminate over them once Merlin is safely back in Camelot. He glances at the sun outside his window. Leon and his patrol still aren’t back yet. Arthur’s skin thrums with the urge to move and do something, like swing his sword and take Thomas’ head clean off. To rip Merlin out of their clutches and burn down the cell they kept him in. Arthur would warm himself in its flames. 

Arthur’s fingers tap an impatient rhythm upon his desk, mind racing through the different ways Leon’s patrol could have panned out. If there was any particular reason Leon was kept from returning to Camelot. Was one of the men in the party affiliated with Thomas? Did Thomas set up a perimeter and notice Leon’s party? Another day of this, and Arthur would send a search party out. Perhaps he’d skip a search party entirely and assemble an army instead, to storm the ruins once and for all. Raze it to the ground and ensure that there wouldn’t be a nest for whatever snakes lying in wait in Camelot to return to. 

Arthur rubs his face tiredly. Perhaps he ought to leave this task with Guinevere and Gaius; Gaius wasn’t exaggerating when he said that this was a long task. Besides, there isn’t much point in committing the names to memory when Arthur doesn’t know remotely who they are, or what they even look like. In the meantime, there is another record requiring his attention. It is one that Gaius and Geoffrey had painstakingly put together, one listing the noble families that were either banished or executed during the purge. 

It’s not a long list. All of the names contained within are unfamiliar to Arthur, which only goes to demonstrate how thoroughly they were scrubbed out of Camelot’s history. Arthur suppresses a shudder at the thought. It’s horrific enough to be banished, stripped out of one’s honours and titles. It’s another thing entirely for one’s family to be written out of history, erasing not only their future, but their past as well. The mere notion turns his stomach. It would be a dishonourable fate, worse even still than death. 

Arthur has always known, of course, that his father was a ruthless man. But it never occurred to him before that his father could be exceedingly cruel. Many would beg to differ—those who burned in the Purge and those who were left behind spring instantly to mind—but Uther has always said insisted the Purge was regrettably necessary. It was a bloodbath, but it cleansed Camelot of evil, paving the way for a new and safer Camelot to rise from its ashes. 

“Your mother never would have died, had magic been outlawed then,” Uther had told Arthur grimly one evening. “This way, son, we could make sure that nobody would ever die again as she did.”

Where magic is involved, Arthur once thought that Uther’s hatred of magic has always been on the extreme. Arthur had objected in private to some of the executions and raids, even. Later, losing his father and Morgana had changed that, and Arthur had understood where Uther was coming from. Now, though, with more evidence of Uther’s cruelty laid out on his desk, Arthur has a distinct feeling that perhaps there is more to the story than he was led to believe. 

Arthur’s line of thought was abruptly cut off by an impatient rapping on his door. He barely has the time to stand before it swings wide open.

“It’s Leon,” announces Gwaine. “He’s back.”

Chapter Text

“We found their base,” Leon opens without preamble. “You were correct, Sire. It’s the ruined citadel near Gorlois’ grave.”

Arthur sits up straight. “How many men?”

“The damage to the structure is quite extensive,” explains Leon. “At ground level, most of the ruins would provide no protection from the elements. The walls are overgrown with moss and ivy, the ceiling is caved in. If the ruins are to house men, I estimate it would provide shelter for 10, 15 at most.”

Arthur thinks of Merlin, slumped limply against the damp wall of his cell. He could hardly see anything of the room in his dream, but it would be fair to assume that wherever they kept Merlin, it was not above ground. “And underground?”

“We didn’t get close enough, Sire,” replies Leon apologetically. “But the ruins appear to be quite well-defended, as much as ruins could be defended. They had guards posted. We also noticed men patrolling the perimeter.”

“Did any of them notice you?”

“Not as far as we could tell, Sire.”

“Good,” nods Arthur grimly, lips pursed. He stands, glancing out of his window. It’s barely midday.

“One against four,” Gwaine notes, leaning back in his chair. He is tense, but Arthur can hear the eagerness behind his grim tone. “I like the sound of that.”

In this instance, Arthur is inclined to agree. He has been itching for a fight for days, as the knights he trained would testify, and facing off twenty men sounds like just what he needs to let off steam. It doesn’t even sound like the odds are particularly bad; they have certainly faced greater odds than this.

“And if they have magic?” Elyan raises a brow.

“It’s very likely that they do,” agrees Arthur. Revenge is a powerful enough motivation on its own, but Thomas’ end goal suggests that his motivation goes beyond simple revenge. If revenge was all they sought, they would have killed Merlin from the start. They would’ve targeted and killed the sons and daughters of the lords who supported Uther’s campaign. “Or at least, they know sorcerers who are currently in hiding, who would benefit from magic being allowed back into Camelot.”

“We must be prepared for all eventualities,” says Leon.

“How do you propose we do that?” drawls Gwaine. “Wave our sword at them?”

“It has served us well before,” Arthur shrugs, meeting Gwaine’s unimpressed look. “Don’t see why now would be any different.”

Gwaine opens his mouth to reply, but Arthur beats him to it. 

“It shouldn’t come to that,” Arthur adds, looking back out the window. The nights are drawing in and they wouldn’t have many hours of daylight left, but hanging back now is not an option. Not when he finally knows where Merlin is. “Our plan is to infiltrate the ruins and get Merlin out. The priority will be to get him back here in one piece. If we can do it without alerting them of our presence at all, that would be the ideal outcome.”

“Understood,” Gwaine nods sharply. “And the traitors?”

“If we don’t strike now, and strike hard, they can simply move their base of operations,” Leon points out. 

“Not before we take out a few of their men,” Gwaine grins, all teeth. “If not all of them.”

“Merlin is the only bargaining chip they have for the time being,” Arthur says. “With Merlin back in Camelot, they will lose their ability to negotiate terms.”

“They will have to regroup and come up with a different plan,” nods Leon. 

Arthur hums thoughtfully. Thomas has shown himself to be a man Arthur shouldn’t underestimate. He strategises, he plans ahead—there is every likelihood that they already have one. He glances up at Leon and orders, “ready the next patrol group. Once Thomas’ men scatter, have the men ready to pick them out.”

Leon bows. “At once, Sire.”

“Have the servants ready the horses,” he instructs Percival. “We are going hunting.” 

Guinevere and Gaius fill Arthur in while the rest of the knights head out to prepare.

“It is as we suspected, Sire. Most of the names on the list lost family or friends during the Purge.” Guinevere explains readily. “Alfrid wasn’t the only one who lost a wife. Ifan did as well. And not to mention that Ifan’s wife was a sister to Idris.“

“Half of Camelot lost friends and family during the Purge,” Gaius adds. “If Thomas is recruiting sympathisers from those who lost a loved one, he would have quite a large pool to recruit from.”

“And they are largely people whose movements go undetected,” continues Guinevere. “Nobles don’t tend to pay attention to the castle servants unless they want something. As long as we complete our work, it doesn’t matter what we do outside of it.”

Arthur bites down on a grimace. As much as he would like to deny it, he knows that what Guinevere said rings true. Before Merlin came along, Arthur could never have named any of the servants bringing his meals or cleaning his room. He would notice a pretty face standing out in a crowd once in a while, of course, but that’s as far as the attention would go. 

They could even have planned it all in the open, Arthur realises. And nobody would have paid much attention. Most of them were only peasants, after all. What damage could they possible do?

“Supporting magic, publicly or otherwise, is an act of treason,” Arthur muses out loud. “None would have dared voice their support unless they have been reassured that it was safe to do so.”

“There is safety in numbers,” Guinevere agrees gravely. 

“How would Thomas know who to recruit?” 

“Servants talk among themselves,” answers Guinevere. “Thomas wouldn’t have needed to recruit many people to begin with—each person pledging to his cause would know a number of people that they can recruit in turn.”

“And how come we haven’t heard of any of this before now?”

“You’ve seen the list, Arthur,” sighs Guinevere. “We think it may go all the way up—as far up as the smallfolk could go, that is.”

“They couldn’t have all said yes,” Arthur insists. “There must be those who disagreed with Thomas’ cause.”

Once upon a time, Arthur had thought that his father’s stance on magic was wildly popular, supported by the highborns and the smallfolk alike. That the Purge went largely unchallenged because people could see that it was a necessary evil, committed to protecting the kingdom from a more dangerous evil. It appears that he has been mistaken.

“Ah,” says Gaius. “I believe I can help with that question. With the other’s assistance, we were able to find hidden records of a Lord Peredur and Lady Morwenna of Highbridge. Early on in the Purge, they were banished alongside their children, Brighid and Thomas of Highbridge.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “So he was of noble blood.”

“Indeed, Sire,” Gaius intones. “He sought refuge in Wessex, who refused to ban magic when Uther decreed it. It was suspected that Brighid, Thomas’ sister, had magic.”

“It would explain why he was fiercely supportive of magic,” Arthur muses. “Do we know what happened to his sister?”

“Unfortunately not,” replies Gaius. “Technically speaking, Sire, we don’t even have any record of them ever living in Camelot.” Gaius pauses. “But it was thought that they went into exile with five carts’ worth of their most valuable possessions.”

“So they had gold to burn,” Arthur realises. “If someone they approached disagreed, Thomas had the wherewithal to buy their silence.”

“Not only that, Sire. Lord Peredur was a powerful man, and Highbridge is still a strategic seat on the border with Wessex.”

“He would have had powerful friends,” says Arthur. “But the seat now belongs to Lord Pellinor.“

“Ifan’s Lord,” Guinevere’s eyes widen. 

“Good work,” Arthur tells them. “But the rest can wait. For now, we have a cabbagehead to rescue.”

The pretence that this was nothing but a convivial hunting trip lasts only as far as Camelot’s outer gates. As soon as they speed up their horses and gallop into the woods beyond, the lighthearted chatter falls away into tense a silence. They have a long ride ahead of them, and it gives Arthur copious amounts of time to think. 

He used to think that his father’s reaction to magic was unreasonable—he’ll even allow that it was extreme. It never sat well with Arthur that the people of Camelot were executed in great numbers without a fair trial and that accusations would go unchallenged. Now, though, Arthur had grown to understand that his father’s views were born out of love for his land, a desire to protect his people from a corrupting force of evil. Magic only ever took and took from Arthur: first his mother, and then his sister, and then his father. He’s not going to let it take Merlin too. He thinks of the magical creatures they have defeated, the plotting sorcerers that swore bloody vengeance upon his kingdom. He thinks of their many, many attempts to tear the kingdom apart, and how many times they have come close. 

He thinks of what Gaius, Gwaine and Percival said about their encounters with magic. It feels like a lifetime ago now, but it’s constantly at the back of his mind like an itch he can’t quite scratch. They spoke of little, quotidian magics, used for something as mundane as laundry and keeping food from spoiling too soon. Arthur has never seen it in person, but he trusts them with his life. They have no reason to lie to him. 

But he trusts his father too. He had no reason to lie to Arthur, either. 

“Hate to hear what’s going through your head at the moment, Princess,” drawls Gwaine, who has somehow ridden next to Arthur without Arthur noticing.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Gwaine,” Arthur bites back without much heat.

Gwaine flicks his hair, batting his eyelashes. "You think I'm pretty?"

Arthur snorts. “Only tremendously annoying.”

“So I’ve been told,” Gwaine replies easily. “Now that we get the pleasantries out of the way, care to tell me what is truly on your mind?”

Arthur keeps his gaze on straight. 

“Come on,” Gwaine wheedles.

Arthur ignores him most resolutely. But Gwaine, like a persistent midge in the height of summer, firmly refuses to budge. Gwaine lowers his voice and whispers, “Is it Merlin? I wouldn’t worry. We’ll get our boy out in no time.”

Arthur bristles.

“Thought that would get your attention,” Gwaine chortles, taking a loud bite of his apple. “So?”

“So what?” Arthur exhales, aggravated, “it’s none of your business, Gwaine.”

“Fine, be that way,” Gwaine huffs, rolling his eyes. “It’s just that, I’d hate to explain to Merlin why—“

“During your travels, you mentioned that you came across harmless use of magic,” Arthur finally relents, only if it would shut Gwaine up. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not sure how much there is to elaborate,” replies Gwaine, brows furrowed.

“Indulge me.”

“Like you weren’t over-indulged already,” Gwaine snorts. “But if you must. It’s just as I said before—not every kingdom followed in King Uther’s footsteps. Some kingdoms have benefited from magic through various ways—healing failing crops, warding the castle walls, protective charms and amulets, healing potions.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "You know."

Arthur does not know, but he hears what Gwaine is saying loud and clear: some other kingdoms benefited from magic, and as such saw no reason to prosecute their people for having magic. 

“I’ve never seen it used in such a way.”

Gwaine shoots him a look that says, really? “No offence, Arthur, but what sorcerer would use their magic in front of Uther Pendragon’s son? Other than the ones intent on murdering you, that is.” Gwaine’s lips spread in a slow grin. “There was this girl I met in Orkney, once—“

Arthur falls silent, which Gwaine takes this as an opportunity to continue prattling on about the Orkney girl. 

He wants to say that he was unaware of the existence of good magic, harmless magic, but that is not true, is it? He has seen evidence of good magic in the light that guided him out of the caves of Balor, all those years ago. He saw it in the ghost of Merlin’s dead friend, who conjured up a storm in Ealdor to drive away the bandits threatening to raze his home to the ground. It all happened so long ago that Arthur could almost convince himself that they never happened, only a figment of his imagination, except that he remembers the sleepless nights that came after. He remembers staring at the canopy of his bed for hours, unsettled and uneasy, feeling like he was on the verge of something that would fundamentally change everything he thought he knew about the world. But before he could fall in, everything else happened—the undead knights, the dragon’s attack, losing Morgana. 

And at the end of the day, it comes to this: the scales do not balance.

“Don’t know why you asked me to indulge you if you weren’t listening,” complains Gwaine. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. He lets out a sigh. “There is much you haven’t seen, Princess. You’re missing out.”

“It’s beginning to feel that way,” Arthur admits quietly, far away from the ears of his other knights.

In a heartbeat, Gwaine’s easy demeanour falls away. He sounds almost sombre when he asks, “Arthur—if somebody was to come up to you and said that magic is not evil, what would you have said?”

That they’re out of their mind, Arthur’s mind supplies automatically. That there is no such thing as a good sorcerer, and that it’s treason even to suggest otherwise. It’s instinctual; the thought is so deeply ingrained in him, as much a part of his identity as being the King of Camelot. It’s one of the beliefs his kingdom is built upon, and if it’s not at all true—

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” replies Gwaine, reading his answer in Arthur’s expression.

Thomas wouldn’t succeed in forcing Arthur’s hand. Of this, Arthur is sure. But if he had sought to make Arthur question everything he thought he was unshakeably certain about, he has been successful.

The party rides hard, eager to cover as much distance as possible before the day is over. The hard pace they set, however, also means that they have to stop to water their horses before too long. 

Arthur draws to a halt, raising a hand signal for his knights to follow suit. “We’ll camp here for the night,” he decides, glancing up at the dying light. It’s as good a place to stop as any; an empty clearing not too far from a stream.

“We hardly covered any distance at all,” Gwaine protests loudly.

“We can continue at first light,” says Arthur. Gwaine is not wrong—they’ve barely ridden three hours, but the sun has set and they are losing light very quickly. The night promises to be an overcast one, heavy clouds hanging thick to cover the moonlight. As much as Arthur is keen to continue, Leon also looks like he is about to fall off his horse. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

They build the camp in relative silence, with only the sounds of the woods to keep them company. There is apprehension in the air; they all know that this is the calm before the storm.

“Not a bad effort, Perce,” says Gwaine, whose nose is buried in his bowl of stew. “Not as good as Merlin’s, though.”  

Percival lobs a rabbit bone at Gwaine’s head, which Gwaine dodges easily. 

“Oi, watch it!” Gwaine cries. “I just washed my hair the other day.”

“Feel free to cook your own dinner next time, then,” mutters Percival without heat. “See how well you’d fare.”

Arthur smiles, the tiniest bit of tension bleeding from his shoulders. He looks around the camp at his most trusted friends and doesn’t quell the sense of optimism that bursts forth—a rescue mission is nothing they haven’t done before, and there are no better men to do it with.

They are getting Merlin back. There is no alternative.

Chapter Text

Arthur doesn’t know how long he stays awake that night, just staring at the fabric of his tent. A thousand thoughts race through his mind. 

He thinks about what Gwaine said about the way magic is used outside of Camelot’s borders. He thinks about the history of Camelot his father tried to erase. He’s had time to mull it over, these past few days, and the conclusion seems inevitable and entirely terrifying—what if Arthur was wrong about magic? What if his knowledge of the world was built upon nothing but lies? 

Arthur always thought his father was a brave man, a strong king ready to make difficult choices where others would falter. He always said that the lives lost during the Purge were a necessary sacrifice to save the kingdom from ruin. But if magic had thrived at the heart of Camelot, as Gaius and Geoffrey said, then surely Uther knew that not all magic was evil? 

Arthur’s stomach churns. All his life, he had followed his father’s orders without question. If Uther was wrong about magic, then all those lives lost at the Purge were lost for nothing. The hundreds who have met their end at the tip of Arthur’s sword may well have been innocent. All the camps he raided—the children he left without parents, without homes—

But why would his father lie? 

All those accusations Camelot’s enemies levelled at Uther over the years—were they right? 

Did Morgause have a point, did Morgana?

Arthur sits up, trying to stave off his nausea. If his father was wrong about magic, then there was no sufficient explanation that could explain away his sins. If not all magic was evil, then the simple possession of magic shouldn’t warrant an execution. There could be no justification for what his father did. 

Magic killed your mother, said a voice in the back of his head. 

Or did it? Could that be another thing his father lied about?

Arthur takes a deep breath, and then another. He wonders what Merlin thinks about the situation. Not for the first time, Merlin makes his absence keenly felt.

It’s the worst possible time to have an epiphany, Arthur realises. They are going on a rescue mission first thing in the morning and distraction is something he can ill afford. So he lies back down and closes his eyes, forcing himself to think about their mission instead. 

He’ll see Merlin again tomorrow. And he’ll bring Merlin home, just as he promised. 

“Do you reckon any of them will have magic?”

“The ruins appeared quite badly damaged,” says Leon. “If they had magic to fix it, I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”

“That could be merely an illusion, if they had sorcerers,” Gwaine points out. “It would prevent curious eyes from wandering too close.”

“Can they do that?”

“If the sorcerer is powerful enough, sure.”

Percival sighs heavily. “It can’t ever be straightforward, can it.”

“So you’re saying the ruins could shelter more men than it appears?”

“I imagine it would take some powerful enchantments,” replies Gwaine. “I doubt a sorcerer that powerful would be easy to find.”

“Thomas is of noble blood,” Arthur tells them. “His father was Lord of Highbridge. He would know people.”

Leon turns to face Arthur, eyes wide. “Lord Pellinor’s seat.”

Arthur nods. “Gaius found records of his family being sent into exile during the early days of the Purge,” he adds. “There were rumours of his sister being a witch.”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow. “Were you planning on telling us?”

Arthur levels him with a nonplussed look. “I just did.”

Gwaine makes a disgusted noise from the back of his throat.

“If he had gold, then he could buy men,” says Elyan. “We might be looking at mercenaries in addition to men who are loyal to his cause.”

“The Purge was a long time ago,” counters Gwaine. “Any noble used to a life of luxury would have easily squandered carts worth of gold in a matter of weeks. They wouldn’t know the first thing about earning it back.”

“Unless they managed to find refuge outside the kingdom.“

Arthur lets his knights theorise on, their voices fading slowly into the background. There is much they still don’t know about Thomas, sure. But so far, nothing they have learned about him has genuinely, tangibly helped, either. They might as well entered blind, as blind as they were when they first met Thomas. 

He wonders if Merlin will forgive him for not rescuing him sooner. 

The citadel, once they arrive, is more of a ruin than Arthur remembers. There is no sign of the guards Leon mentioned patrolling the perimeter, allowing them to enter unimpeded. 

“Well, that was easy,” Gwaine whispers the moment they breach the perimeter. 

“Shut up,” hisses Percival. 

As if on cue, guards pop up from around the corner, eyes widening with alarm upon spotting Arthur’s contingent. They freeze for the briefest moment, mouths opening to shout a warning. Percival surges forth without hesitation, cutting them down and silencing them at once. He pats them both down and finds a set of keys, which he tosses to Arthur. 

“Go find him,” Gwaine whispers, drawing out his sword silently and exchanging a glance with Percival and Elyan. “We’ll ensure your exit is clear and take down as many as we can.”

They split into two groups, with Leon trailing behind Arthur. 

Entering the dungeon is like stepping into a dream. Arthur knows where he is going, he knows all the nooks and crannies of that thrice-damned place—he was here every time he closed his eyes. He lets his instincts take over, his legs moving even before he knew where he was going. 

It takes some time for Arthur’s eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they do, they are drawn to Merlin almost immediately. Even in the near-absence of light, even without being able to fully make out the shape of Merlin, Arthur knows Merlin. And right now, Merlin is lying with his back towards them, too still for Arthur’s comfort. 

“Merlin,” Arthur calls, all caution thrown into the wind. He couldn’t not. Sod Thomas. Sod the whole wretched cabal. Arthur runs towards Merlin. If Merlin is dead— “Merlin!” 

The other man doesn’t stir. Arthur breaks into a run, the key to the cell clenched tightly in his palm. If it wasn’t for his gloves, he is sure the metal would have cut into the flesh. Arthur can hear his own heartbeat, his own ragged breathing echoing in his ears. He is almost blind with fear, its taste acidic against the back of his throat. He fumbles the key with uncharacteristic clumsiness, barely managing to get the key in the lock. Throughout it all, Merlin is still, too still, and there is nothing to suggest that he is aware of Arthur’s arrival at all.

When he finally manages to open the gate to the cell, he rushes to Merlin’s side, crouching down to turn him over. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath when he sees that Merlin’s eyes are open, unseeing. There is a trail of white foam dribbling out of Merlin’s mouth, and he doesn’t have to be the Court Physician to be able to tell that Merlin has been poisoned. 

“No,” Arthur exhales. He cannot be too late. Merlin can’t already be dead. “No, Merlin—“

It doesn’t make sense.

Arthur takes off his glove and presses trembling fingers against Merlin’s neck, desperate to find a pulse. It takes several goes, but Arthur finds it eventually: a slow but reassuring rhythm under his fingertips.

Before he can let out a sigh of relief, Gwaine rushes in, looking grim. “They’re coming,” he pants. “We need to go.”

“I thought you were going to ensure our exit is clear!”

“Well, didn’t happen,” he wheezes. “One of them managed to shout a warning, now the rest of them are coming.”

“They’ve chained him to the wall,” Leon tells Gwaine, sounding a bit sick. 

“Well, unchain him,” replies Gwaine impatiently. “We don’t have much time.” 

“Step back,” commands Arthur. His men oblige, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate when he swings his sword down, striking Merlin’s chains. It shouldn’t work—it was a manoeuvre borne out of desperation more than logic—but it does, and Merlin’s chains break with a shower of sparks and a loud clatter. Arthur scoops Merlin up easily and swings him over his shoulder. Merlin is worryingly light, Arthur notes, but he’ll add it to the list of things he’ll worry himself about once they get to safety.

“How many men?” 

“Percival, Gwaine and I took down two each,” replies Elyan. “But there’s still more to come.”

“We can take them down,” Leon turns to Arthur. “Ensure that there is no base for Thomas’ men to return to.”

“They’ve poisoned him,” the words burn their way out of Arthur’s mouth, past the throat choked closed with paralysing fear. He can’t think past it. “We need to—“ he clears his throat. “We need to get him to Camelot, now.”

“Okay,” Gwaine nods furiously. “Best start running, then.” 

Unfortunately, and much like the way it tends to go, they don’t get too far. By the time they get to the dungeon entrance, Thomas was already waiting for them, along with two goons behind him. 

They stop. 

“That’s enough, King Arthur,” Thomas says calmly. “Put him down. He won’t survive the journey back to Camelot.”

Chapter Text

Arthur sets Merlin down gently and raises his sword, its glinting tip pointing towards Thomas. “You poisoned him—“

Thomas doesn’t have the grace to look even the slightest bit guilty. “I did,” he agrees easily. He produces a small glass vial from his pocket. “I also have the antidote. Did you think that we wouldn’t have contingency plans?” He slips the vial back into his pocket with a self-satisfied look. “You can kill us, my Lord, and you will never know what poison we used. Merlin won’t make it back into Camelot. We’ll be exactly where we were in the beginning, except that your friend will be dead.”

“Or we can pry it from your cold, dead hands,” mutters Gwaine with venom.

Thomas raises an eyebrow in challenge and takes the vial back out, dangling it between his thumb and his forefinger. “Or I can drop this now, and Merlin will die before you can leave this place.”

Arthur’s eyes dart between the vial and the floor. The glass of the vial appears extremely fine, and no doubt that it will smash upon impact.

“How do we know that it’s the real antidote?” asks Leon. “That vial could contain anything.”

“Why would I lie?” Thomas rolls his eyes impatiently. “Merlin is no use to me dead.” He pops the vial back into his pocket, patting his chest with a hand for good measure. “Return him to us,” he goads. There is a contemptible glint in his eyes that Arthur abhors. “We’ll administer the antidote immediately. We’ll even let you walk back into Camelot so you can continue working on repealing the ban.”

But Arthur is done playing Thomas’ games. He is not leaving Merlin here any second longer. And he’s not going to lose Merlin, either. He adjusts his grip on his sword and charges. 

One of Thomas’ goons raises a hand, pushing Arthur back with a poorly-aimed fireball that Arthur easily dodges. 

“Did you think that we made our demands for a laugh?” the goon hisses, yellow teeth bared in a grimace. “We just wanted to live our lives and be left alone.”

“Last chance, King Arthur,” Thomas repeats. “We both know that you are not equipped to fight with magic. Let us stop before any more blood is spilt.”

Arthur regards them with cool eyes, trying to make himself look as though he is considering the offer. Thomas may have some magic on his side, but Arthur’s men still outnumber Thomas’ five to three. And the knights aren’t useless at fighting, either. 

He’ll take his chances. 

The fight that ensues is fierce. Thomas, for his part, doesn’t seem to have any magic of his own, preferring to fight with two short daggers while his more magically blessed goons take on Arthur’s knights and occasionally throw an errant fireball Arthur's way. Despite having the upper hand in terms of manpower, the fight is more balanced than Arthur would care to admit. Thomas clearly has had some training—his style may not be one Arthur recognises, but it’s rather effective in holding Arthur off.

“I see the bards aren’t exaggerating when they speak of your prowess with a sword, My Lord,” Thomas grins, but Arthur can hear the tiredness beginning to seep in Thomas’ voice, no matter how much he tries to control his breaths. Arthur narrows his eyes and strikes again. He dodges, parries, thrusts—it’s all second nature. It’s rhythm Arthur has known since he was old enough to stand, but it’s difficult to focus on the fight when the dread is eating him up alive. The longer the fight goes on, the closer Merlin creeps to death. Who knows how much damage the poison has already done?

After pressing and pressing, Arthur finally lands a blow in and sends Thomas flying. Between the clanging of metal, there was a ringing smash. Arthur inhales sharply, stomach sinking. 

“No,” he hears someone whisper.

The antidote. 

Time slows as he watches wetness spreading from Thomas’ chest.

“Oh, well,” sighs Thomas, getting up with a grimace. “Might as well double down, then.”

Arthur is apoplectic. There is burning hatred coursing in his veins, filling every inch of him with white-hot rage. But far from steadying his grip on his sword and making his strikes deadlier, his fury only makes him careless. Thomas ducks and dodges Arthur’s attacks, lips curling with nasty glee, heartened by the missteps Arthur makes in his haste. Arthur keeps trying to push, but Thomas and his goons are now pushing back, clearly emboldened. Arthur and his knights may be better skilled, better disciplined, but knowing what the loss of the antidote means for Merlin has thrown their focus into disarray. It certainly doesn’t help that Goon Number One is also right: Camelot’s knights are woefully equipped for fighting magic.

They keep getting pushed back and back, further away from their exit and deeper into the dungeons. Later, he can blame it on being distracted, on being too consumed with fury to control his attack. For now, it’s beginning to look a bit desperate. He is rather hoping that they will tire sooner rather than later, but it hasn’t happened yet, and it is showing no signs of happening.

There is a barely-restrained delight in Thomas' eyes when he gloats, “should’ve just returned him to us, shouldn’t you.” There is blood dripping from his temple from when Arthur managed to get a hit in, and he is favouring one arm over the other now, but he is smiling from ear to ear. “Could’ve saved all this, and you could’ve just returned to Camelot. Merlin would’ve had his antidote and be well on his way to recovery. He wouldn’t be lying on the ground, choking for breath. Hell, we wouldn’t have poisoned him if you hadn’t come—”

Before Arthur could bite out a scathing response, a voice says, ice-cold and with all the power in the world, “that’s enough, Thomas.”

Arthur’s head whips towards the source of the voice. He knows that voice—he knows it so well. His voice is always all Arthur can hear when he lies awake at night. Now, it makes Arthur’s hair stand on end. 

In the heat of the fight, Arthur has missed the fact that Merlin is no longer unconscious. Merlin is standing, eyes ablaze, wind whipping unnaturally around him as he raises a hand that crackles with thunder. The iron collar that was wrapped around his neck lies at his feet, broken in half.

“Emrys,” Thomas breathes, taking an instinctual step back. Is that fear or reverence that Arthur can hear in his voice? “You have risen.”

“No thanks to you,” Merlin spits in return. He walks slowly, purposefully, towards Thomas, the air thrumming with energy. The fight dwindles to a stop around them, Arthur notes. From the corner of his eye, he can see Goon Number One dropping to his knees, sword clattering to the ground. 

“You are making a dangerous mistake, Emrys,” says Thomas slowly, but Arthur can hear the hitch of fear in his voice. “Do you think your king will take you back, knowing how you lied to him for years?"

Merlin’s eyes flicker to meet Arthur’s. For that one, terrifying moment, Arthur sees nothing of the Merlin he knows there. Merlin’s eyes are completely awash with gold, and it’s as if the blue Arthur would know anywhere never existed.

“Do you think your friends will welcome you home?” Thomas presses. “Do you think you still have a home, now that they’ve seen the truth of what you are?”

“Magic is punishable by death in Camelot,” adds Goon Number One. He glances at Arthur and his knights, disgust clear in his disdainful gaze. “It doesn’t matter if you’re using it to save their lives. They will see you burn before—“

“Enough!” cries Merlin, eyebrows pinched together in a pained expression. With a wave of his hand, he flings Goon Number One against the stone wall. His skull makes a sickening crack upon impact, and he slides down limply.

“Emrys,” Thomas tries again. “Can’t you see what we’re trying to do? It’s unjust that we are slaughtered simply for existing—surely you must agree. We’re simply trying to make lives better for our kin.”

Merlin turns his attention to Thomas, who withers under his livid gaze. Merlin raises a hand and curls his fingers, and Thomas is pushed up against the wall, gasping and clutching at his scrawny neck.

“You have your men beat me until I’m unconscious,” Merlin hisses furiously. “And once I am conscious, they do it all over again. You put things in the water, knowing full well that I have no choice but to drink it and poison myself.” Merlin curls his fingers tighter, and Thomas gasps again, wheezing.

He’s choking, Arthur realises with horror. Merlin is choking Thomas without laying a hand on him.

But Merlin isn’t done. 

“You cut me off from my magic—the magic I was born with and never chose to have,” he continues, furious tears involuntarily leaking from his eyes. “Don’t think, for one second, that you’re above the worst of men.”

Arthur detects movements from his peripheral vision. Goon Number Two, who has gone relatively unnoticed thus far, is taking this opportunity to creep about and throw his knife at Merlin’s back. Before Arthur could move and intervene, however, Merlin’s eyes flash, and the knife clatters uselessly to the ground. Without even bothering to look, Merlin waves his free hand and slams Goon Number Two against the far wall. He slides down the wall, head lolling limply against his shoulder.

“You’re finished, Thomas.”

Thomas’ eyes roll back into his head as he begins to slip unconscious, but not before he gasps out, “so are you.”

It's nothing less than what Thomas deserves, Arthur thinks savagely. It's not as if he hasn't dreamt of snapping Thomas' scrawny neck since day one. And after all they did to him, Merlin has more than earned the right to deliver that justice. Yet a part of Arthur finds all this incomprehensibly wrong. This isn't Merlin.

Arthur finally finds his voice. “Merlin,” it comes up a stunned, feeble rasp. He clears his throat and tries again. “Merlin, that’s enough.”

Merlin flinches as if struck. He lets go, and Thomas crumples to the floor in an undignified heap.

Finally, slowly, Merlin turns to face Arthur. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” he whispers. He’s swaying unsteadily on his feet as he appears to come back to himself. His eyes return to the familiar blue, crackling lightning fades from his fingertips. Arthur watches as realisation begins to set in. Merlin looks at Arthur helplessly, breaths growing shorter and shorter as panic threatens to drown him.

Arthur catches him before he could fall. “It’s alright,” he reassures, mustering as much calm as he can even as his stomach churns with revelation. “It’s alright, Merlin. You’re safe now.” 

Merlin’s eyes are wide with fear, darting quickly side-to-side as if already working to find an escape. He glances at Arthur, to the equally stunned knights, and then back at Arthur again. “I’m sorry,” he rasps again. He struggles weakly against Arthur’s hold, clearly desperate to run and hide, away from Arthur and into safety. But Merlin has been beaten for days, and the imprisonment has taken a heavy toll on his body. 

Arthur tightens his hold around Merlin even as he tries to make himself look less menacing. “Shh, you’re safe now,” he murmurs again, rubbing soothing circles on Merlin’s back. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s seen Gaius do it to his patients. Merlin is trembling, Arthur notes. Whether it’s exhaustion, fear, or simply pure adrenaline, Arthur cannot tell. He lowers his voice and repeats, “you’re safe, Merlin. It’s over.”

After a few terse minutes, Merlin finally sags in Arthur’s arms, muscles relaxing as tension bleeds from his spine. “Okay,” he exhales shakily. “Okay.”

Then he slips back into unconsciousness.

Arthur looks up to his knights—his trusted friends—and finds the same question reflected back in their eyes: what the hell just happened?

“Well, then,” says Gwaine with an abundance of forced levity. “At least that’s sorted.” 

Chapter Text

Leon is the first to break the stunned silence. “Merlin has magic,” he says faintly, disbelievingly. He looks as though he needs to sit down; he’s not the only one. 

“Seems that way,” nods Elyan, whose lips are pursed tight.

At least that confirms that what Arthur saw was true. He looks around the room, at the bodies of the two burly goons Merlin took out with an effortless wave of his hand. At Thomas, who is lying motionless on the floor. His knights turn to look at Arthur for guidance, but Arthur is as aghast and just as stupefied as the rest of them.

Magic. Merlin. The two don’t seem to mesh, in any way, whatsoever. The thought of Merlin having magic would have made him laugh in sheer ludicrousness. It has never once crossed Arthur’s mind—after all, why would it? What reason does Arthur have to doubt Merlin? Not too long ago, Arthur would have even said that Merlin is one of the truest men Arthur has ever known. That he knows Merlin inside out, just as Merlin knows him. It’s difficult to conceive how his world has been turned upside down in the span of one morning. How can so much change so quickly?

“Check if he’s dead,” Arthur orders through gritted teeth, vaguely gesticulating at Thomas’ prone body. He can hear his own rough voice, he can move his limbs with no issue, but it’s as though he is not fully present within his body. He’s here; he knows he is, but his head is heavy with fog and his ears full of cotton. He’s drifting and untethered, only anchored by Merlin’s weight in his arms. It’s the most peculiar feeling.

He unwraps his arms around Merlin, gentle as anything, because even after all the revelations of the day, he still cannot bear the thought of hurting Merlin. He clenches his fingers into a fist and unclenches again. Swallows against the bitterness in the back of his throat, heart pounding like a war drum. 

Leon crouches next to Thomas, holding out two fingers to feel for signs of life. “He’s alive,” he announces tersely. “His pulse is faint, but it’s there.” 

Had Arthur known Thomas before all this, he might have felt pity. It’s a terrible fate, to be sent away from his home and all he has ever known, forced to live in shame because of the sins his father committed. Now, though, it’s impossible to see Thomas past his crimes. He looks at Thomas and feels nothing less than pure contempt.

A tempting thought blooms, unbidden: he could kill Thomas then and there. It’s what he wanted ever since Thomas took Merlin. Thomas wouldn’t be able to resist and fight back. He would have no opportunity to defend himself, nor any opportunity to use his words and twist Merlin any more than he already has. 

And then, as quickly as the thought appears, a rush of shame that stays his hand. It is cowardly to kill a defenceless man who is already down, no matter his crime. Arthur knows this. He would never be able to live with the dishonour. But gods help him, it would be so easy.

“Bind him and gag him,” commands Arthur. “We’ll bring him back to Camelot, where he will be tried and faced with justice. Besides, he is more valuable to us alive.” He tells himself that it’s the right thing to do and adds grimly, “I’m sure one or two of his followers would be keen to break him out of our dungeons, or just appreciate the opportunity to speak to him.”

Leon makes quick work of tying Thomas’ wrists behind his back. Without looking up at Arthur, Leon asks again. “What now, Sire?” he says tightly. “The sorcerer was right—magic is outlawed in Camelot.”

The moment Leon’s words leave his mouth, Gwaine’s eyes flash with challenge. “You cannot be serious,” he demands before Arthur can say anything. “Merlin just saved our lives!”

Did he? 

They were losing ground, sure, retreating further into the dungeons as opposed to getting out, but the fight wasn’t irreversibly lost. They still could have fought it, and while the odds weren’t the greatest, there was still a chance they could have won. Thomas and his men would have tired, eventually. Merlin, who urgently needed a physician’s intervention, was the one who needed the fight to end then and there.

It doesn’t change the fact that Merlin finished the fight and prevented a loss of life on Camelot’s side. It’s something for which Arthur is grateful. 

But if Merlin had magic all along, why hadn’t he used it to escape? Why let them torture him when he could have ended their lives with such ease? There was the cold iron collar, of course—a contraption his father frequently used during the Purge. But Merlin managed to break free, and now the collar lies broken at his feet.

“I know what he did—”

“Do you?” Gwaine narrows his eyes. “Because to me, it looks like Merlin defeated those who committed treason against Camelot and protected the lives of her defenders.”

“Using magic, which is punishable by death under Camelot’s laws,” Leon insists, but he looks pained. “I’m fully aware of what he did, Gwaine. He is my friend too, but this is bigger than Merlin alone.”

“We don’t have time for this,” interrupts Percival, frowning. “He’s dying. We need to get him back to Camelot.”

“Is he, still?” wonders Elyan aloud. There is no malice in his tone, only curiosity. And to be fair to him, Merlin seemed very much alive and very powerful not too long ago. 

“He’s still badly injured,” Arthur says quietly. Merlin is out cold now. But between the torture, the starvation, the poison and the exhaustion, no doubt Merlin still requires Gaius’ immediate attention. Arthur manoeuvres him carefully, carrying him over his shoulder. Clad only in dirty, threadbare clothes, Arthur can feel every jut of Merlin’s bones. He thinks about how fiercely Merlin would have protested if only he was awake. Despite the discovery of Merlin’s magic and the realisation that Merlin has lied for years, the thought still tugs at his lips with the ghost of a smile. The warmth that bubbles up his chest is still one of fondness. “He needs Gaius.”

Gwaine turns to look at Arthur, studying his expression with searching eyes. “And after that?”

Arthur fights the urge to bristle under Gwaine’s suspicion and considers his answer carefully. 

Once upon a time, Merlin entered his chambers and told him that he must learn to listen as well as he fights. Arthur remembers rolling his eyes, asking if Merlin had any other pointers. Arthur remembers feeling perplexed at the time, taken aback and left unsure of where the conversation was going. It was an awfully audacious thing for a servant to say to his prince. He remembers thinking that Merlin’s tongue will cost him his life, someday.

Now, Arthur would eat his own boot before admitting it out loud, but Merlin was right. 

That is the Merlin Arthur thought he knew: honest. Wise. Unafraid to say what Arthur needs to hear, no matter their difference in stations. That is the Merlin Arthur thinks about most fondly, the one he trusts with his life. How much of that Merlin is a lie? The thought alone is sharp and piercing. It will leave him reeling later, but for now, Arthur only feels cold. 

Leon is right. Magic is not only outlawed in Camelot; it is punishable by death. Merlin isn’t—and shouldn’t be—above the law. And neither is Arthur. It doesn’t matter what Arthur feels for Merlin, it never does; the kingdom comes first, always. 

But Gwaine is also right. Merlin fought on Arthur’s side to defeat fellow magic users. He won their fight for them. It is not right for Arthur to repay the favour with fire. He stops himself from thinking about anything else. There will be time for that later, when Merlin is safely out of danger. 

There are too many things left unanswered. He makes his decision.

“Then I will listen to what he has to say.” 

The ride back passes in a daze, Arthur’s thoughts a confusing web of questions he’s too numb to unravel. He doesn’t know if he’s furious or relieved or hurt, lost in a confusing swirl of everything all at once. 

In a detached way, he knows how he should react. He should be enraged, he should feel betrayed. Merlin has lied to him for years—who knows what else he has lied about? He has been a good friend to Arthur, but what if it was all a ploy to gain Arthur’s trust? What if he was simply biding his time, waiting to strike Camelot when she is at her weakest?

It’s a preposterous thought. Arthur realises this as soon as the thought formed in his head, in a voice that sounds an awful lot like his father. Merlin has been a steadfast presence by Arthur’s side, fighting his corner even when it felt like nobody else was. He has seen Arthur at his worst, has stuck by Arthur’s side when Morgana took over Camelot and declared herself queen. Why would Merlin stay then, if he was not completely loyal?

Merlin even fought against his own kin—sorcerers and loyalists who fought for the right to live without fear. If Thomas got what he set out to achieve, Merlin only stands to benefit. He wouldn’t have to hide his true self anymore. 

One could argue that Merlin was in on it from the start. That he was only kidnapped because he allowed himself to be kidnapped. Arthur can certainly see some of his councillors tabling the idea. Arthur isn’t particularly concerned about them—one look at Merlin’s injuries is all that it takes to dismiss the argument as completely asinine. 

Gwaine chooses that exact moment to approach Arthur, interrupting his line of thought. 

“I understand that you probably wish to be left alone,” he says. His face is stony and his eyes unreadable, all signs of laughter gone from his eyes. Arthur suddenly remembers that Gwaine’s father was a nobleman. “But I’m afraid I must ask. What are you planning to do with Merlin when we get back to Camelot?”

“I gave you my word that I will give Merlin the opportunity to defend himself,” Arthur sighs. Under normal conditions, he would have snapped. The day’s ordeal has sapped his strength, leaving him drained. “I suppose it hinges upon what Merlin has to say.”

“I appreciate that,” Gwaine nods. Arthur has never seen him look so severe. “But Merlin would never lift a finger against Camelot. You must know this.”

Arthur never thought Merlin was capable of hiding another part of himself, either. He always thought that Merlin was a terrible liar. Yet here they are. 

“Did you know?” asks Arthur. “Did you know about his magic?”

“I didn’t,” Gwaine admits. “I always thought that there was something special about him. But I didn’t expect it to be this.”

Arthur hesitates before deciding to ask, “and it doesn't bother you?”

“Not really,” Gwaine shrugs easily. “As I said, I’ve seen magic used for all sorts of things. The magic doesn’t bother me. And—“ he huffs. “Well. I understand why he couldn’t tell the truth.” He peers at Arthur curiously. “Do you really think that he would tell me, when he can’t even tell you?”

“I don’t know what to think,” snaps Arthur. It stings, knowing that Merlin had been lying to him since the day they met. But as much as Arthur wishes he hadn’t, he, too, understands why Merlin did it. “I can’t put him above Camelot’s laws.”

“He knows that, I’m sure,” replies Gwaine. “You know what he’s like. He would never want to put you in that position.” He straightens up, meeting Arthur’s eyes head-on. “The reason why I’m bringing this up again is that I want you to know that I won’t let you harm him,” he says coolly, calmly, as though he isn’t breaking his Knight’s Oath and committing treason by threatening the king of Camelot. “If your intention is to burn him at the stake after granting him a hearing, it’s best that I take him now. We’ll ride towards the border and leave Camelot at once—“

“Which part of me saying we need to bring him home so Gaius can heal him makes you think that I have any intention of executing him?” Arthur lashes out, suddenly furious.

But Gwaine only nods, satisfied. Whatever he was searching for in Arthur’s expression, he seems to have found it. “Good to know where you stand, Sire,” he bows his head, leaving without so much as a by-your-leave before Arthur can grace him with a response.

Leon is next to approach him by the stream, when they take a short rest to water the horses. Arthur doesn’t know what it is about him that makes his knights think that he wishes to be approached, but he must be radiating a welcoming air that simply beckons people over for a chat.

Leon remains silent for a while, focusing his attention instead on filling up his water skin.

“What is it?” Arthur bites out impatiently, when the silence becomes stifling. 

“Oh, nothing,” Leon replies. “Just thought you could use some company.” He rushes to add, “although I wouldn’t blame you if you wish to have time alone to think. It can’t be easy.”

Arthur deflates at once. “No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

Leon clears his throat. “Arthur, I have known you since you were only a boy,” he says, faffing further with his water skin. “In all the years I have known you, I’ve never seen you more at ease than when Merlin is by your side.”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. Whatever he thought Leon was going to say, it wasn’t this. 

“He’s been a good friend to you,” Leon continues. “To all of us, really.” 

“He has.” Arthur looks away. “What do you think I should do?” It’s a cry for help if there ever was one. 

“I can’t tell you that,” Leon smiles sadly. “But I have faith that you will do what’s right. Not only for the kingdom, for him too.”

“You’re sounding like him now,” protests Arthur. 

Leon laughs, tilting his head in acknowledgement. “Sometimes, he does have a point.”

Minutes pass in companionable silence. It’s Arthur’s turn to faff with his water skin. “I have been thinking about the laws,” he admits. “I have come to the conclusion that my father was wrong about magic.”

Leon doesn’t appear genuinely surprised, but he politely raises his eyebrows. Arthur snorts at the effort.

“I know that we’ve had our fair share fighting magic, and that sorcerers can be dangerous,” Arthur exhales. “But the law should always fit the crime, and it is unjust that simple possession or knowledge of magic should warrant an execution.”

“And this has nothing to do with a certain servant who used his magic to fight our enemies?” Leon teases, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Perish the thought,” Arthur deadpans. 

“I’m glad,” Leon admits with a smile. “Because that is also my belief.”

Throughout their ride back, Merlin wakes only once, late into the night and well after they’ve set up camp. His eyes fly open wide and he gasps for breath, again and again, horrible wheezing noises emanating from his throat.

Arthur is by his side at once, calling his name. Merlin doesn’t seem to hear him; he’s clawing at his neck as though he’s choking for air. Arthur rolls Merlin over to his hands and knees and rubs the back of his neck as Merlin retches and retches. He’s shaking all over, cold sweat running down his temple. 

“You’re alright,” Arthur murmurs gently. “You’re alright. You’re safe now.” His eyes prickle with heat—gods, when will all this end? “They can’t touch you anymore.”

Merlin makes a noise in the back of his throat. It’s all the warning Arthur gets before he leans away from Arthur and vomits all over. Arthur tries not to flinch and averts his eyes as Merlin empties his stomach, wordlessly handing Merlin his skin of water once he is done.

Merlin takes it gratefully. Arthur can’t help but notice the blue of his eyes.

“Don’t tell him,” Merlin rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are glazed over, unfocussed, and he’s looking straight past Arthur when he clarifies, “don’t tell Arthur. You can’t tell Arthur.”

Arthur is silent for a moment, steeling himself, but his voice still comes out with a tremble when he asks, “why not?” He clears his throat, studying Merlin’s face. “Don’t you think he deserves to know?”

Merlin’s face is already so ashen, yet somehow Arthur’s words have succeeded in draining the colour from his cheeks even further. In his delirium, Merlin seems to have forgotten the events of the past day, where he already blatantly used magic in front of Arthur. 

“You mustn’t,” Merlin pleads again, his voice high with panic. 

Arthur looks into Merlin’s eyes and sees the fear he had hoped he imagined. It’s the same fear he thought he saw in Merlin’s eyes after he realised that Arthur had learned the truth. 

If Arthur wasn’t sure about his decision to repeal the death penalty before, he certainly is now.

Arthur swallows against the bile that rises in the back of his throat and forces the words out. “Do you really think that he would hurt you?”

Is that what Merlin truly thinks of him after everything they have been through?

“Please,” Merlin whispers. There is panic etched deep in his furrowed brows, desperation in the tears glimmering in his eyes. “He can’t know.”

“He will never hurt you. You must know that.”

“How would you know?”

Arthur wonders, absently, who Merlin has confused him with. “I just do,” he promises, with as much conviction as he can muster. “I swear to you that he won’t care.” 

He’s just glad that you’re alive, Arthur doesn’t say. That you’re finally coming home, and things will be right once again. 

Merlin falls quiet, but the quiet doesn’t last long. “Are you going to tell him?” Merlin asks again resignedly. He looks as though he is already standing at the gallows.

Arthur looks away. He can’t bear to look at the expression on Merlin's face.

There is a dull ache spreading from Arthur’s chest to the tips of his fingers, heavy and suffocating that he can’t feel anything else. He wonders what he has done in the past to make Merlin so afraid of him. Never in his wildest dreams could he ever imagine this.

There are questions burning in Arthur’s mind, but there wouldn’t be much point in trying to get some answers out of Merlin. Not when he’s so clearly out of it. Not when he can’t even recognise Arthur. 

Arthur nods eventually. “Very well,” he concedes, tasting ash in his tongue. “I won’t.”

He stands and walks away. Takes a deep breath to steady himself, willing tears not to leak from his eyes.

Chapter Text

Arthur wonders, wryly, when he last had a full night’s sleep. The skies are clear, and he stares at the stars glittering behind wisps of cloud until his eyes begin to water. He blinks. It is well after his watch ended, yet sleep seems to evade him again. He inhales deeply, counts to ten, and exhales again. It’s something Gaius taught him when he was a young lad, too nervous before his first patrol and too stubborn to admit it. 

There is a weight firmly lodged in his chest that he can’t seem to shake. It makes itself known every time he draws a breath. No matter how many deep breaths he takes, no matter how many times he counts to ten, the tension stubbornly refuses to melt. He twists his mother’s ring around his thumb, but even that simple gesture fails to bring any comfort. He closes his eyes and sees Merlin’s fear-stricken face behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes, hears the panic in Merlin’s high-pitched pleas, and something in him shatters all over again.

The thing is, Arthur has always had an inkling that there is more to Merlin than Merlin is willing to share with him. He knows how to read people. He knows when people are trying to influence him. He grew up in Court, around lords and ladies fiercely competing to whisper things in his ear, ceaselessly looking to mould him into a shadow of their ideals. He’s seen countless faces hiding secrets from the Crown. He knows how to wield the wrong words to say the right things—he’s perfectly well-versed in half-hidden truths and misdirection. Merlin’s attempts to throw Arthur off his scent are often clumsy at the best of times and thoroughly outlandish at the worst. 

But while Arthur never believed him, he has always trusted Merlin enough to let it slide. He always believed that if it was truly important, Merlin would tell him. Perhaps this is the thing that stings the most.  

So rather than calling Merlin out on his blatant lies, Arthur carried on. He continued sharing his deepest fears and insecurities with the one person he thought he could trust above everybody else. Because perhaps if Arthur shared enough things, Merlin would trust him in return. Perhaps Merlin would finally tell Arthur what truly weighs heavy on his mind when he gets that faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps he would shed some of the weight upon his shoulders and let Arthur help bear the load. Isn’t that how things usually go, one shares one’s secrets and the other shares theirs?

He knows now that he is wrong. Merlin wouldn’t tell him. He was never going to let Arthur in.

Not even after all those years of friendship. Not after all those years of baring his soul bare, letting Merlin in when nobody else was even allowed near.

He feels like an absolute fool. It leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat. 

Arthur turns in his bedroll to face Merlin, who is lying still across from him. There is a small frown upon Merlin’s brows. Arthur wonders what he is dreaming about. Despite everything, his fingers still twitch with the urge to soothe.

Before Merlin came along, Arthur never even realised that he was missing something. He was a hollow man walking and hadn’t known it. He never had someone who cared about him for him, not because of his blood or power or gold. And then Merlin bumbled into his life, made a home and refused to leave. He saw all that Arthur was made of and decided to stick with him anyway. And Arthur loves it—loves him. For the first time in his life, a lifetime of duty doesn’t seem too heavy to bear. He looks at Merlin and feels whole. 

It’s silly in hindsight, but he hadn’t realised how deeply Merlin had burrowed under his skin until he was ripped apart from Arthur. He was bereft. For days, he was roaming Camelot’s halls, adrift and unanchored. 

Merlin is here now. All those days apart, and now Merlin is finally back by Arthur’s side. It almost doesn’t feel real, like it can't be true. Arthur only knows that it's real because never in his wildest imagination would he ever imagine that magic was the secret Merlin kept. 

Arthur had wanted to lie close. He wanted to feel the warmth radiating from Merlin’s body and be reassured by the measure of his breaths. He wanted to reach across and hold Merlin’s hand, he wanted to rest his thumb against Merlin’s wrist and be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his pulse. It's the way Merlin looked when Arthur found out about his magic that stayed his hand. 

He thinks again about Merlin’s wide-eyed distress and tells himself that keeping a distance is for the best. He watches the campfire flicker shadows upon Merlin’s face and wonders when his fear of Arthur began to manifest. How has Arthur never noticed? 

Arthur tells himself that it makes perfect sense. Of course Merlin would fear him. What sorcerer wouldn’t fear the son of Uther Pendragon? 

It doesn’t make him feel any better. It still leaves his stomach churning with nausea.

Merlin might be here now, but it feels as though there is an ocean and a river between him and Arthur, and Arthur isn’t sure how he can bridge the distance.

He turns again to face the sky and sighs. It’s a long way until morning. 

They ride hard on the next leg of their journey, keen to reach Camelot. Merlin doesn’t seem to deteriorate, which is somewhat heartening, but he doesn’t wake up, either. 

“Perhaps the use of magic exhausted him,” suggests Gwaine, when he catches Arthur’s eye straying towards Merlin’s still form for the umpteenth time. “He’ll be right as rain once Gaius sees to him.”

Arthur nods, accepting the comfort that Gwaine offered. He speaks about Merlin and magic in the same sentence so easily, as if it wasn’t an earth-shattering thing.

“How do you accept it so readily?” Arthur forces himself to ask. He tries to make himself sound incredulous. It’s more palatable than the jealousy he actually feels. 

“He’s still Merlin,” Gwaine shrugs casually, but there is a kind understanding in his eyes Arthur didn’t expect to see. “There’s just a bit more to him than we thought.”

He’s still the peasant boy from Ealdor, Arthur hears. Still the same man who picked wildflowers for Guinevere to put a smile on her face, the same man who stayed up late delivering remedies so Gaius doesn’t have to, the same man who helped Camelot’s best and most lethal knights steal food from the kitchen and escape unscathed. 

Having magic doesn’t change all that. It hasn’t changed all that. 

The realisation strikes the rods of his spine like a bolt of lightning. It’s treason; a seismic shift that goes against everything his father taught him about magic. Yet here he is. 

Arthur swallows and stays silent. It’s another lie he has learnt to build his worldview upon. He doesn’t know where one lie ends and another begins—he’s been pulling on a thread without realising it and now the whole thing is beginning to unravel with no hope of putting it back together.

It’s curious, then, that when he looks up at the canopy of trees overhead, the leaves still rustle the same. The birds chirp the same, the horses clop the same. The world is crashing down around his ears and it doesn’t know it.

The journey drags on. 

A part of Arthur is almost content to stay in this strange limbo; as long as they’re riding towards Camelot, nothing has to change. There is simmering hope that things can go back to the way they were, that it will all turn out all right in the end. That Merlin will be safe and healed and within arm’s reach once again, a grin stretching his lips and a twinkle in his eyes. He will say something stupid and Arthur will let Merlin drag him out of bed while pretending to still be asleep. He has always been stronger than Arthur ever gave him credit for.

Once they reach the gates of Camelot, there will be no going back. It’s the end of things as Arthur knows it. He cannot pretend he never found out the truth about Merlin’s magic. He cannot pretend to think that his father was right about magic, that the Camelot he knows wasn’t built upon the blood of innocents and smoke. 

He cannot pretend that he hasn’t had a hand in doling out that injustice. The most terrifying thing is that he doesn’t know how he can even begin to rectify it. 

It’s this part of him that mourns the time when it was easy. 

Except—well. That’s not quite true, is it? Things have never been easy. 

Arthur loves his father. This, he can say truly and without hesitation. Arthur has always admired his father, the strong conqueror and then king who brought lasting stability and prosperity to barbarian lands. He was hard on Arthur, but he had to be. The pride shining in his eyes was such a rarity, but it only made it altogether more precious, pushing Arthur ever harder to earn it. There was a warmth there, too—Arthur knows it because would catch a glimpse of it, sometimes, when his father was speaking with Morgana. 

But another part of Arthur rages, and it’s a part that grows ever louder. His own father had lied to him about everything he had ever known. The world he built was nothing like it seemed and he had left Arthur alone in it.

His father lied about magic. He lied about the reason behind the Purge, he lied to get Arthur to do his bidding. What else had he lied about? Is anyone incapable telling him the truth? What is it about Arthur—what is it that Arthur has done to make him so undeserving of the truth?

And to think that he had been proud of being used as a tool to further his father’s agenda. It makes him shudder now, disgust clinging onto his skin in a way he’s not sure he can wash off. How many innocents have met their ends at the tip of Arthur’s blade?

It’s a sickening thought. He doesn’t know how it wouldn’t eat him alive. 

It’s well past midday when Arthur finally catches sight of Camelot’s turrets in the distance.

For the first time in his life, he sees the flags fluttering in the wind and feels something like dread brewing in his gut. Between his thighs, Hengroen falters as if sensing his hesitance. 

For a fleeting, immensely tempting moment, Arthur considers turning back into the forest. It would be so easy. It would buy him time to clear his head and get his thoughts in order before he undoes his father’s legacy. Surely it’s not too tall an ask? 

Except it feels too much like running away. 

Arthur barely restrains himself from glancing ruefully one more time into the forest. He keeps his gaze straight and urges Hengroen forward. There is a kingdom waiting for him and he has a sorcerer to save. 

Chapter Text

“Go,” Leon says kindly the moment they reach the Citadel. “We’ll take care of Thomas.”

Gwaine and Percival are already on the move, Merlin a dead weight between them. Arthur is conscious of all the time they had spent on the road. Throughout their journey, it didn’t look like Merlin was inching closer to death, but it didn’t look as though he was recovering, either. 

When they reach Gaius’ chambers, he is already waiting for them. His eyes widen upon seeing Merlin, blood draining from his face.

Arthur’s voice hitches when he tells Gaius, “they poisoned him.” 

“Do you know what they used?” Gaius urges. At once, he springs into action with expeditiousness that belies his age, pulling out familiar tomes from where they live on his bookshelves. “What were the symptoms?”

To Arthur’s surprise, it is Percival who pulls out his water skin and a hunk of stale bread from his satchel. “Perhaps these may help,” he says, placing them on the wooden table. “I took these from his cell. Merlin mentioned that Thomas poisoned the water.” 

“I shall have a look in a moment,” Gaius nods in approval. “Thank you. For now, please lay him there,” he gestures at the spare bed.

“There was white foam dribbling out his mouth when we found him,” Arthur recalls out loud. “His breathing was faint, his pulse even more so.”

“Thomas claims to have had an antidote,” adds Gwaine. “It was a clear, colourless liquid that looked like water.”

“The poison should be our priority,” says Gaius. He rummages through his cupboard before fishing out a number of glass vials, all containing different coloured liquids. He rushes back to Merlin’s side, lifting an eyelid open and then another. And then he adds, none-too-subtly, “now, please—I need room to work.”

Gwaine hesitates. “You will keep us updated if anything changes?”

“Of course.”

Gwaine and Percival leave, the door closing softly behind them. Arthur only manages to take a few steps away before his legs refuse to cooperate. 

He looks at Gaius helplessly. “I—“

Arthur would leave Gaius to it, too, but just got Merlin back. It’s ridiculous that the thought of Merlin leaving his sight again should quicken his pulse. He knows he should leave Gaius to it without being in the way. But a part of him wants to protest—wants to plead—that he be allowed to stay.

He’s scared, he realises. His mind knows that nothing bad will happen and that Merlin is in the best place he can be. He will receive the best care Camelot has to offer and he will soon be on the mend. It doesn’t stop Arthur’s heart from racing stubbornly at the thought of walking away from Merlin, so soon after getting Merlin back. What if it all goes wrong? What if Arthur leaves, only for Gaius’ treatment to fail?

“There is a bucket by the basin over there,” Gaius tells him. There is no surprise in his eyes, only kindness. “Could you fetch it, please, Arthur?”

Arthur nods at once and goes to grab the bucket, handing it over to Gaius’ waiting hand.

“If we’re not sure what they poisoned him with, our best bet may be to get Merlin to get it out of his system,” explains Gaius. He gently tips Merlin’s jaw open before pouring the content of one of the vials into his mouth. The foul smell is enough to make Arthur gag—he almost expected Merlin to sit upright immediately the moment Gaius unstoppered the vial. 

It takes a while to take effect. They sit in silence, nervously waiting as moments pass.

Eventually, Merlin draws a sharp breath. Gaius quickly rolls him over to prevent him from choking and Arthur shoves the bucket under Merlin’s face. Merlin gags and heaves as Gaius rubs his back comfortingly, murmuring quiet words Arthur quite can’t make out.

“That’s it,” he hears Gaius say. “That’s it, my boy.”

Something about the events unfolding before his eyes causes Arthur’s eyes to prick with heat. Perhaps it’s the clear affection and warmth Gaius treats Merlin with. Perhaps it’s the way Merlin leans towards Gaius instinctually, seeking comfort as a child would from their father after. Arthur stands uselessly next to them, feeling as though he is intruding on a private family moment. 

His tongue feels too thick for his mouth, but he forces the worried words out. “Will he be all right?”

“Until we identify the poison, I cannot be certain,” replies Gaius with a worried frown. “But this should buy us additional time.”

“Very well,” says Arthur. The room is too small, suddenly, and the air too stifling. “I shall leave you to it.”

Arthur’s hand was on the door when he hears Gaius calling his name again. 

When Arthur turns to face him, Gaius’ eyes are bright. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

Arthur nods. “Do everything you can,” he tells Gaius. “And I mean everything.”

Arthur heads straight to the dungeon and tries not to feel perverse pleasure at the sight of Thomas in chains. He fails miserably. 

“Came to gloat, my Lord?” Thomas greets him, smiling amicably. “Or to demand, perhaps, that I tell you what poison we used?”

Arthur stares at him with cool eyes. “There is no need,” he tells Thomas, and watches as the self-satisfied expression on Thomas’ face morphs slowly into one of uncertainty. “We already figured it out.”

The revelation seems to come as a surprise to Thomas, but he recovers quickly enough. “To threaten torture, then? Or the pyre?” Thomas sneers. “Perhaps you would like me to tell you who our legion consists of—“

“You are Thomas of Highbridge,” Arthur cuts in, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken at all. “Son of Lord Peredur and Lady Morwenna of Highbridge. Brother of Brighid—“

Thomas pales. It doesn’t stop him from biting out, “so you’ve done your research. Well done.”

Arthur ignores him. “Your family were exiled early on,” he continues. “Once a proud house, now left with no honour to your name. You must’ve been furious.” Thomas narrows his eyes, but Arthur speaks before Thomas could say a scathing word. “Did you think that we wouldn’t know the truth of who you are, and how your family fell from King Uther’s favour?”

“Your barbarian father was a blight upon this land,” Thomas spits, finally rising to Arthur’s taunts. “He drove away children from their homes and called it a mercy that they didn’t face the gallows instead. He stripped faithful friends and devoted servants of the honours they earned if they dared to suggest a single word of truth in his ear. He struck a deal with the Old Religion only to set fire to it when the deal he struck was completed—“

His mother, Arthur realises. Thomas is talking about Ygraine’s death and the circumstances of Arthur’s birth. 

“My father warned him not to go to the sorceress Nimueh,” Thomas continues. His voice trembles with the fury it contains. “He told King Uther the Betrayer what was going to happen. Old Religion extracts a price, always, and it may not always be the price he was ready to pay.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to grit his teeth.

“You were born of the one thing you were sworn to destroy,” Thomas straightens, meeting Arthur’s gaze dead on. There is not a vaguest hint of hesitation in his words, and it sends a chill down Arthur’s spine. It’s not a far departure from the vision of his mother that Morgause conjured all those years ago. 

“Did you think you could bury history, My Lord?” Thomas bites out. “You can burn your records and murder those who bore the memory. But we the people will always remember.”

Arthur has no idea how this visit has gone so terribly wrong.

Arthur remembers Ygraine’s face as if the vision was conjured yesterday. 

The thought that Morgause had used his mother’s likeness to manipulate him to do her bidding used to leave an acerbic taste in his mouth. And the memory of himself holding the tip of his sword against Uther’s throat had once filled him with debilitating shame. 

Uther had dismissed the vision as the lies of an enchantress hell-bent on tearing the kingdom apart. Arthur doesn’t doubt that it was exactly what Morgause was trying to achieve, but Uther, too, was a liar. Arthur just didn’t know it at the time.

“You summoned for me, my Lord?”

Arthur rises from his seat and gestures at the chair opposite him. “Take a seat, Geoffrey.” 

Geoffrey appears uneasy, a worried frown appearing between his brows as he takes slow steps towards the seat Arthur offered. He’s in no position to refuse his King. 

“You were among King Uther’s most trusted advisors, before you served in my Court,” Arthur begins carefully. “He would consult you before making decisions that would affect the whole kingdom.” The tension is palpable in the air as they both take their seats. “I order you to tell me the truth about the full circumstances of my birth.”

Blood drains from Geoffrey’s face. It’s all the indication Arthur needs to know that Thomas was far from wrong.

Arthur bites his tongue as Geoffrey begins his tale, haltingly at first. Arthur can’t blame Geoffrey for his caution, and it’s not as if his fear was misplaced; it is a story that has been suppressed for years. He tells Arthur about how Uther met Ygraine, a Cornwall princess with golden hair that tumbled like ocean waves. How Uther fell in love, charmed with her gentle laugh and twinkling eyes, and refused to marry anybody else, even when presented with higher-born ladies offering more dowry and promises to bear healthy sons. How Uther and Ygraine struggled for an heir, how months and eventually years pass with nothing to show for their effort. Uther almost had it all: a prosperous kingdom, a well-loved queen, and bards singing about his strength and his courage. But the Pendragon line will end with him if he failed in this regard.

Uther was always a proud man. The Pendragon dynasty ending in his name would only bring immense shame that he couldn’t bear, a dark notch that will overshadow his otherwise sterling achievements. His councillors advised him to remarry, but Uther wouldn’t hear of it, threatening instead to cut out the tongues of anyone who dared dishonour his choice of a queen. 

It wasn’t long until the smallfolk began whispering that Camelot had cursed him when he conquered Her. That She rejected Uther Pendragon, and this was Her way of ensuring that none of his blood will sit on Her throne. 

Uther dismissed it all as lunacy, of course. It didn’t stop the whispers and stares from following him. The False King, they called him. He came to take by force, but the Triple Goddess resists giving. He can try to remarry, but it will be futile; the Triple Goddess will turn barren anyone who comes after Ygraine. 

Geoffrey tells Arthur of how Uther sought Nimueh and swore those who were aware of his plan into secrecy. Only a handful of his closest advisors knew—a select few that included Gaius, Geoffrey, and Peredur. 

Uther didn’t have a single drop of magic in his blood. His experience with sorcery was limited to hearsay about hedge witches and casual dismissal of Druids he deemed too weak and cowardly to claim power for themselves. Gaius, Geoffrey and Peredur had different experiences and, as such, advised Uther to be wary. The High Priestess was not to be trusted; she will promise you one thing and give you another. 

But mounting pressure from the Court and a souring marriage had left Uther desperate, and desperation drives men to ill-made choices. Despite opposition from his friends, he went to Nimueh anyway. 

“He knew, then, that it would kill my mother?”

“Nimueh warned her that a son will come at a price,” Geoffrey looks pained. “The late King Uther swore he would pay any price. Whether he knew that Nimueh was referring to your mother’s life specifically, I cannot say.”

Arthur lets out a slow exhale.

“But the Old Religion requires balance; this is known. For a life to be created, another must be taken. Your father knew this.”

“Is it possible that he was offering up his own life as the price for mine?” asks Arthur. It’s desperate, grasping at straws—he knew this before words even left his mouth.

“I was not privy to the deal they struck, so I cannot be certain,” answers Geoffrey, but his eyes soften in sympathy. “I am sorry, my Lord.”

Arthur would reel from what he learnt, but in a time of endless revelations, what is another? 

“King Uther demanded your oath,” replies Arthur quietly. “The fault is not yours, only his.” He swallows tightly. “And what of Lord Peredur?”

“Even though he was the most vocal opposition to your father’s plans to seek Nimueh’s help, he stood by the late King Uther as he grieved Queen Ygraine,” says Geoffrey. “But he fought ferociously when King Uther announced his plans to outlaw magic. His daughter practised magic, my Lord, and it was common knowledge among members of the Court. It was too dangerous for her and Peredur would never disavow her to appease King Uther. By the time the first pyres were built, Peredur had found himself and his family banished from Camelot, never to return under the pain of death.” 

Arthur can imagine it clear as day. Uther wouldn’t have withstood seeing the knowledge in Peredur’s eyes, either. He wouldn’t have the stomach to face the fact that Peredur was right, and his decision not to listen had cost him his wife. 

Arthur stands abruptly and Geoffrey startles at the sudden noise of his chair scraping against the floor. “Thank you, Geoffrey,” he says by way of dismissal. “You may leave for now.”

When Geoffrey leaves, he leaves behind a ringing silence, filled only with the sound of Arthur’s measured breaths. He thinks again of that fateful day and of the vision Morgause revealed to him. Of course Morgause was trying to manipulate him—who hasn’t? It doesn’t mean the vision was entirely a lie. 

Uther had known that there would be a price. He struck the deal anyway, and he did it all behind Ygraine’s back. He swore blind, that he loved her, that not a single day passes that he wished she was still alive. He swore it on his life, yet he sired a daughter with his best friend’s wife. He already betrayed her once. Why wouldn’t he do it again? 

Arthur had so nearly killed his father in a fit of rage, that day. Perhaps he should have gone through with it. The only reason he didn’t was Merlin. 

Did Merlin know, too? Did Gaius tell him? With all his magic—the magic he said he was born with and never chose to have—what reason did Merlin have for staying Arthur’s hand? Uther’s death would have set Merlin free. So what reason did he have for lying to Arthur about the truth of his own birth?

For the first time since they got Merlin out of that dungeon, he feels the true beginnings of anger in his veins, burning right down to his fingertips.  

Chapter Text

“Sire,” greets Gaius as he opens the door, clearly surprised. “I did not expect you to be back so soon.”

“I have questions, Gaius,” replies Arthur, striding into the room. “I believe you would be the best person to answer them.”

Gaius bows his head. “Of course.”

Arthur turns his attention to Merlin, who is lying prone on Gaius’ patient bed. His cuts and scrapes have been cleaned. With the dried blood wiped away, the bruises stand in stark contrast against Merlin’s skin. Arthur’s heart clenches at the sight.

“How is he?”

“Resting, Sire,” says Gaius. “I believe we’ve identified the poison based on the water Percival collected. I’ve synthesised an antidote, but I believe Merlin has been ingesting it over the course of his imprisonment. It appears that the poison has built up in his body.”

Whatever anger drove Arthur to Gaius’ chambers dissipates in an instant, leaving Arthur with a sick sort of guilt that makes itself known in the pit of his stomach. Merlin has suffered enough in that dungeon, and Arthur as good as put him there. Any other punishment Arthur might have wanted to mete out seems unnecessarily cruel after everything Merlin has been through. 

Arthur swallows tightly against the lump lodged in his throat. “Will he make full recovery?”

Gaius tries his best to appear reassuring. “We’ll do everything that we can.”

It’s not quite the affirmation Arthur is looking for. But despite being placed under the care of Camelot’s best physician, Arthur knows that Merlin isn’t fully out of danger yet. If there is one things he has learned over the years, it is that things can always take turn for the worse. Men have died on that bed, even after Gaius’ best efforts and careful ministrations. 

Arthur shakes himself out of the thought. Merlin will not be one of such men. Arthur will not let him. He will drag Merlin back from the jaws of death itself if that’s what it takes. 

“Something happened when we fought to get out of that dungeon,” his eyes flicker up to meet Gaius’. “Is it possible for men to be born with magic?”

Gaius stiffens, mouth tightening ever-so-slightly. When a forced blankness falls upon his features, Arthur is suddenly reminded that Gaius has spent decades of his life serving in Camelot’s court. 

“It is incredibly rare. Almost unheard of, even,” answers Gaius with infinite caution. “But it has happened, yes.”

Arthur presses further. “To Emrys?”

He watches as Gaius flounders for words. Curiosity eventually wins out, prompting Gaius to ask, “Forgive me, Sire, but where did you hear that name?”

Arthur leans back in his seat. “Just something Thomas mentioned.”

“Ah.” Gaius dithers, clearly torn between his loyalty to his king and his loyalty to the man he has grown to consider his son. “The name Emrys is known only to the followers of the Old Religion,” he explains. His gaze doesn’t waver. “He is a legend, a story to tell little Druid children. We may not even know whether he is real. But to answer your question—yes, it is said that Emrys was born with magic.”

Arthur almost snorts. He most certainly knows that Emrys is real—Merlin had answered to the name, hadn’t he? 

“And what does the legend say about him?”

Gaius appears pained. 

“Arthur—“

“Gaius, please,” interrupts Arthur softly. He is exhausted, suddenly, weariness seeping right down to the bone. “Don’t you think it’s time I learnt the truth?”

Gaius studies him for what feels like centuries. Under his scrutiny, Arthur feels like a little boy again, lying about how he scraped his knee. But Arthur holds his steady gaze, refusing to back down. Doesn’t Gaius know that Arthur would sooner fall on his sword before he would hurt Merlin?

After a long moment, Gaius finally nods. 

“They say that Emrys is a child of magic,” says Gaius, glancing at Merlin. “They say that when the sorcerers died in droves during the Purge, all the magic had to go somewhere. And thus Emrys was born.” 

Arthur sucks in a breath. He had seen a glimpse of Merlin’s power, but this sounds like something else entirely. 

His Merlin. A child of magic. The idea is almost too ridiculous to even entertain.

“That’s why the collar couldn’t contain him,” murmurs Arthur in understanding. “He doesn’t have magic; he is magic.”

Gaius’ brows knit together in a frown. “Arthur, what happened in that dungeon?”

“When we found him, they had him chained with cold iron,” Arthur forces the words out, sickened by the memory. “Cuffs around his wrists, a thick band of metal around his neck. They knew who he is.” He tells Gaius about how he broke Merlin’s chains, how a fierce fight ensued. “We were losing,” Arthur admits. “We were being pushed further and further in. They had magic on their side; we had no defence against it.” In the heat of the fight, Arthur must have missed Merlin stirring. “Next thing I knew, Merlin was standing next to me, the collar lying broken at his feet. They called him Emrys. And he answered to the name. 

They goaded him. They told him that he would no longer have a place in Camelot, now that we know about his magic. That I will see him burn.”

Gaius’ eyes flicker nervously towards Merlin. And, well, there it is. Arthur can see the question burning in Gaius’ eyes. 

“What will you do?” 

Gods, Arthur can see the well of tears in his eyes. He can hear the fear in his voice veiling a clear sense of resignation. As though he already has a clear idea of what was going to happen. As though Merlin is already halfway to the pyre. 

It’s devastating, in its own quiet way, meeting Gaius’ eyes and realising that he, too—the man who has known Arthur the longest, ever since he was only a babe—truly believes that Arthur is even capable of sending Merlin to death. Knowing full well how it paralysed him to lose Merlin the first time around. 

“Magic is still punishable by death,“ Gaius continues. “Sire, if Merlin is to be executed, perhaps it would be kinder to let him pass tonight. The torture and the poison take a heavy toll on his body, and—”

Arthur inhales sharply, stricken. Is it truly so difficult to believe that no part of Arthur wishes to see Merlin dead? He doesn’t hear the rest of Gaius’ sentence; he is numb, the ice spreading from the base of his spine to his fingertips. 

“No,” interrupts Arthur. Not after Merlin saved their lives. Not after the truth Arthur learnt about his father. Not after learning how the hatred of magic began. “Not anymore.”

Gaius stops. “Sire?”

“It has come to my attention,” Arthur exhales slowly, fingers curling. “That my father had hidden a great deal from me.” 

Gaius straightens, understanding beginning to dawn.

“And he made a great deal of effort to ensure that the truth will never come to light.” 

Gaius remains silent, refusing to volunteer a single word. 

“Well?”

“Your father did what he thought was right, Sire,” says Gaius haltingly, warily. He is clearly unsure of where Arthur is going and how he is going to react. “He loved you very much, and—“

“Don’t make excuses for him, Gaius,” Arthur snaps impatiently. “I know what he did. I know of the deal he struck with the sorceress Nimueh.”

Gaius inhales sharply. 

“I know how he sought her help behind my mother’s back,” Arthur continues, hands beginning to tremble. He looks away. “And you, and Geoffrey, even Merlin—you all knew.”

 “Arthur—“

“Every time the pyre was lit, every time another sorcerer was led to the dais—you knew. You knew that a great injustice was being carried out. Every raid I led, every Druid I slew—you knew they were innocents. And you let me carry on anyway.”

Innocent blood is on his hands. Not Gaius’, not Geoffrey’s. His alone. He led the raids, he murdered the Druids. His were the hands that swung the sword. 

Gaius doesn’t have to say anything. Arthur knows that they couldn’t have told him. It would have been treason; Uther would have had their heads. After all, he had charged others for treason for less. And even if they tried, it’s not as if Arthur would have believed them. He would have had their heads. 

The room is spinning around him, the air too thick to breathe in. He gasps for breath but nothing comes in, so he tries again, and again, and again, only to come up short. He looks at Gaius with wide eyes, terrified. He doesn’t know why no air would enter his lungs. His breaths are coming up shorter and shorter, and—

“Breathe,” says Gaius. “Breathe, Arthur.” 

Arthur tries, but it is difficult. It’s as though he is underwater, just skimming below the surface; he knows what he must do, he knows he must push forth, to break the surface and simply inhale. But he can’t. He’s weak; he doesn’t know why he can’t. 

“Arthur, look at me,” comes Gaius’ voice. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“They didn’t do anything wrong,” Arthur tries to say, but he can’t hear his own voice. He can only hear his own rapid heartbeat. “They never did. They were innocents. All of them.”

“Look at me,” repeats Gaius firmly. There are hands on his shoulders, Gaius’ face swimming into vision in front of him. “Your father raised you to believe that what you were doing is right. You were following orders.”

“But it wasn’t—“

“You didn’t know.”

“But I should’ve known,” insists Arthur, hot tears slipping from his eyes. He looks down at his trembling hands, trying to find something he could focus on. “There were women—children, too. They must be in their hundreds—“

He doesn’t even know how many there are. He can’t recall their faces, even if he can still hear their screams ringing in his ears. So many souls snuffed out before their time. So many families torn apart, so many lives irrevocably ruined. “I—“

“Arthur, listen to me.”

“Morgana knew,” Arthur’s breath hitches. “She knew what Uther did was wrong. She stood up to him. Why didn’t I—?”

All those things he thought magic took from him. His mother. Morgana. It was his father’s doing all along. 

“He was your father,” says Gaius, as though it clears Arthur of any wrongdoing. “You love him, as a dutiful son would. You believed that he was good—“

“He was her father too,” insists Arthur. “It didn’t stop her from seeing him as he is. An evil hypocrite—“ he hiccoughs. “They were right about him. They all were.” It hurts terribly to force the words out loud, but Arthur now knows them to be true. “How could you do it?” he whispers, disgusted. “How could you, and Geoffrey, and all those others—how could you just stand there on the side, and watch—“

Gaius is silent for a while. His jaw works but no words come out. He averts his eyes, looking instead at the window. “We were afraid,” he admits. He wasn’t pleading, but he says it like it was a shameful secret that he wanted to live. Perhaps it was. “Some of the councillors were supportive. Some of them distrusted magic from the very start and leapt at the chance to eradicate it. It didn’t matter that they have seen magic openly being practised in the court. They couldn’t understand it, they didn’t have a drop of magic in their blood, so nobody else can have it, either. And you have seen the fate that awaited those who vocally disagreed.” 

Gaius lost friends too, Arthur realises. Perhaps even family.

“When your father told us of his plans for the Purge, we didn’t think he would go through with some of the things he said he was going to do,” Gaius adds. There is a sheen of shame in his wisened eyes. “That was our mistake. We didn’t think he was capable. We kept thinking he was going to stop, eventually. That he would be satisfied, that he would have had enough. But he never did.

I kept thinking of what he was like before. He was—perhaps he could be less than kind, but he was good. He was a good friend. And your mother made him so happy.” Gaius’ eyes gleam with tears; he blinks them away. This time, when he looks at Arthur, Arthur isn’t sure whose face he is seeing there. “We wanted no hand in what he was doing. But we thought we would have been more useful alive than dead, here in the heart of Camelot.

In the beginning, your father wanted magic eradicated. So he burned books, destroyed ancient artefacts. Centuries worth of knowledge and culture and history—he wanted them gone within an instant. So Geoffrey and I started hiding things away. We smuggled things out of Camelot. We couldn’t bear to watch it all go up in flames. 

And then he began building the pyres. The first sorcerers who burned were guilty of heinous crimes. People who had been imprisoned for a while and were going to hang anyway, except that they also had magic. And then their crimes became lighter and lighter, but the punishment remained the same. So I started helping people find their way out of Camelot.” His eyes flicker towards where Merlin is lying repose, blissfully unaware of the world crumbling around him. “It was perhaps the best thing I have ever done.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. He thinks back to the kindly woman with a smile full of warmth and a spine made of steel. “Hunith?”

Gaius shakes his head. “She used to assist me here, a very long time ago. She left to look after her elderly parents when they became poorly. By the time I sent Merlin’s father to seek refuge in Ealdor, I hadn’t seen her in years.”

“You knew Merlin’s father?” 

“I do.”

“Merlin said he never knew his father,” says Arthur, almost accusingly. “Does he know that you know?”

“He does,” answers Gaius. “But I’m afraid it’s not my story to tell.”

Arthur accepts Gaius’ answer with a nod. 

“Morgause showed me a vision of my mother, once,” Arthur tells him. He doesn’t know how much Merlin shared with Gaius, but judging by Gaius’ distinct lack of surprise, he already knew. “She told me that my father deceived her as he deceived me.” His voice breaks again when he said, “he betrayed her and sacrificed her life so he could have an heir.”

Gaius falls silent again.

“Is it true?”

It is a long time before Gaius answers. “Your father went to Nimueh without telling her, that much is true,” he finally admits. “He knew that a life must be taken in order for a life to be created.”

“So it was all true,” Arthur exhales shakily. “Morgause was not lying.”

“Your father went to meet Nimueh alone,” says Gaius. “She was known for her trickery, even amongst followers of the Old Religion. I liked to think that your father had tried to offer up his life in return for yours, and that Nimueh chose to take your mother’s instead.”

He looks at Gaius helplessly. A part of him desperately wants to latch onto the idea. It’s the part that still refuses to accept that his father knew well what he did was wrong—borne from a sense of guilt he refused to acknowledge—and chose to do it anyway. It’s the part that refuses to reconcile the hero of Arthur’s youth with the force of evil everyone seems to paint him as.

“Arthur—do you remember the time you were bitten by a Questing Beast?”

He does—how could he forget the monstrous creature with the head of a snake and the body of a leopard? He nods silently. 

“The bite from a Questing Beast is always fatal. Always. Its venom is known to carry the magic of life and death itself.”

Arthur stares in confusion. Surely the fact that he is here, now, living and breathing, is proof that it is not so? “You healed me.”

“My remedies are not that good,” Gaius smiles wryly. “It was Merlin who saved you. He went to find Nimueh to bargain for your life—he offered his life in return for yours.”

Arthur’s breath catches again. He looks to where Merlin still lies unconscious, fear gripping at his throat. But Merlin is alive. He knows Merlin is alive. He fights the urge to rush to Merlin’s side to check for his heartbeat, forcing himself to sit still instead.

He remembers this time clearly, now. He remembers how odd he thought Merlin’s words were, stupidly ignorant of the fact that Merlin was saying goodbye. Arthur hadn’t realised it at the time, just how close he’d come to losing Merlin forever.

“Nimueh attempted to take Hunith’s life instead,” Gaius continues, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil his words have caused in Arthur. “She fell gravely ill, so I took it upon myself to go find Nimueh before Merlin could attempt to bargain with her again. By the time Merlin found me at the Isle of the Blessed, it was almost too late.”

“But you’re here,” Arthur points out uselessly. “And so is Merlin. How—?”

“They battled,” Gaius answers simply. “Merlin won.”

He doesn’t ask what Gaius means. He doesn’t have to. He knows what Nimueh losing means: she paid for Arthur’s life with her own. 

If Arthur hadn’t just seen Merlin kill with his own eyes—if he hadn’t seen lightning crackling from Merlin’s fingers—Arthur wouldn’t have believed it. Even now that he’s seen it, the notion is still an impossible one to wrap his head around. Merlin, with his gentle hands and his bleeding heart—a killer. 

It all comes back in a rush of memory: the way Merlin seemed to retreat into himself in the days that came after. The pallor of his skin, the shadows around his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Arthur caught him dropping his things, one afternoon. It was probably because his fingers couldn’t stop shaking. And Arthur had whacked the back of Merlin’s head, calling him an incompetent idiot. His chest tightens at the echo of his own words now.  

“We may never know whether the vision Morgause conjured was the truth or not,” concludes Gaius, wrenching Arthur back to the present.

“It doesn’t change anything,” replies Arthur tonelessly. “He still used magic. He still slaughtered innocents in droves and hunted their kind like animals.” He rubs his face tiredly. “He lied to me all my life. Used my mother’s death to manipulate me into believing his lies.” 

And there’s that shame again, hot and burning in the pit of his stomach. It’s almost familiar by now. “I should have killed him that day,” he chokes, hot tears spilling again. Where does he go from here? How could he possibly begin to fix this mess he inherited? “It would have saved everyone so much grief.”

Before Gaius can find the words to reply, there is a rustling noise followed by a weak moan coming from the general vicinity of Merlin’s bed. 

Arthur is by his side in an instant, his grief momentarily forgotten. Merlin is slowly writhing on the bed, his hair already drenched with cold sweat. His brows are knitted together in a pained frown. “‘R’thr,” Merlin whimpers, his voice barely above a croak. “‘R’thr.”

Arthur drops to his knees by Merlin’s bedside, Merlin’s clammy hand clasped between Arthur’s own. “Right here,” he murmurs. He presses a soft kiss into their joined hands. “I’m right here.”

But Merlin doesn’t seem to hear him. “‘R’thr,” he whimpers again in clear distress, tears leaking from his eyes and disappearing into his hair. “‘R’thr, please—“

Arthur looks at Gaius in askance, biting back the urge to beg him to do something. Gaius is already there, a small glass vial held in his hand. 

“Hold him up.”

Arthur complies, untangling their hands so he can support Merlin’s head as Gaius pours the content of his vial into Merlin’s mouth. Merlin coughs and sputters but thankfully swallows most of it down.

Arthur lays him back down as gently as he can, watching over Merlin as he eases back into sleep. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, just sitting by Merlin’s side.

Chapter Text

By the time Arthur finally stands to leave, daylight is already gone. 

“You will come and find me should anything change?”

“Of course.”

“Then I shall leave you to retire for the evening,” says Arthur. “Thank you, Gaius.”

It’s only after Arthur returns to his chambers that he realises—it’s not only Gaius and Geoffrey and the remaining members of his father’s court. 

It’s Guinevere, who was once accused of sorcery because her father found recovery from the plague where others perished. She never once had the opportunity to defend herself properly, had she? She had vehemently maintained her innocence even as the guards dragged her away, only for it to fall on deaf ears. Anybody could have planted the poultice to rouse suspicion—a rival forge, perhaps, or someone jealous of the fact that she had Morgana’s ear, and by extension, Uther’s. Yet nobody looked into it. It was deemed unnecessary, and she was going to pay for that oversight with her life. She must’ve known that the laws were unjust then.

It’s the men Arthur personally selected and knighted. It’s Gwaine, it’s Percival, it’s Elyan—it’s those who grew up outside the reach of his father’s hateful influence only to become Knights of Camelot, sworn to uphold the laws they may not necessarily believe in. They had vastly different experiences from Arthur’s when it comes to magic. They must’ve known that the rhetoric Arthur and Uther espoused was blatantly untrue. They must’ve known that the laws are unjust. Yet they hadn’t volunteered their stories until Arthur demanded it of them. They didn’t say a word against the laws they couldn’t have believed in. They carried out their orders without protest instead, because that’s what they were sworn to do. 

It’s Merlin too. He is living proof that magic doesn’t corrupt the way Uther said it does. If magic truly corrupts, and if he has had magic from the moment he was born, surely it would have corrupted him by now. He must’ve known that Uther was telling lies from the start. He didn’t learn magic. He never chose it. He, of all people, must’ve known how egregiously wrong the laws were from the start. Yet he, too, didn’t say a word, when he is always so vocal about everything else. 

The thing is that Arthur can never blame them for not coming forward. Not when they were simply abiding by the laws Arthur set for them. It’s exactly what they were meant to do. They can never freely give their opinions, not truly. The Crown will always cast a shadow on every interaction he has with his people.

It’s not the first time Arthur recalls the tenet that kings rule alone, but it’s perhaps the first time he truly understands what it means. His knights, his councillors, and his friends can try and ease his duties where they can, or provide a listening ear when Arthur needs it most. But at the end of the day, the difficult decisions are his to make, and the ramifications of those decisions will be his to shoulder. His duty is to lead; theirs is to follow. The burden of the Crown is his to bear alone. This is the way it always was. This is the way it’s always going to be. He is always going to be a king first and a man later. Isn't that an awfully lonely thought?

Before he learnt the truth about magic, it was always his father’s voice that he hears in the back of his head, a steady guiding presence that helps illuminate the way when Arthur inevitably gets lost. This is not the case anymore. How can Arthur, in good conscience, follow his father’s guidance, knowing full well that that path he forged was forged in lies and smoke? And how dare his father build this impossible weave of chaos, only to leave it to Arthur to try and unravel on his own?

That guiding presence is firmly extinguished now. For the first time in his life—and at a time when the path ahead has never been more uncertain—Arthur feels truly alone.

He plonks himself on his seat with a sigh, an intimidatingly blank parchment laid out in front of him. A servant had come by and left a tray of food by his desk, but he can’t bring himself to feel hungry. He lifts up the cloche anyway and counts the sausages almost by habit. It’s another reminder that Merlin wasn’t the one bringing him his food; there are more sausages on his plate than he knows what to do with. 

He’ll start with a pardon for Merlin. It’s the least he can do. He’ll summon Gaius, Geoffrey, Guinevere and the knights tomorrow, and they’ll sit and try to sort something out. 

He begins to write.

Arthur is standing in the throne room when the door slams wide open and two guards march in with Merlin in tow. They shove him unceremoniously to the ground, the clatter of his chains against the floor ringing loudly across the room.

“Father!” protests Arthur. “What is the meaning of this?”

Uther barely spares him a glance. “The boy was witnessed performing sorcery.”

“By whom?” demands Arthur, outraged. “Merlin is innocent! Don’t you think I would notice if my own manservant was a sorcerer?”

“Morgana saw him with her own eyes,” Uther shoots him a pitying look. “I should think that’s enough proof.”

Merlin is stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes, keeping his gaze locked firmly on the floor. He’s tense as a bowstring, not saying a word to defend himself. It's the word of a servant over the word of Camelot's ward—he knows already that it will be futile. What is the word of a servant over the word of Camelot’s ward? Uther has already made his decision, so Merlin’s fate is already sealed. 

It doesn’t matter how much Arthur protested. It doesn’t matter how much he tried to discredit what Morgana claimed to see. It only landed him on the other side of the dungeons, as far away from Merlin’s cell as possible. 

“Perhaps a night or two in the dungeon will do you good,” says Uther blithely, as if he was talking to a particularly insolent child who needs discipline. “Perhaps it will give you the time to reconsider whether it is wise to question and try to undermine the judgement of your king.”

Arthur spends the entire time pacing the length of his cell. Uther will not change his mind, that much is obvious. He already thinks that Merlin has put an enchantment on him, corrupting Arthur so he would turn against his own father. 

“I know how much you trust the boy,” says Uther later when he comes down to visit Arthur. His lips curl in distaste at Arthur’s choice of company. “Let this be a lesson to you that the evils of sorcery can take all forms. It can take the shape of a friend, lying in wait for the right moment to strike.”

The only evil I can see is you, Arthur doesn’t say. What will it achieve, if not lend more credibility to the suggestion that Merlin has enchanted him?

Morgana is next to visit him, cool eyes staring down at Arthur with pity.

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur hisses at her, gripping the bars of his cells so hard his knuckles turn white. “He is your friend too!”

“Is that what you call someone who betrayed you?” she retorts. “Is that what you call someone who let you live alone in fear, when they know well how much they could’ve helped?” She scoffs. “I have to say. You have a very funny definition of friends, Arthur.” 

He tries to find weaknesses in the bars that he can exploit. He finds none. He tries to threaten the guards only to find that they are more threatened by his father. What are the protestations of a prince compared to the orders of a king? Arthur tries to find something in his cell—anything that can be fashioned into a lock pick—only to come up short. And as he tries all these, he is painfully aware of the sun dipping lower in the sky. He doesn’t have much time. 

He’s desperate to deliver a message to Merlin, to tell him to run far away from here and not to come back until it is safe. To use his magic and save himself for once. It would be a perfect escape—there is no way Uther would accuse Arthur of helping Merlin escape, either, seeing how Arthur is very firmly behind bars. But there are other prisoners here, and the guards would no doubt report it back to his father should Arthur shout it across the dungeon. 

They don’t wait even wait until dawn breaks. The moment Arthur hears a cell being unlocked, he knows immediately what they are going to do. 

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts. He puts an arm through the bars in a frantic attempt to reach. It would be silly in hindsight. It never would’ve worked. Arthur does it anyway, putting everything he has into trying to reach Merlin. It doesn’t matter anymore who is going to hear him. It doesn’t matter what they will think. He cannot lose Merlin. “Merlin! Merlin!”

They drag Merlin to his feet and march him away. Arthur strains harder against the bars and hears something crack, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything other than the frigid fear and the all-consuming panic. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, straining harder and harder, screaming Merlin’s name until his throat is raw.

They come for him, too, later. Arthur tries to make a run for it but he has no hope of standing against four of Uther's best knights. They wrestle him away and lead him straight to the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where Morgana and Uther are already waiting.

He watches as Merlin is led to the pyre. Merlin doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to escape—he walks with measured steps, steady and unflinching towards his awaiting fate. 

Something in Arthur shatters. He starts fighting to get to Merlin but his muscles simply refuse to cooperate, and no matter how much he struggles, his body doesn’t move an inch. He tries screaming Merlin’s name but nothing comes out—not even the barest whisper. He is a prisoner in his own body, forced to watch as Merlin marches, unwavering, towards his death. 

It’s as the guards begin tying Merlin’s hands to the stake—too tightly, Arthur notes, when there is certainly no need for them to use that much force—that Merlin turns to look at him. He holds Arthur’s gaze and the rest of the world fades into silence. 

Arthur wishes that Merlin was furious, that he was hurling accusations at Arthur, that he was shouting at Arthur about how he never deserved anything Merlin did for him. Arthur would’ve taken it. It would have been better than this calm acceptance. But instead, there is only complete understanding in Merlin’s eyes. As though he knew that this was always the way things were going to go. As though he was always going to end up here, and Arthur was always going to watch him burn. He looks at Arthur and tells him it will be all right. He mouths his apologies even as Arthur shakes his head furiously. 

The guards lower their torch to the kindling under Merlin’s feet and Arthur startles himself awake.

Arthur snaps awake, still sat at his desk. His parchment is still there, riddled with words that have been scribbled out. His untouched dinner is still sitting on his desk, cold and forgotten. There is a chill in his bones that has nothing to do with the way the fire in the hearth has died down to embers.

Arthur tries his best not to be sick. “Oh, gods,” he whimpers to no one at all. “Gods.”

He puts his head in his hands and tries his best to breathe. In, out, in, out. It should be easy. He’s been doing it since birth. But the air is too thin, stubbornly refusing to get into his lungs. 

His face is already wet, sobs already clawing their way out of his throat. He's crying hard and he doesn’t know why. Merlin is alive, he’s safely out of his father’s reach, it’s only a childish nightmare, it won’t come true. There is no way it could ever come true when his father’s body is safely ensconced in the catacombs underneath the castle. It doesn’t change how real his terror had felt and how raw his grief had been. It leaves an imprint on his bones that he doesn’t quite know how he’s going to heal from. 

He sits there with his head buried in his hands until his sobs subside, feeling ridiculous and rather sorry for himself. He can’t figure out why he is crying, but he can’t seem to stop, either. 

He stops trying to fight it, after a while. He’ll go back to being king first thing in the morning. For now, surely no one can begrudge him the luxury of falling apart. 

Once the sobs finally die down, he wipes a hand over his face. There’s no chance he’ll be able to fall back asleep after that, so he dons his cloak and makes his way to Gaius’ chambers. 

Except for the guards posted outside his door, he doesn’t pass a single soul as he walks to Gaius’—small mercies indeed. He lets himself in quietly and absently wonders if the physician’s chambers really should be this easy to access. Perhaps he ought to post a guard outside, just in case. 

Gaius is soundly asleep, snoring loudly in the corner of the room. Arthur plops himself down on the seat they set up by Merlin’s bedside with a soft sigh. The proximity alone is comforting, and seeing that Merlin is alive with his own two eyes soothes something in him that has been restless ever since Merlin was taken. He takes Merlin’s hand. He lets the warmth of Merlin’s feverish skin reassure him—Merlin is unwell at the moment, sure, but he has faith that Merlin will be well again. Arthur shifts his grip so that the pad of his thumb rests against the inside of Merlin's wrist, just above his pulse point. He strokes gently, back and forth, and watches the rise and fall of Merlin’s chest until his eyes burn.

And then, finally, he closes his eyes. He’ll leave before the sun comes back up. 

Arthur wakes with a terrible crick in his neck and finds a rough blanket draped over him. His lips curl into a smile, his heart swelling for his old physician.

It’s far later than he intended to wake—already, sunlight is streaming through the windows.

He looks at Merlin’s face and reckons he can see minute improvements. There seems to be more colour on his face than there was yesterday. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking; perhaps it’s all in his head. 

He stands to leave, folding the scratchy blanket and sets it at the foot of Merlin’s bed. He has much to do today. 

The castle has already come alive by the time Arthur makes his way back to his chambers. He smiles at everyone who noticed his presence and bowed at him. He is conscious of the absolute state he is in—it must show—but thankfully, no one has the audacity to ask whether he is well. Sometimes, being king does have its perks. 

Things in the castle are the same as it was before Arthur embarked on his rescue mission. Servants are bustling in the hallways, fetching breakfasts for their lieges. Some of the merchants are just arriving, setting up their stalls for the day. Squires are rushing down to the armoury, preparing bits and pieces for that morning’s training. Arthur can’t wrap his head around it. He doesn’t know what sort of omen he’s looking out for, but it feels like things shouldn’t be the same. There should be an indication that a major shift is forthcoming, but there isn’t. It’s all perfectly mundane. These are things that happen every single day.

To Arthur, it’s as though an entire lifetime has passed between then and now. In reality, it has been less than two days since he rode through the gates of Camelot with Merlin in tow. And as far as his people are concerned, absolutely nothing has changed. 

It’s mind-boggling. He could laugh at the absurdity.

When Arthur tells his knights, Guinevere, Gaius, and Geoffrey of his intention to repeal the ban on magic, they react just as well as Arthur thought they were going to. 

Gaius, being privy to some of the things the others aren’t privy to, looks as though he had been expecting it. He trades a quick glance with Geoffrey, who looks equally as unperturbed, and accepts Arthur’s decision with a simple nod. There is something in his eyes that look like pride; Arthur has to look away.

The knights, having seen the proof of non-evil magic in Merlin, look equally as unsurprised. They look almost relieved, even, that Arthur has relieved them of the need to choose between their friend and their oath. 

It’s Guinevere who looks the most alarmed.

“I understand putting an end to the death penalty,” she begins uncertainly. “But repealing the ban altogether?”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she would be the one who needs the most convincing—like Arthur and Leon, she was raised in a Camelot that shunned magic. She was told to believe that magic is wicked, and that anybody who wields them is inherently evil. Any word edgewise would’ve been treason. And she saw what magic did to Morgana—or rather, she saw what Morgana became after she discovered her magic. Arthur believed the same as her, not too long ago; that it was magic that corrupted Morgana. 

Unlike Leon and Arthur, however, she is still unaware of Merlin’s magic. This is not Arthur’s secret to share. He will not take this decision away from Merlin.

“I understand your wariness,” replies Arthur. If somebody told him a fortnight past that this is what he would do in the near future, he would never have believed them. “Until very recently, I, too, believed that magic was a force of evil.”

With help from Gaius and Geoffrey, Arthur then relays the story of how his father went to Nimueh to beget an heir behind his mother’s back. How he used magic, even if he wasn’t the one casting the spells. 

He wasn’t sure how they would react. He wasn’t even sure whether he wanted to share the entire truth about how he was conceived. But no matter how painful, and no matter how shameful it is to admit how badly he has it wrong, he knows that he must. It’s the only way they can truly understand the scale of the atrocities that have been carried out.

“Magic is neither good nor evil,” Arthur concludes. The words still feel strange on his tongue, and a part of him is still bewildered that he is hearing himself say this out loud. “It simply is. It appears to me that it the person who wields it who determines its nature.”

The table falls silent when Arthur finishes. He looks at his knights and reckons he knows what they are thinking, even if they are not saying it out loud: all the camps they raided. All the parents separated from their children under the guise of saving them from wickedness. All the husbands they took from their wives—

“If a great injustice has been committed, then we must rectify it,” says Elyan, who looks somewhat green around the gills. 

“How?” asks Percival.

“An apology would be a place to start,” suggests Guinevere, who appears lost in thought and uncharacteristically unreadable. “Small as it seems, it would go a long way towards healing our relationships with those who were wronged.”

“Of course.”

“If I may, my Lord,” says Geoffrey. “While I understand the need to reverse the late King Uther’s laws, such a drastic change over such a short period of time may alienate some of the Lords who served in his council.” 

Arthur groans inwardly. This is how it begins. 

Much as he loathes to admit it, however, he must concede that Geoffrey is right. The Purge didn’t occur overnight. Undoing the damage and accepting that they were wrong to condemn magic in the first place will be an uphill battle. 

He can envision the severe pushback already. If he was being honest, he would rather face an incoming army with only his horse and his sword, but needs must. 

“I have taken the liberty of unearthing the laws from the time before the Purge,” Geoffrey continues. There is a twinkle in his eyes that Arthur has never seen before. “Perhaps this could also be a good place to start when drafting the new laws.” 

“There are also Druids camps that we can reach out to,” adds Gaius. “They are peaceful people. Their input on the matter would be invaluable.”

Arthur looks at the trusted faces around the table and feels tendrils of hope burgeoning in his chest. Perhaps they will be able to fix this, after all. 

With the aid of his friends, Arthur spends the next few days writing a draft of the new laws to propose to the Court. It’s not long before it becomes obvious how out of their depths they are. Gaius and Geoffrey try their best, but there is still much Arthur doesn’t know about magic. The one person he would ask is still lying unconscious on Gaius’ patient bed. 

Arthur misses Merlin with an intensity that still knocks the breath out of him. After his nightmare, he comes to see Merlin every night, staying just until dawn breaks. He doesn’t say anything most nights, content to sit his vigil and watch Merlin’s ribs creak with each breath until he falls asleep. After that first night, Gaius has come to expect him. It’s evident in the rough blanket he leaves draped over Arthur’s seat. 

“Do you think he’ll wake again?” murmurs Arthur. He reaches for Merlin’s hands, seeking again that reassuring pulse. “His hands are cold, Gaius.”

He takes Merlin’s hands again, wraps them in his own in an attempt to rub warmth into them. He feels more powerless than he ever remembers being. With all his kingly power, it’s almost outrageous that there is nothing he can do to speed up Merlin’s recovery.

“His breathing is improving today,” Gaius notes. “His colour is better.”

“Is it?” replies Arthur dubiously. Merlin looks gaunter with each passing day. The dark shadows in his eyes are setting deeper, the delicate bones of his wrists more prominently felt. He’s wasting away before Arthur’s eyes, turning into a corpse under his touch, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

He waits until Gaius retires for the night and is soundly snoring before leaning closer to Merlin’s ear. He tells Merlin about the stories Gwaine told him; about the farmer using magic to heal his crops, about the child using magic to heal his friend’s skinned knee, about the merchant who tripped a thief using a magically summoned tree bark. 

“I thought of you when I heard it,” whispers Arthur. “I’m so sure you cheated, that first time we met. I’ve never been so clumsy in my life.” He swallows against the lump in his throat. “You really must tell me about it sometime.”

He tells Merlin about the laws he’s going to push, about how much he’s learning from the books Geoffrey hid.

“You wouldn’t believe how many there are,” he whispers, still somewhat in shock. “An entire secret chamber within Camelot’s library. Right under my father’s nose! I didn’t think he had it in him.”

He tells Merlin about the world they’re going to build together, where his people will be free from the terror his father put them under.

“Trust you to leave me to it when I need you the most,” he forces through his rough throat. He leans forward, forehead resting against Merlin’s ear. Adds, fondly, “truly the worst servant I’ve ever had.”

He should be pleased that they’re making progress. The draft is taking shape, missives to Druid camps are being written. Yet there is an emptiness in Arthur's chest that stubbornly remains, shaped suspiciously like an idiot with golden eyes and fingers that crackle with lightning. 

They’re progressing with the changes Arthur said he’s going to make, but there’s a sense of melancholy that he can’t shake off. It feels like they are moving on without Merlin, and the feeling makes Arthur want to cling harder to Merlin’s hand. 

He can’t lose Merlin. Not after everything. Not while he’s still trying to make it right—not ever.

“Things will be different when you wake,” Arthur promises, closing his eyes. “You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

The first time Merlin wakes, it is to a dark room with silver moonlight streaming in through a window. His bones are heavy and his thoughts are sluggish. He shifts, trying to manoeuvre himself into a more comfortable position, but there are heavy blankets draped over him, pressing him down onto the bed. Someone is holding his hand in a loose grip, calloused fingers gently encircling his wrist.

He squints against the dark to make out the shape next to him. 

It’s Arthur, and the sight of him makes Merlin’s breath catch. He is sitting on Merlin’s bedside, dressed simply in the loose white shirt Merlin likes him best in, Gaius’ thin scratchy blanket draped across his lap. He is fast asleep; mouth slightly agape, head lolling onto his shoulder. He looks so very young like this. 

Even in sleep, Merlin can see the exhaustion written in every line of Arthur’s body. Arthur hasn’t been sleeping, that much is obvious. There are shadows around his eyes that the darkness of the room fails to conceal. And it doesn’t look like he’s been eating much, either—his cheekbones jut out that little bit more, his visible collarbone that little bit more prominent.

Merlin’s heart twinges. They haven’t taken care of his king well in his absence. His hair is longer, too, curling softly around his ears. It looks almost silver in the moonlight. Arthur always preferred to keep it quite short to keep it from getting in the way—Merlin wonders where the change of heart came from. Perhaps he quite simply forgot to have it cut. If the way the stubble on his jawline is any indication, the latter may simply be the case. 

Merlin shifts his hand, curious to check whether he has grown a beard, but even that small movement causes Arthur to react—Arthur makes a soft questioning noise in his sleep and tightens his grip around Merlin’s wrist.

It’s a lovely dream. Merlin will take it—it’s much better than whatever else he can conjure up inside his head. He burrows deeper into his blankets, warm and comfortable. After sleeping so long on a stone floor with barely any hay, the lumpy bed is so comfortable he reckons he can sink right through the earth. 

He takes another peek at Arthur. Though clearly exhausted, this sleeping Arthur looks at peace. Merlin doesn’t have the heart to pull his hand away again. 

Merlin is in the dungeon again, eyes fluttering open to the sounds of clashing metal all around him. Arthur and his friends are there, their capes resplendent in Camelot red. They’ve come, he thinks, nearly weeping with relief. His friends have finally come to get him out.

But there is not much time for joy, because Arthur’s side is losing. It’s not a fair fight. Camelot’s knights are among the best in the land, but they’re painfully defenceless against magic. Thomas and his men are successfully beating Arthur’s back, driving them further away from the mouth of the dungeon. 

His friends need him, but Merlin is weak. He tries to lift a hand but his finger barely twitches. He tries again and again until his hand finally obeys. His head feels like it’s being split in two and it feels like there’s no part of him that has been left unbruised. It takes tremendous effort just to lift his head from the ground, but Merlin manages eventually.

Come on, Merlin thinks furiously to himself. Now is not the time; your friends need you.

He reaches deep for his magic, trying to find that warmth that had always been there. Please, he thinks. He doesn’t know who he’s begging to—the Triple Goddess, the magic of Albion, anyone who will hear him. Please.

If they lose this fight, Merlin will end up in that cell again, starved and chained and regularly beaten half to death. 

You are Emrys, a voice in his head says. It sounds a bit like Kilgharrah. It sounds like his father, it sounds like his mother, it sounds like Freya. It sounds like Arthur—not the Arthur he knows now, but the Arthur that will be. You are magic, and no man can take it from you. So be Emrys. 

He strains again and reaches blindly with everything he has. This time, he finds it: the smallest spark that he then coaxes into a flame. It leaps into his reach eagerly, like an old friend that has long since separated. 

Above the cacophony, he could barely feel the metal breaking around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. And then it rushes all at once. It burns in his veins, in his eyes, in his fingertips as lightning crackles. Its sheer power is intoxicating after so long without. He curls his fingers and feels the magic singing in his blood, surging to meet his every command. It’s too much for it to fit under his skin—there isn’t enough room for it, and everything explodes. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, there is only resounding silence. Merlin looks at his hands, uncomprehending. But then, from the rubble, Arthur rises, familiar blue eyes holding nothing of the familiar fondness Merlin knows so well. Arthur looks at him and Merlin can only see the fury in his eyes. 

Arthur raises his sword, tip pointed at Merlin’s throat. “Traitor,” he accuses, his voice trembling even if his sword remains steady. Merlin wonders how he can put so much hate into that one word.

This is what a part of him has been waiting for, Merlin realises. For Arthur to see the truth of what Merlin is and for it not to be enough. For Arthur to see Merlin’s sorcery and forget the man wielding the magic. But he won’t fight Arthur like this. He never would have.

He falls to his knees and lets the magic bleed from his fingertips until there is nothing left. “I used it for you, Arthur,” he vows, head dipped in a bow. “Only for you.”

Merlin has many regrets in his life, but he will never apologise for using magic to save Arthur. He would do it a thousand times over, even if he knows that it will only end here. He won’t beg for his life.  He didn’t choose to be born with magic, and if he had to lie about it to keep his head, so be it. If after all these years of friendship—of Arthur knowing what is in Merlin’s heart—Arthur still can’t see that Merlin would never betray him, then it was all for nothing anyway.

“I trusted you,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. It sounds like a plea. There is deep hurt in his eyes beyond the veil of his rage. 

This, Merlin regrets: he never wanted to hurt Arthur. He had to lie, but he never wanted to. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” says Merlin, looking up to meet Arthur’s gaze squarely. The sword he gave Arthur digs against his neck but Merlin doesn’t flinch. 

Take me up, says one side. Cast me away.

“I never wanted to—”

“Liar!” shouts Arthur, and swings.

Merlin wakes on a lumpy bed with tears on his cheeks, breaths coming up short and panicked.

“Shh,” whispers a soothing voice. There’s a gentle touch on his head, fingers stroking through his hair. “Shh, Merlin, it’s all right. You’re all right.”

But it’s not all right, is it? Arthur saw him using magic and executed him for it. 

“You’re safe,” says the voice again. Merlin wants so badly to believe it. It sounds too much like Arthur—but how can it be, when Arthur had just killed him? 

“You’re not real,” hiccoughs Merlin, clenching his eyes tightly shut. He won’t look at this kind, gentle Arthur only to be burned again. “You’re not.”

The hand on his hair stills. “Of course I am,” says Arthur’s voice, but he sounds small and afraid. Arthur never sounds afraid. “It’s over, Merlin. You’re home now. You’re safe.”

Merlin doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t have it in him to fight. He lets himself be soothed back to a fitful sleep.

The next time he wakes, it is daylight and he is alone. He pushes himself up gingerly, but even that small movement makes his bones creak and proves to be more difficult than it has any right being. He looks around, somewhat disorientated. He inhales deeply, letting the familiar scents fill his nostrils once again, and he knows that he is finally home. 

It all comes back in a rush: Cedwyn pinching his nostrils and pouring poison down his throat, being distantly aware of Arthur’s presence as he burns on the ground, the clash of swords as his friends finally came to break him out. Said friends losing, getting pushed deeper in instead of creeping closer out, and wanting—needing to help, desperate not to be recaptured. 

Killing Yellow Teeth and Cedwyn was the easy part. He didn’t bother looking at their bodies—let them pay for what they had done. 

He remembers speaking to Thomas but hardly remembers a word he said. He remembers wanting Thomas to stop talking—wanting everything to stop, wanting to go home and wanting things to go back to  the way that it was. And Thomas only stood there, between Merlin and his friends, barbed words dripping from his lips.

Do you think you still have a home, now that they’ve seen the truth of what you are?

The echo of his words is like a bucket of ice poured over his head. And Arthur was there; he had seen it all. He saw Merlin as he used his magic to kill Yellow Teeth and Cedwyn with nary a second glance. He saw Merlin as he strangled Thomas without deigning to even touch him. 

He closes his eyes and tastes bile in the back of his throat. He had used magic in front of Arthur—in front of his friends. And he had used it to kill. This was never the way things were supposed to go. 

The blankets atop him feel oppressive, suddenly. He swipes at it to get it off him. He sits up, trying to calm the pounding in his chest. Breathes in, holds it and counts to ten, and then out again, the way his mother taught him. He doesn’t know what to do. He would have to leave but he doesn’t know where to go. He stumbles as he stands, weak and uncoordinated as a newborn fawn. Before he can take a step, though, the door swings open and in walks Gaius.

“Merlin,” he breathes. “You’re awake.” He crosses the room in four strides to wrap his arms around Merlin. “I had worried that you wouldn’t wake again.”

Merlin sags into Gaius’ embrace and allows it to allay the fears that have taken root in his heart. “Gaius,” he says, but his voice trembles. On any other day, he would’ve made a comment about how they can’t get rid of him that easily. 

“I must send for Arthur at once,” says Gaius, his smile bright as he pulls away. It melts the years off of him. 

Merlin catches his arm. “You can’t,” he pleads thickly. “Gaius—he knows. They all know.”

“Oh, my boy,” he says, sympathy bright in his eyes. “So much has changed since you were taken.”

“I can’t face him, Gaius,” says Merlin. “There are too many things that—“ too many things he regrets. Too many things he shouldn’t have done, too many things Arthur would hate him for. And he won’t be able to bear it if he looks into Arthur’s eyes only to see hatred and distrust in their depths. “I need more time. Please. He doesn’t have to know that I’m awake.” 

“I made a promise to him, Merlin,” Gaius says, but he sits down next to Merlin. “I know you’re afraid, but Arthur is—different. He’s not the same man you left behind.” 

It’s not about the magic. It’s not even about the law. It’s the fact that he has lied, over and over again throughout the years, until all the good he’s done is tangled inextricably with the bad. It’s the fact that over the years, Arthur has grown to trust him, letting Merlin be privy to the side of Arthur no one else has the privilege to see. Merlin never extended him the same courtesy in return.

“He won’t forgive me,” Merlin murmurs faintly, eyes prickling with heat. Not after Kilgharrah killed so many innocents, not after he poisoned Morgana. Certainly not after he tried to save Uther, only for Morgana and Agravaine to get there first and for it to backfire spectacularly in his face. Everything Merlin did, he did for Arthur, but—“he won’t trust me again.”

And if Arthur won’t be able to trust him again, where will that leave him? What would become of the destiny that binds them together? 

“Aren’t you tired of keeping secrets?” asks Gaius gently. “I know I’ve always advised caution in the past, all those times you wanted to tell him. But he’s changed, Merlin. Have faith in him. Perhaps he will surprise you.”

Before Merlin can say a word—and in a rather typical fashion—the door swings open again. “Gaius—“

Merlin stiffens at the sound of Arthur’s voice. He thinks of the sword tip pointed at his throat and every muscle in his body locks.

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaims, the bright joy evident in his voice.

Arthur takes a step closer, and Merlin can’t help it; he flinches. It’s instinctual. Merlin’s pulse quickens, eyes helplessly glancing towards the door.

“Sire,” Gaius bows. “I was just about to send for you.”

Merlin finally gathers his courage and glances at his king. Arthur’s joy has left as quickly as it came; he looks stricken, a terrible hurt flashing in his eyes. His shoulders are hunched as if Merlin had gone and plunged a dagger into his gut.

“My Lord,” greets Merlin, putting as much deference as he can in his tone. His hands are shaking and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what to say to fill the silence that has fallen, either. 

“It’s all right, Merlin,” Arthur puts his hands up, palms facing Merlin in a universal gesture of peace. His is the same soothing voice as the one Merlin heard in his dreams. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Merlin barely hears a word Arthur said. He looks at the door again and wonders if he’d be able to make it if he runs. 

“Gaius,” Arthur says, taking slow steps towards Merlin as if approaching a spooked horse that is ready to bolt at any second. “I’d like to speak with Merlin alone, please.”

“Of course, Sire.” He squeezes Merlin’s arm gently and leaves before Merlin can plead for him to stay. The door closes behind him with a soft click. 

“You came for me,” Merlin says uselessly. He thinks of Arthur telling him that he would leave Merlin to rot there. Perhaps that was also only a dream. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to flinch, stung. “Of course I would,” he replies. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

“You did?”

Arthur hesitates, falling uncharacteristically silent. He seems to be fighting an internal battle, unsure whether he wants to say what he is thinking out loud. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally decides. 

Merlin wracks his head, trying to remember. Much happened when he was in captivity, and his mind conjured a great many things. It was difficult to tell what was real and what was imagined. 

But there’s no point worrying about it now—not when there’s every chance that he might lose his head before too long. 

“Arthur,” he blurts. He swallows. “About the magic—“

“I’m not going to send you to the pyre, Merlin,” Arthur cuts in. He sounds as if he has repeated this a thousand times. “Do you really think I’d go through all that effort to bring you back, only to have you killed the very moment you wake?”

Well. When he puts it that way, Merlin has to admit that it does sound rather foolish. But still—

He can’t quite keep the nervousness out of his voice. “So what are you going to do?”

Arthur runs his hair through his hair. He seems to be at a loss. Despite his apprehension, Merlin’s heart still clenches in sympathy. “We’ll speak on the matter when you regain your strength,” he smiles crookedly, but it looks false on his face. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

He turns to leave. Merlin gets a distinct feeling that Arthur is running away—or making a strategic retreat, as he would put it—and it’s so unlike him that it stuns Merlin into a momentary silence. 

“Arthur.”

His hand is already on the doorknob, but Arthur stops and turns to face Merlin. 

Merlin smiles weakly. “Thank you.”

Arthur’s lips quirk up in return, but it doesn’t erase the sadness in his eyes. He nods and leaves without saying another word. 

Word that Merlin has regained consciousness gets around quickly, and there is no end to his stream of visitors that day. Even Leon popped in for a visit, stilted words expressing his relief that Merlin has regained consciousness.

He is grateful. If Arthur’s closest knight came in to see him, perhaps there truly is hope that things will turn out all right. 

When Gwen visits, she embraces him for what feels like hours. “I’ve missed you,” she says, sounding close to tears. “I’ve been so worried, you have no idea.”

Merlin thinks back to all the banquets they’ve attended together. They would stand across the room from each other, discreetly catching the other’s eye when a nobleman inevitably says something incredibly out of touch. He thinks of the rare summer lunches they would share out in the grass when they can steal a moment away from their duties, where they will trade all the latest gossip over a punnet of berries Gwen picked. It has been a while since they were truly close, and it’s not until now that Merlin realises how much he’s missed her. 

“I’m all right,” he reassures her. He squeezes her tightly in his arms—it causes her to press against his bruises in a way that ought to make him wince, but he doesn’t mind. It is unspeakably good to see her again. 

“How are you feeling?” 

He doesn’t bother lying; Gwen knows him better than that. “There are bruises in places I didn’t know could have bruises,” he admits. “But it could’ve been worse.”

Gwen looks at him with exasperation. “I hope you’re not getting silly ideas about returning to work soon,” she says sternly. 

Merlin wonders how much she knows. If Elyan had told her about his magical outburst. 

“Enough about me,” he says, uncomfortable under her watchful eyes and altogether too keen to change the subject. “How are you? What did I miss?”

Gwen sits down next to him, a twinkle in her eyes. “You would not believe what Lord Caradoc said last week…”

None of them brought up the topic of Merlin’s magic, but not knowing only makes things worse.

“You’re right about Arthur,” Merlin begins conversationally, once Gaius has succeeded in chasing all of Merlin’s visitors away. “Something about him’s changed.”

Gaius has gone through the effort to make Merlin’s favourite dinner, and Merlin’s heart swells in his chest at the familiar aroma wafting from the pot. For the first time since he was taken, he feels like he could be warm again. Assuming that he won’t be heading for the gallows, that is. 

“He has been through much, these past few days,” Gaius says, but he doesn’t volunteer any more. 

The urge to say “but I haven’t?” is strong, but Merlin bites it back. “Well?” He pushes instead. “Go on, then.”

“Merlin—“ Gaius sighs, putting down his spoon. “It’s not my place to say.”

“You don’t seem particularly concerned,” Merlin notes somewhat petulantly. “I could lose my head tomorrow.”

“You won’t,” says Gaius, but rather dismissively, Merlin thinks. 

“How could you be so sure?” Merlin frowns, somewhat hurt. “You know, you’re not really doing much to address my concerns, here.”

Since the day he came to Camelot, the threat of execution has been a very real and very valid concern, ever-present in the back of his mind. He has spent many sleepless nights thinking about all the different ways Arthur could’ve found out, hatching elaborate plans for each scenario. Perhaps he’d run to the Druids, beg them to teach him all that they know. Perhaps he’d trek across the land in search of dragon eggs. Perhaps he’d continue saving Arthur from afar. It all hinges upon Arthur’s reaction, and while it all seems well at the moment, Merlin gets the distinct feeling that this is merely the calm before the storm.

After all those sleepless nights, after days of torture, for Gaius to dismiss his fears when the day Merlin dreaded for years finally arrives—

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” says Gaius, and he does sound genuinely apologetic. “Much as I’d like to tell you, this is something you’d best hear from Arthur.” He leans over the bowl and lowers his voice, as though somebody might overhear him. “I know you’re afraid. I was afraid too. But he gave his word that no harm will come to you.”

Merlin nods. It’s an unsatisfactory answer, but he can recognise that it’s all he’s going to get.

“I saw him, sometimes.” He stirs his stew absently. “When I was in that dungeon, I mean.”

Gaius quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Sometimes, he’d tell me to keep my strength up and not to lose hope. Other times…” he doesn’t meet Gaius’ eyes. “I’d see him standing on the sidelines too, when they torture me.” He swallows. “Sometimes he’d laugh at the way I was still waiting for him. He’d tell me that he’s leaving me there to rot.”

Gaius exhales slowly, but something in his face has shifted. “We found Widow’s Tears in the water Thomas had been giving you,” he says. “It’s a poison commonly used in Wessex, containing extracts from nightshade berries. When diluted, it can induce delirium and hallucinations.”

“Oh.” 

Merlin isn’t sure what he expected. He knew that there was something in his water and that Thomas was trying to mess with his head. But now, his relief is mixed with pangs of disappointment—without realising, he had been hoping that his dreams were his magic’s way of reaching out for help. And all bottled up with nowhere to go, his magic had reached out to Arthur. The fact that it reached out to Arthur, too, had felt significant in ways Merlin would rather shy away from. 

It feels so ridiculous now. He asks anyway. “Did Arthur mention having strange dreams at all?”

Gaius falls quiet for a moment. “He did,” Gaius finally admits, somewhat reluctantly. “He saw the ruins in his dreams.”

The dreams led Arthur to where Merlin was being held. The thought makes Merlin’s breath catch.

“But I don’t think leaving you there to rot was ever an option for him,” Gaius continues softly. I don’t think that was him that you saw. “He did everything he could to find you.”

Merlin swallows against the bitterness in his throat. “Perhaps he wouldn’t have, if he’d known the truth about my magic.”

“He did learn the truth about your magic, Merlin,” Gaius counters, not unkindly. “And he still brought you home.”

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes to the sound of a distressed moan next to him. It takes only a second to remember where he is; he is in Gaius’ chambers again, sitting on an uncomfortable chair by Merlin’s bed. 

Merlin’s eyes flutter rapidly under closed lids, tears leaking from the corners and into his hair. His hair is already drenched in cold sweat. Arthur grabs the rag by his bedside, dabbing gently at the sweat beading on Merlin’s forehead. 

“Shh,” he whispers when Merlin lets out another pained whimper. “Shh, Merlin,”

He runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair, stroking front to back in gentle movements. It’s something his favourite nursemaid used to do when he was younger—it made him feel like things were going to turn out all right.

“It’s all right,” Arthur whispers again. Merlin leans helplessly into his touch, his whimpers dying down. “You’re all right.”

Merlin seems to be half-conscious, no longer dreaming. His eyes are clenched shut and he’s shaking his head slowly. “You’re not real,” he hiccoughs. “You’re not.”

He stills, ice creeping up his spine. “Of course I am,” he replies, trying his best to ignore the burn in the back of his throat. What on earth Merlin is dreaming about, if this is how he reacts to Arthur’s voice? “It’s over, Merlin. You’re home now,” he clears his throat. His fingers tremble when he resumes stroking Merlin’s hair. “You’re safe now.”

Nobody is going to hurt him again. Not Thomas, not any of his lying father’s lying advisors, and most certainly not Arthur. 

He wonders, absently, when Merlin would wake. It can’t be too long now, he must be creeping closer to consciousness. He wonders what Merlin would say.

It takes a long time before Merlin calms and drifts back to sleep. Arthur doesn’t know how long he sits there, just keeping his vigil, fingers still tangled in Merlin’s hair. 

The day passes by in a bit of a blur. Arthur wakes at the crack of dawn with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, exhausted and bleary-eyed after only a couple of hours of sleep. He groans inwardly at the mountain of things requiring his attention that day and wishes fervently that he can go back to sleep and shut the rest of the world out for the day.

Progress on the drafts they are planning to push is dreadfully slow. He marvels at how something that will no doubt be so controversial can also be so boring.

In the latest development, Geoffrey has highlighted the need to reexamine existing treaties Camelot has with neighbouring kingdoms, and sure enough, a firm ban on magic use is listed as one of the conditions for a treaty. 

Gwaine looks ready to throw himself off the nearest battlement. He’s not the only one. 

“Gods,” he huffs. “It just doesn’t sodding end, does it?”

“If you think this is bad, wait until the Court actually debates this,” Leon points out grimly to a chorus of groans. 

Gaius, Geoffrey and Guinevere were the only ones not joining the chorus. Arthur chances a glance at her. She is unusually quiet, and he has a sinking feeling that she has been a bit quiet for a while.

He finds her later looking pensively out the window, watching city life as it unfolds below her. He leans back against the stone wall next to her.

“Something tells me you’ve got something on your mind.”

She remains quiet for a while. Arthur doesn’t press.

“I’ve been thinking about your plan, is all,” she finally sighs. “I know no good would come of this, but I just can’t help but wonder, sometimes. If we could’ve helped her.” Arthur stiffens. “Morgana, I mean. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for her. She must’ve been so afraid.”

Arthur thinks of the girl he grew up with—headstrong, proud, and tremendously obnoxious from time to time, but she was never heartless. She could be cruel when she wanted to be, but gods, she was good. And despite everything she has done, her loss is still an open wound that refuses to heal. 

“Perhaps if I had been a better friend,” continues Guinevere. “Perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so alone. Perhaps she wouldn’t have turned to Morgause.”

He knows the feeling all too well—he, too, has been kept awake some nights, thinking about how differently things could have gone if she had come to him. Now that he knows the truth about his birth, it’s easy to say with certainty that he would’ve helped her. Perhaps they could’ve fought Uther’s prejudice together, helping those headed to the pyre escape. 

It was a different story back then, when Arthur believed his father’s version of the events. He’s not sure what he would’ve done, but this, he knows: he never would’ve let her burn. Perhaps he’d help her escape. Perhaps he’d help arrange her marriage to someone who is known to be kind, someone who will dote on her and ensure that she will never have to live in fear again. 

“You were always a good friend to her.”

Gwen smiles gratefully, ducking her head. “Do you think it would be possible to reach her?” she asks. The hope in her voice is unmistakable, but it’s a fragile thing. “If Camelot repealed the ban on magic. If apologies are issued to those surviving the ones who wrongfully died, and Camelot worked actively to make things right. Is there the slightest chance that she would come home?”

He has always known that Gwen’s capacity for kindness is something to be admired, but he cannot grasp how she even wants to, after everything Morgana did to her.

“I don’t know,” Arthur replies truthfully. A part of him wanted to hope that there is still a trace of the girl he knew in Morgana now, but a larger part of him thinks that her thirst for vengeance has consumed her. Whatever is left is unrecognisable—she is too far gone, the things she has done too unforgivable. 

He never would have reckoned it, but the truth is that he doesn’t want her back. Not after everything she did to tear the kingdom apart. He had a sister. That sister is gone. 

“She used to use her allowances from the privy purse to feed Camelot’s poorest, do you remember?” Gwen shakes her head, lips twisting in a wry smile. “She used to visit empty market stalls and speak to the merchant to help them attract business. I just don’t know how she fell so far.”

“I don’t believe her cause is what she says it is,” Arthur admits slowly. “I don’t believe allowing magic and the Old Religion back in Camelot is all she wants.” He remembers looking into her eyes and not recognising the person staring back. Morgana’s cause is one of vengeance now, pure and simple. It was only thinly disguised as a fight for justice. “She never would have attacked Camelot’s innocents, if she truly believed in what she says she believes in.” 

“It must’ve hurt her to see them standing by as King Uther persecuted people like her,” Gwen replies, lowering her voice. “So she took it out on them when she had the chance. But what did she think they could’ve done? King Uther would’ve persecuted them too if they challenged him. And what would that achieve, if not more blood spilt needlessly?” 

Not for the first time, the difference between Gwen’s status and his—and Morgana’s—makes itself known. Because Gwen is right. Arthur, Morgana, or any of the senior nobles could only have hoped to affect change—he remembers now how Morgana did try—whereas people of Gwen’s station would have been executed for treason before they could dare hope. What chance do they have of fighting back? His father would have laughed outright at the thought of a peasant’s revolution. He wouldn’t have batted an eyelid as he quashed them.

“She didn’t understand that,” agrees Arthur. “Perhaps she thought that if she could fight back, she couldn’t understand why others couldn’t.”

Gwen snorts delicately. She didn’t have to roll her eyes and mutter anything disparaging about nobles under her breath, but Arthur has spent enough time with Merlin to know what she meant. 

“Once the repeal is finalised,” says Arthur. Just saying it out loud sends a rush of something in his blood, making his heart thump faster in his chest. He feels like he’s about to send his men charging into the battlefield. “Once the new laws are in place, I should like reach out to her and offer peace. She will have the opportunity to prove whether her cause is true, or if revenge is all that is truly in her heart.”

Gwen turns to face him, eyes wide.

“Should she come back, she will face trial,” he continues. “But this fight ought to end one way or another. And I think I owe it to the sister I grew up with to at least try.”

“Sire,” says Leon when he catches up with Arthur later in the day. “What shall we do with Thomas?”

Images flash behind Arthur’s eyes, unbidden and unwelcome: the cold iron collar around Merlin’s pale neck, the foam dribbling out  of the corner of his blue lips. Blue eyes blinking blearily up at Arthur after his captors lifted the sack off his head; the way they forced Merlin to his knees. The tears carving clean tracks on Merlin’s bloodied face.

He thinks about the horrors plaguing Merlin at night. Merlin might be safely back in Camelot, but this is far from over. 

He wants to tear Thomas apart limb by limb and make him suffer the way he made Merlin suffer. He wants to throw him down a well and let him live out the rest of his days forgotten and alone. He wants to deliver Thomas to the jaws of death and pull him back so he can do it all over again. 

He tries not to let his thoughts show. He’s not sure how convincing it is. 

“I should like to hear Merlin’s accounts before I decide,” replies Arthur, forcing calm where there is none. “He would face trial, of course. Between conspiracy against the Crown, treason, kidnapping and torture, I’m sure we won’t be short of things to charge him with.”

“Very well.”

“We’re not in any rush,” Arthur adds, “But ensure his cell is well-guarded and separate him from the rest of the prisoners. If anybody visits him, I want to be the first to hear about it.”

The strange feeling only grows worse as the day goes by. There’s a knot of nerves in his stomach, sending his heart racing for no discernible reason that he can think of.

It’s this racing heartbeat that he focuses on when he eventually finds himself pushing the door to Gaius’ chambers. “Gaius—“

And then he freezes in his tracks, because Merlin is awake.

“Merlin!” he exclaims, splitting into a wide grin. There are no words that can sufficiently describe just how good it feels to see Merlin conscious again, to see those familiar blue eyes open and hear his soft lilting voice again. 

A step is all that it takes before Merlin flinches. Arthur stops, stunned. He is vaguely aware of Gaius saying something, but Arthur can’t hear him. He’s too busy watching Merlin’s eyes dart quickly towards the door as if he’s contemplating his escape. As if he has something to run away from. 

Nothing could’ve prepared Arthur for how much the little action hurt. 

“My Lord,” Merlin says, head lowered in a shallow bow.

He takes a careful step and then another, ensuring that Merlin can see every move he makes. “It’s all right, Merlin,” he says, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Merlin tenses, nervous fingers tightening around the hem of his blankets. “Gaius, I’d like to speak with Merlin alone, please.”

Arthur takes in Merlin’s appearance; the ghostly pale of his skin, the dullness in his eyes. The tightness around his mouth, where it was always so ready with a quick smile. 

“You came for me,” Merlin says dully. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Arthur flinches. “Of course I would,” he says. It sounds like a plea, even to his own ears. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

“You did?”

Merlin’s soft question is sobering, a shock to Arthur’s system. It’s like falling into cold water on a warm summer’s day.

Every part of him had believed his dreams to be real—that he had seen Merlin in that dungeon, spoken to him, lifted bread into his mouth when he grew too weak to feed himself. That he had reassured Merlin, over and over, that he wasn’t alone and that Arthur hadn’t forgotten him. That he was always going to get Merlin home, he just needed to figure out how. 

In a way, Arthur had allowed his dreams to give him a semblance of comfort. It had been a way to reassure himself that Merlin is still there, hurt and weak and distant but alive and keeping his faith. 

It’s juvenile, something only a lovesick girl could only dream of. It always was.

There must be a reason why Merlin’s injuries were consistent with what Arthur saw in his dreams, that traitorous, lovesick part of him insists. There must be a reason why Arthur could see him. 

Or they were ever only dreams, something his own distraught mind conjured to keep him sane, and there wasn’t anything deeper to it. Perhaps there never was. 

Arthur forces the word out. “Doesn’t matter.”

Merlin looks so small on that bed. He seems to have shrunk into himself, afraid and unsure. There is something strained between them, close to breaking. He wonders if Merlin can feel it too. He wants to fix it and doesn’t know how. 

Merlin is the first to break the silence. “Arthur,” he says, swallowing nervously. “About the magic—“

Something snaps; he can’t hear this again. He can’t look into Merlin’s eyes and see fear in their depths directed squarely at Arthur. “I’m not going to send you to the pyre, Merlin,” he interrupts flatly. “Do you really think I’d go through all that effort to bring you back, only to have you killed the very moment you wake?”

Merlin relaxes infinitesimally. “So what are you going to do?”

He wants to sit here and talk about everything, rip everything out in one go so they can focus on rebuilding again. He wants to know about everything Merlin has kept from him and be reassured that he is doing the right thing by trying to undo everything his father worked for.

But he can’t. He’s standing on the cusp of a great something that he doesn’t yet fully understand and the magnitude of it is terrifying. Everything he knows is changing—one could argue it already has—but he has convinced himself into thinking that Merlin will be there by his side through it all. He’s not ready to confront the possibility that after everything, Merlin might not even be there. That it’s already too late, and that things are already irretrievably broken the day he turned his back on Merlin in the forest, leaving him in the hands of his captors.

Merlin always said that Arthur can be a little slow on the uptake. The room is too small, suddenly, and the air too stifling.

“We’ll speak on the matter when you regain your strength,” he forces a smile. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

He never should have come down here.

“Arthur.”

Arthur forces himself to stop rather than continue his flee. He turns to face Merlin, numb fingers still on the doorknob. 

Merlin smiles. It’s a weak little thing, but nonetheless genuine. Arthur has a feeling they have been here before. 

“Thank you.”

He feels his lips quirk up in return helplessly, but he still can’t find the words. He nods and doesn’t linger one second longer. 

Arthur avoids going back to Gaius’ chambers for two whole days, preferring instead to burn off the nervous energy that buzzes under his skin at the training ground.

Falling asleep in his bed again feels strange. The room is too quiet, the space too empty. There is no thrum of pulse under his fingertips to lull him into slumber, but he knows, at least, that Merlin is getting better. He has heard it from everyone else, even if he hasn’t visited again. 

(Gwen seems lighter, these days, more open to sharing her thoughts during their discussions. Gwaine is no longer so churlish, back to his usual self. Gaius, too, seems about ten years younger overnight.)

By the eve of the third day, Arthur summons Merlin to his chambers. He is not ready for it—perhaps he never will be—but it doesn’t mean that he can avoid it any longer, especially if he wants to move forward with the laws. Other Court members are beginning to notice, now, that something is brewing on the horizon. It will only be a matter of time before pointed questions are asked. 

For the first time in his life, Merlin knocks. 

“Come in.”

The door opens slowly. Arthur can hardly think with how fast his heart is racing.

Merlin enters at a glacial pace and walks into the room with uncertain steps. “You’ve summoned for me, My Lord?”

He says it so formally, as though he was a proper servant addressing his lord and not Arthur’s truest friend. There is none of the warm familiarity that used to colour Merlin’s words. Arthur expected it, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling like he was taking a blow. 

“Go on, sit,” Arthur gestures at the seat opposite him.

Merlin obeys at once.

“I assume Gaius has told you about the changes I’m looking to introduce?”

Merlin shifts uneasily in his seat. It’s an admission as good as any. 

Arthur fights the urge to snap. What does Merlin think he’s going to do—invite him to his chambers only to run him through?

“Not in great details,” admits Merlin, which must only mean that he has wheedled Gaius but that Gaius is refusing to budge. “I think it’s wonderful, Arthur, truly,” he adds, eyes bright. “But I am sorry. About your father.”

Arthur stiffens at the mention of his father, and there is something in Merlin’s expression that looks too much like an apology—

“You knew,” he realises out loud, his heart sinking. “You knew all along what he did. Yet you lied to me.”

Merlin pales. He seems to sink deeper into his seat with every word that falls out of Arthur’s mouth, accepting the accusation without trying to deny it.

Arthur had suspected, of course. Hell, he had been angry. But it’s one thing to question and another to have his fear confirmed. He had hoped that Merlin hadn’t actually known, and he was only saying things to keep Arthur from killing his own father. 

“Why?”

Merlin’s life would have been so much easier, had he not stayed Arthur’s hand. So many innocent lives could’ve been saved. 

“You love your father,” replies Merlin in a small voice, as though it explains everything. “Killing him would’ve destroyed you.”

Perhaps. But perhaps not.

“It would have torn your kingdom apart,” Merlin adds. “I couldn’t just—stand by and watch that happen.”

It was impossible to look past the cloud of rage at the time, but Merlin was right, in that sense. Arthur bent his knee to his father; he swore an oath to serve his king and kingdom. Killing his father and breaking that oath would have torn Camelot apart: his father’s advisors would have abandoned him, and Camelot’s allies would have broken their treaties. Who could trust a son who would kill his own father? Who would treat with a kingslayer who acceded the throne?

It would’ve brought a civil war upon Camelot.

He may understand why Merlin had to lie then, but his father has been dead for three years. And he was ill for so long. 

“You should have told me,” insists Arthur, and it comes out like a plea. “You’ve had years to tell me the truth, Merlin.”

Merlin hunches impossibly deeper into his seat, as though it will make him small enough to disappear. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sounding close to tears. “Not a single day passes where I don’t regret not telling you.”

Arthur frowns. “So why didn’t you?”

Merlin looks at him as if he can’t believe Arthur is even asking the question. “Do you remember what you said to me after?”

I am indebted to you, Merlin. Arthur had said. It is once again clear to me that those who practice magic are evil and dangerous.

And Merlin had smiled, even though the smile never reached his eyes. 

Glad I could help.

Arthur wonders what it had cost Merlin to say that when he has been practising magic since the day he was born. Arthur hadn’t known it at the time, but he had called Merlin evil and dangerous. The same Merlin who hated hunting and cried over unicorns. 

“What happened that day brought you and your father closer together,” Merlin continues softly, still in that small voice. “I didn’t have the heart to take that from you.” 

Arthur wants to shake him vigorously until he sees sense. 

“It turned you against magic even more than it already had. And—” Merlin looks into his eyes, searching, pleading. “If I told you, would you have believed me?”

He wants to say yes immediately. He wants to say of course he would have, cuff Merlin’s head, and call him an idiot for good measure. But he can’t, because he doesn’t know how true that would be. 

Merlin ducks his head again. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Arthur straightens in furious indignation. “You had no right to hide this truth from me!” 

“And if you were in my shoes, what would you have done?”

“I would have told you!” Arthur snaps, voice rising. “I would have told you and faced the consequences, whatever that may be!”

“Perhaps,” Merlin concedes. Before Arthur could open his mouth and shout some more, Merlin continues. “I know that it would have been the right thing to do. But I just couldn’t do it.” Merlin shakes his head, smiling wryly. “I was afraid, I suppose.”

There it is. Merlin's admission numbs him, leaving him cold. 

He asks anyway. “Afraid of what?” Afraid of me?

“That things would change,” answers Merlin. “That you’d hate me.”

Arthur exhales long and slowly, feeling as though a weight has been melted off his shoulders.“That’s what worried you?” He could laugh with relief. “Merlin, I could never hate you.”

“Don’t say that,” Merlin suddenly pleads, distraught. “You have no idea of the things I’ve done.”

“So tell me,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

Merlin fidgets again, looking as though he’s ready to bolt. 

“Merlin.”

Arthur watches as blood drains from Merlin’s face, as his eyes begin darting all over the room like he’s trying to escape. But it’s time, now, surely. He can’t go another day not knowing. 

“Please.”

Merlin looks at him helplessly, tears leaking from his eyes. “Don’t,” he pleads softly. “Please don’t ask this of me.”

Something breaks in Arthur’s chest. Whatever it is, surely it can’t be this bad?

“You can tell me,” he swears. “I swear to you that no harm will come to you.”

“I can’t,” he whispers voicelessly, shaking his head. He’s weeping in earnest, now, tears streaming silently down his face. “Arthur, I can’t.”

“Merlin, I’m lifting the ban on magic,” he reminds Merlin gently. He reaches across the table, palms upturned in a request. “Whatever it is, I promise that you can tell me.”

“It’s not the law I’m worried about,” Merlin hiccoughs, but he takes Arthur’s offered hand. 

“Then what?” Arthur implores. “I meant what I said. I know you, Merlin,” he squeezes Merlin’s hand in his, putting everything he is into his words. “I know your heart.”

Merlin looks at Arthur and says nothing, just taking it all in. Arthur knows exactly what he’s doing: he’s committing this moment into memory, as though he will never have it again. It should fill Arthur with dread. Because whatever Merlin says next, it’s going to tear him apart. 

And then Merlin begins to speak. His eyes keep darting up at Arthur, his fingers twitching in Arthur’s hold, as if Arthur was going to pull away at any second. 

He tells Arthur about his very first day at Camelot, about how he saved  Gaius from breaking his back with only a glance and an instinctive raise of his hand. He tells Arthur about the dragon underneath the castle, calling out to him from the cavern in which Uther chained him. 

“He told me about your destiny,” he says with a small smile. “About how you are the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion and how it’s my destiny to help you succeed.”

Arthur’s heart thuds wildly. “And?” he asks. “What did you say?”

“I said that there must be another Arthur,” Merlin admits with a laugh. “Because this one is an idiot.”

Arthur softens, fondness suffusing his chest. “Of course you did.”

He remembers the day with startling clarity too. He remembers being left bemused by the peasant boy who didn’t even know who Arthur was in the kingdom Arthur stood to inherit. Who didn’t see a prince and only saw a bully, who challenged him at every turn like no one ever did. He held no regard for propriety. He could’ve lost his head that very first day, just for speaking to Arthur the way he did. But there was always something about Merlin that intrigued him, a quality he never could put a finger on.

In hindsight, it does seem silly to think that Merlin would be particularly concerned about the law. Gods above only know that Merlin would only follow any law he chooses to follow. 

“So this dragon,” Arthur clears his throat, trying to make his voice sound as casual as possible.

“Your father had him chained towards the end of the Purge,” answers Merlin readily. He doesn’t bat an eyelid, as if it’s a very normal thing to have a dragon underneath a castle. “His name is Kilgharrah.”

It boggles the mind. Arthur has called this castle home all his life—he once thought that there was no nook or cranny in this place that is unknown to him. And not once did he have a clue about a giant dragon who can talk living just underneath the castle. 

“Is?” Arthur repeats incredulously. “Where is he now?”

“Ah, yes,” Merlin’s expression shutters again. Arthur feels momentary regret for saying anything, but he thinks a dragon is a rather important detail, all things considered. “I will get to him, eventually.”

Merlin tells him about how he met the sorceress Nimueh, disguised as one of the Mercian servants. His description tugs at the memory Arthur has almost forgotten. 

“I know her,” he realises, blood running cold. “She led me to the flower found in the caves beneath the Forest of Balor.”

“The Mortaeus flower.”

“Yes.”

Arthur remembers it like it was yesterday—it was the first time he could remember defying his father’s direct orders, the first time he contemplated that his father may not be as good as Arthur once thought. People still talk about it even now. Prince Arthur, risking his life for a lowly servant. It was too juicy a scandal not to spread. 

He remembers Nimueh’s steely blue-grey eyes, the blood-red of her lips and the way they curled into a nasty smirk when she left Arthur to be swallowed by the darkness of the cave.

He leans back against his chair, dazed. He had met the sorceress who took his mother’s life and he hadn’t even known. 

It’s Merlin’s turn to squeeze Arthur’s hand, a tender touch that anchors him back in the present. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No, I just—” Arthur says too quickly. “I wish I’d known that it was her.”

She gave him life and took his mother’s in return. He wonders if she knew what she had agreed to.

“She left me in that cave to die,” he recalls out loud. There would’ve been a poetic circularity to it, if one was that way inclined: that the woman who brought him to life should be the same person who led him to his death. “And I would have, if not for the light that guided me home.”

Someone had watched over him, sending him help when he needed it. He had thought that it was a guardian angel, but really, there could only be one person. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” says Merlin, looking away. “I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

He was unconscious and delirious with fever, and still, he managed to send Arthur help when Arthur needed it. There it is again: the feeling that something larger than them is binding them together. It’s the same reason why Arthur could visit Merlin in his dreams when Merlin was taken, Arthur is sure of it now. 

That was a turning point in their relationship, the moment they became more than just a servant and his lord. They hadn’t known each other for too long, then, but already, they were willing to give their lives to save the other.

Merlin leaves no detail behind, this time—he tells Arthur the truth about the time Arthur nearly eloped with Sophia, about the windstorm in Ealdor, about the griffin that attacked Camelot.

Arthur’s voice turns sharp when he demands, “Lancelot knew?”

Merlin grimaces. 

“Who else?”

“Nobody!” Merlin denies quickly, miserably. “Only my mother, Gaius, and Lancelot knew about my magic. Nobody else.”

Arthur knows that the surge of jealousy is irrational, but it makes itself keenly felt nonetheless. All those years, and Lancelot, too, had lied to him. But it does explain why Merlin was always so close to Lancelot, their heads ducked together whispering secrets only they knew. It explains the depth of Merlin’s grief when they lost Lancelot; he had gone so quiet, so withdrawn. So unlike his usual self that Arthur had given him a day off and told Gaius to keep a close eye on him. 

And then, he tells Arthur about the Questing Beast. 

Chapter Text

Arthur thought he knew how this was going to go. He thought he knew how he was going to react. It doesn’t stop his fingers from clenching instinctively around Merlin’s hands as Merlin tells him how he goes up to Nimueh to trade his life with Arthur’s own.

“You were saying goodbye.”

Merlin doesn’t meet his eyes, staring instead at their joined hands. “I was.”

“You told me that you’re happy to be my servant until the day you die,” Arthur shakes his head in disbelief. Merlin had intended to die that very night, and Arthur wouldn’t have known until it was far too late. How many times has this happened, how many times has he been blind to what was going on in his own kingdom? “Merlin—“ 

“That’s what I’m for,” replies Merlin softly. “Some men are born to plough fields, some live to be great physicians, others to be great kings.” His thumb strokes gently at Arthur’s wrist. “Me, I was born to serve you, Arthur. And I’m proud of that. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Arthur stares helplessly at the miracle of a man sitting in front of him, who eliminated one of Camelot’s greatest enemies in the night and got up the next day to polish Arthur’s boots. It’s still impossible to wrap his head around. 

“You saved the kingdom, over and over.”

“Sometimes,” says Merlin agreeably. “Mostly, I just saved you.”

“Why?” asks Arthur before he can stop himself. What has he ever done to deserve Merlin? What has he ever done to deserve Merlin’s loyalty and devotion, and how has he gone on for so long without realising any of this? He knows how he treated Merlin, though the memory brings him shame now. He’s the most powerful man in the room in every room he enters, the noblest by far. He’s the one people should bow to. He should be sleeping on the softest bed Camelot has to offer, clad in the finest silk they can find. He shouldn’t be sitting opposite Arthur wearing the tunic and trousers he has owned for years, rough-spun and threadbare, still looking skittish and fearful. What can Arthur possibly give him? “Why me?”

“For the longest time, I didn’t know why I was born like this,” Merlin says, a faraway look in his eyes. Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand, heart clenching with something he can’t quite name. Merlin peers up at him and smiles, indulgent, as though he can’t possibly believe that Arthur is even asking him this. “And then I met you. You gave me a purpose, something to believe in. Suddenly, my magic wasn’t a curse any longer. It was a gift. I could do so much good with it.”

“Oh,” Arthur replies, rather stupidly. It’s all he can say at the moment.

“Even though you can be a right enormous prat sometimes,” Merlin continues mischievously. 

Arthur clears his throat, blinking against the heat that prickles in his eyes. “At least I’m not an idiot.”

“Ooh,” Merlin cringes, eyes twinkling. “I’m not too sure about that, Sire.”

The thing is that Arthur wants to be angry. Merlin is all too willing to offer his life up just like that—so gladly, so readily, as if the decision was something easy. As if his life isn’t something precious, as if it wasn’t worth a hundred of Arthur’s. As if losing him wouldn’t tear Arthur completely apart, as if Arthur knows how to be without him.  

Should a similar situation arise—knowing Camelot, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility—who is to say that Merlin wouldn’t just do the exact same thing again?

Arthur demands, “Swear to me that you will never do anything like that again.” 

“Arthur, you know I can’t promise you that,” Merlin looks at him, something unreadable in his eyes and a proud tilt to his jaw. “I will do whatever it takes to save you, always.”

It sounds like an oath, it sounds like a death warrant. Realisation dawns, taking Arthur’s breath with it: the greatest danger Merlin faces is himself. Arthur doesn’t know the first thing about how he can protect Merlin from himself. The thought fills him with a sickening sort of fear.

“Swear to me, then,” Arthur demands again. “That no matter what adversity we face, we will face it together.” His voice hitches, hands beginning to shake in Merlin’s grasp. “Swear to me that I won’t wake up one day to find that the latest threat to my life has gone with you.” 

It was never something Arthur was truly worried about before, but the fear roots itself deeply now. 

Not for the first time that night, he fights the strong urge to shake Merlin and knock some sense into him. To keep him hidden from the rest of the world, safe and protected and warm, far away from where any harm can touch a single hair on his head. There isn’t enough room under his skin to contain what he feels for the man in front of him.

Rather than doing what his king asks him to, however, Merlin only sobers. “You may yet want me gone before the night is over,” he mumbles, misery twisting his expression. “Don’t—don’t say things like that. Not until you know everything I’ve done.”

Merlin tells him about the curse of Cornelius Sigan next, and how he bargained for the spell he used to defeat him. 

“I had to make the dragon a promise,” he says. “I was desperate. He was the only one who knew how to defeat Sigan and we didn’t have much time.”

Dread pools at the bottom of Arthur’s gut. “What did you promise him?”

Merlin’s hand shifts in Arthur’s grasp. He refuses to meet Arthur’s eyes, but surely this isn’t going where Arthur thinks it’s going?

“I swore to him that I will set him free,” Merlin finally confesses. “I held off as long as I could. But I did, eventually.”

Merlin doesn’t resist when Arthur withdraws his hands. Arthur leans back against his seat, stunned. A maelstrom of emotions rages inside him and eventually, he settles upon his anger. “Do you have any idea,” he grits out finally when he manages to find his words. “How many men I lost to that dragon in one night?”

Merlin does not have the grace to look contrite—if anything, his expression only hardens. He snatches his hand away from the desk as though burned. “That dragon is the only reason why Camelot was still standing,” he retorts defensively, frigid cold. It’s the angriest Arthur has ever seen him—it’s the first time Merlin’s anger has truly been directed at him, and it sends a chill trickling down his spine. “Sigan would have razed Camelot to the ground, had I not made that promise. How many people do you know would have the knowledge of a spell powerful enough to defeat Sigan?” He sneers. “And even if we managed to find them, who’s to say that they will help Camelot—the same Camelot, mind, that drove them into hiding and killed their friends and families—fight against the sorcerer powerful enough to exact revenge? Or do you think the answer would lie in a book, somewhere?”

Arthur snaps his jaws shut with a click, determinedly clinging to the last vestiges of his anger. “You should have known—“

“How?” demands Merlin. “How should I have known that he would exact revenge by killing the innocents of Camelot? Is it a given, then, that one so wronged would inevitably follow a path of violence and destruction in a fit of their rage?”

He’s not just talking about the dragon anymore, Arthur realises. He opens his mouth to respond, but Merlin beats him to it. “Do you think I don’t know how many innocents died the night he attacked Camelot?” His voice softens, thick regret colouring his words. “Do you think it doesn’t still keep me awake at night, even after so many years?” 

This is the weight he can sometimes see in Merlin’s eyes; the burden of his destiny, the guilt from the choices he made. It’s plain as day now, and Arthur has no idea how he manages to bear it alone. 

“Do you know what that’s like?” Merlin continues, “to know that you are completely alone in the world, the very last of your kin? To feel as the rest of your kin was needlessly slaughtered and know that there will never be another, and that’s how it will be, for all time?”

Arthur shakes his head mutely. 

“And despite all that Camelot has done to him and his kin, he was still willing to help me,” Merlin looks down at his hands, clasped together upon his lap. “I’m not blind. I know why he did it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he helped me save Camelot, multiple times.”

“When, then?” Arthur clears his throat. At Merlin’s questioning glance, he clarifies, “you said that you didn’t release him straight away after Sigan.”

“It was after Morgause’s first attack, when she came with the Knights of Medhir,” says Merlin, but his anger and defensiveness have all but evaporated. There are tears welling in his eyes, much to Arthur’s alarm. “The dragon told me that the only way the spell over Camelot can be broken is by killing the source of the magic.” He looks out the window. “Morgause had tied the spell to Morgana.”

“Merlin,” Arthur’s heart sinks, eyebrows pinched in a frown. “What did you do?”

“I poisoned her,” Merlin chokes out, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “I didn’t have much of a choice, in the end. I did what I had to do. And Morgause took her away in return for her breaking the spell.”

Arthur stands abruptly, slamming his hands on the table. He turns away, unable to face Merlin. “You had no right, Merlin,” he bites out, trembling with barely-contained fury. “She is my sister! You always have a choice!” He points an accusatory finger. “Did you know then, too?”

“I did.”

Arthur scoffs. Of course he did. Gods, no wonder he was so reluctant to tell Arthur about his secrets. No wonder Arthur had to force it out of him. It’s clear, now, why Merlin thought Arthur was going to send him away. To be fair, the sentiment isn’t exactly unappealing, right now.

Between his father’s hatred, Morgause’s manipulation, and the sodding dragon, was there ever a chance for her? 

“I tried to help her,” Merlin continues miserably. “I tried to make her feel less alone, but I couldn’t tell her about my magic.“

“Why not?”

“You have no idea, do you,” he says, and this time, each word sounds like it has been forced out of him. “What it’s like. To be constantly told that you’re a monster—an abomination—for something you can’t even help. To be feared and called evil for something you never chose. To know that if you ever told another living soul, you’ve forfeited their lives too.” His voice turns strangled. “You don’t know what it’s like to wonder if the people you care about only care about you because they don’t know the truth about you. If, perhaps, they will be calling for your execution too, should the truth ever come to light.”

Merlin is right; Arthur doesn’t. It must’ve been an awfully lonely existence, knowing that there was nowhere to turn. It’s easy to see how that fear and loneliness can poison a person from the inside out, twisting them into something unrecognisable. Arthur aches for him and Morgana both, and for countless others who had been in their position, separate and all alone.

But it doesn’t stop Arthur from mourning the future that could have been, either.

“She was different, then,” Arthur tells Merlin, almost imploringly. “There was still good in her.” He turns to face Merlin again, who looks as though he’s standing trial. Arthur supposes he is. “Even if you couldn’t tell her about your magic, you should have come to me.”

There must’ve been something Arthur could have done. Even if he couldn’t get her out of Camelot and to safety one way or another, he could’ve been there for her. He could have listened to her, looked for ways to help her. 

“What business did I have telling you about her magic, when I can’t even tell you about my own?” Merlin points out. “She is your sister, but you are her brother too. Much as you know her, she knows you. And—“

Merlin trails off, face turning white, but it’s already too late. Arthur heard what he was going to say loud and clear. “And it still wasn’t enough,” he finishes numbly. “And she still couldn’t tell me.”

It’s easy to forget too, sometimes, how Morgana had watched Arthur carry out Uther’s orders without flinching. She had watched as Arthur arrested sorcerer after sorcerer—people like her, even if Arthur hadn’t known it at the time—and brought them before Uther for execution. She had watched as Arthur returned from raid after raid, flushed with pride as Uther congratulated him for a job well done. 

Of course she didn’t tell him about her magic. What reason would Morgana have to tell him? Why wouldn’t she assume that Arthur wasn’t going to follow in Uther’s footsteps?

“I was the one who sent her to the Druids,” Merlin confesses. “I thought if I couldn’t help her, maybe they can.”

They both remember well how that went: Arthur had led a raid against the Druid camp, believing that they had kidnapped her.

“She wanted to stay with them,” continues Merlin. “She never wanted to come back.”

But it was her presence that led Arthur and Uther to the Druid camp. Morgana has always been clever; she would have realised it by then, how her presence only brought danger to whatever group would harbour her. How long would it have been before the Druids realised it too? How long until they realise that Uther would have torn the kingdom apart to find her, and nothing would have stood in the way of getting her back? Would they cast her out, leaving her with no one to turn to and the same hatred she now has for Uther? 

“She never told us that she left of her own accord,” Arthur finally says. He would have remembered, he is sure of it.

“Would it have made a difference?” Questions Merlin, a little resentfully. “Or would Uther have accused the Druids of ensorcelling her to turn her against him?”

Arthur falls silent again. He has a feeling that the latter would be the case. 

“I suppose we will never know,” he finally says. He clears his throat. “I gave Guinevere my word that once the repeal is complete, I will reach out to Morgana.”

Merlin stares, thoroughly stupefied. “What?”

Arthur wrests the urge to box Merlin’s ear and ask if there’s something wrong with his hearing. “I said I will reach out to her,” he squares his jaw in determination. “I will give her a chance to prove whether her cause is true or if vengeance is all that she wants.”

Merlin’s jaw works, but he doesn’t attempt to argue. It only annoys Arthur further. He snaps, “speak your mind, Merlin.”

“Is that a good idea, after everything she’s done?” It sounds like a plea. “Do you still think she deserves that chance?”

“I know she’s dangerous,” Arthur allows. It would be idiotic to disregard all the terrible things she's done. “But we failed her first.”

“She’s not completely without agency, either,” protests Merlin. “She aligned herself with Morgause—“

After Merlin poisoned her, Arthur doesn't say. After Merlin delivered her into Morgause’s waiting arms. 

“—who is a conniving enchantress, according to you,” Arthur points out, rather frostily, to Merlin’s answering wince. “A year is a long time to be spending under her influence.”

Merlin stares into the distance again. “I keep thinking about how differently things could have gone, even now,” he murmurs, thick with regret. “If I had told her about my magic. If I taught her how to control her magic, so she didn’t have to fear it. Perhaps I could have kept her from turning to Morgause.”

Arthur is silent. 

“I suppose it could also have been worse,” adds Merlin thoughtfully, “if she turned to Morgause anyway and I refused to help their cause. Maybe she would have told your father about my magic the way she accused Gwen,” he looks at Arthur again. “I do regret it. Every day. I just don’t know what else I could have done, at that moment. If it comes to choosing between you and her, I will choose you every time.” He sniffles, lips curling into a sardonic smile. “If it makes you feel better, she did have her revenge on me.”

Despite his lingering anger, Arthur stills, a terrible sense of unease growing in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“I thought that something about her was off after she returned, so I followed her into the woods,” Merlin tells him. “That’s how I found that she was meeting with Morgause, planning their attack on Camelot.”

They already lost her then, Arthur heard. The thing is that Arthur had noticed—he knows her too much not to notice how she had grown cold and distant, how her smiles never reached her eyes. There was a calculating glint in her eyes that wasn’t quite there before. And he had brushed it aside, dismissing it as an aftereffect of her imprisonment. 

“Morgana realised that I had followed her,” Merlin continues, oblivious to Arthur’s inner turmoil. “To keep me from coming back to warn you, Morgause chained me up and used her magic to make the chain unbreakable. It wasn’t long until the Serkets found me.”

Arthur’s blood runs cold. “You were missing for days,” he recalls out loud. “I asked you where you were.”

“And I told you that I was dying,” Merlin answers, that humourless smile still on his lips. “I wasn’t lying then.”

Arthur releases the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He can remember the enormous scorpion-like creatures from his studies as a youth—Serkets are known for their powerful venom, which can easily kill a man if left untreated. “And how did you survive it?”

“I called upon the dragon,” replies Merlin bluntly. “He carried me to safety and gave me an enchantment to help me heal.”

“You told me I killed him,” Arthur frowns, unsettled. “Are you telling me that he’s still alive?”

“He will never harm Camelot again,” Merlin promises. “I made sure of it.”

“And how,” Arthur forces through gritted teeth, “could you have possibly made sure of that?”

“He has no say on the matter,” Merlin straightens in his seat, his jaw set in a grim line. “He has to obey me.”

It’s not very often that Arthur finds himself lost for words. Now is one of those times.

“Balinor was my father,” Merlin reveals in a soft voice. “I am the last Dragonlord.”

Arthur’s first instinct is to laugh. It’s too far-fetched to believe, but so is everything else. 

It explains so much, in hindsight: Merlin’s silence on their quest to find Balinor, the bond they formed almost immediately, the way he grieved when Balinor was killed. He can’t imagine what that must’ve been like—to find his father only to lose him almost immediately after. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur wants to reach out again, offer his hands to Merlin. He’s not sure if he should. “It must’ve been difficult.”

“Thank you.”

“Where is he now?” asks Arthur. “The dragon, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Merlin shrugs. “Enjoying his freedom, I suppose. Flying all around Albion. It’s been a while since I heard from him.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you had him,” Arthur offers, and he is surprised to find that he means it. He might not be too pleased to know that the dragon may be loose somewhere in Camelot, but Merlin would have died a long, agonising death if not for the dragon’s help. He dreads to think about it now—how long would it have been until Arthur noticed that something was truly wrong? How long would it have been until he goes out looking for Merlin, only to find his corpse in the forest, chained and unrecognisable from the Serket’s poison?

Arthur clears his throat, forcing himself to dispel the thought. “Is that all, then?”

“No,” says Merlin, but there is a lightness in him that Arthur hasn’t seen in years. “But that’s probably the worst of it.”

"Oh, go on then," groans Arthur. "Best get it over with."

Chapter Text

Merlin tells him about the Dorocha next, and this, Arthur remembers as though it was just yesterday, not least because they lost Lancelot that night. Of all the unusual things Arthur has encountered in his adventures, it is the memory of the Dorocha that still sends a chill down his spine. He can still hear the echo of the shrieks of the dead in his ears, feel the frosty gusts of wind whipping his hair. 

It was also the second time Arthur was forced to contemplate the possibility of losing Merlin—that he knew of at the time, anyway. 

Merlin had bumbled along without a second’s hesitation, unflinching as he followed Arthur to the jaws of death. It was monumentally stupid of Arthur, in hindsight—he should have ordered Merlin to stay in Camelot. But then again, Merlin probably wouldn’t have listened. He probably would have followed Arthur instead of doing what he was told.

“They went through you,” Arthur recalls out loud. He remembers reaching out to stop Merlin from doing something so idiotic. He had reached as far as he could but his fingers only grazed Merlin’s sleeve, quick but not nearly quick enough, and damn him but Merlin can be fast when he wanted to be. So Arthur watched helplessly as Merlin lunged at the Dorocha, shouting Merlin’s name, thinking no, no, NO—

“You tried to stop me,” says Merlin, interrupting Arthur’s line of thought and ripping him back to the present. “I remember.”

Arthur remembers, too, as the Dorocha flung Merlin like a rag doll—he can still hear the sickening crack of bone as Merlin’s body slammed hard against the stone wall. Remembers as he ran—he never ran faster in his life—completely numb and his mind a litany of pleas. Remembers the way his heart sank as he touched Merlin’s ice-cold skin, the staunch denial even as he turned Merlin over. Merlin’s eyes were wide open, frost clinging to his eyelashes, and Arthur had sunk, a puppet with its strings cut. 

It wasn’t until Leon grabbed him by the shoulders, repeating “he’s alive, Arthur, he’s breathing” that Arthur could feel his fingers again. He had wanted to turn back immediately so he can get Merlin to Gaius. He had wanted to abandon the quest. Closing the torn veil would have required a sacrifice, sure, but Merlin’s life was never a sacrifice Arthur was willing to make.

“You wouldn’t let me come with you.”

“Of course not,” Arthur scoffs. “What did you think I was going to do? Carry you to the brink and toss you into the torn veil?”

“I was dying anyway,” replies Merlin breezily. “There was every chance I wouldn’t make it back to Camelot.” 

Merlin’s casual reply only sparks Arthur’s anger again. “Have you always valued your life this cheaply, Merlin?” he asks sharply. He wonders who had burrowed into Merlin’s head and convinced him of this—Arthur would rather like to meet them in person so he can use them as target practice several times over. 

“Arthur,” Merlin smiles indulgently, as though speaking to a child who is yet to understand how the world works. “I’m only a servant.”

Arthur prickles, heat rising up his cheeks. They were his words, said too often and never meant once. His voice is strangled when he says, “if you truly believe that, Merlin, then I have failed you too.”

Merlin softens, bright eyes terribly fond. “It’s the truth,” he insists, but his voice is gentle. “Just as it is your duty to serve Camelot, it is my duty to serve you.”

It’s not the first time anybody has ever made such an oath. Men pledge their lives to him day in and day out; it is simply the reality of being king. Merlin, though, has always been singular. “Not at the cost of your own life,” Arthur pleads. His heart is racing again, and the fear returns in full force: that Merlin will embark on a foolhardy plan to save Arthur and never return, that Arthur will wake after being knocked unconscious only to find Merlin’s lifeless body by his side, that Arthur will try his best to save Merlin anyway and it will not be enough. “Never at the cost of your own life, do you understand?”

“What is the life of a servant, compared to that of a king?” replies Merlin, before revealing: “I came with you to the Isle of the Blessed to begin with because it was my intention to sacrifice myself.” He is fussing with the hem of his sleeve, oblivious to the way his words caused Arthur’s heart to stutter to a stop. “It was never meant to be Lancelot. It was always meant to be me.”

Arthur swallows. “What happened that night, at the altar?”

“He beat me to it,” answers Merlin, as though it really was that simple. “It was my fault. I never should have let the Cailleach distract me.”

But it was never supposed to be Lancelot going through the tear. Hell, it was never even supposed to be Merlin. It was supposed to be Arthur. 

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Arthur gives Merlin’s hand a squeeze. “At the end of the day, it was his decision. We must respect that.”

Merlin nods, but his head is ducked. Arthur catches a glimpse of Merlin’s glistening tears and looks away to give his friend some privacy. 

Merlin must miss Lancelot terribly. The one friend he had—other than Gaius, but Gaius has always been more of a father than a friend—and Lancelot, too, was taken from him. Arthur didn’t miss the way grief had draped itself over Merlin’s shoulders in the months that came after. They all mourned, of course, but Merlin was hit particularly hard. He didn’t smile for weeks, didn’t speak unless addressed. He might not have walked into the tear, but a part of him certainly did alongside Lancelot. Not even Arthur’s most incessant teasing could bring him back.

“I saw the ghost of him in Thomas’ dungeon. He didn’t say a word, just sat next to me.” He hiccoughs wetly. “It was all so much easier to bear when he was here.”

Arthur aches for him. He of all people knows what it feels like to be so alone, to look around a room full of friends and still feel like nobody can understand his burden. But this is a different beast entirely. Merlin looks so small sitting across from him, folded in upon himself and rocked by the force of his grief.

There’s a tightness in Arthur’s chest, heavy and constricting, and it doesn’t loosen until he says, “I’m sorry.”

Merlin shakes his head mutely. Arthur isn’t one to express things in words, so he does the next best thing he can think of: he lays his hands on the table again, willing Merlin to take it. Merlin doesn’t. Arthur reckons that he just doesn’t see it, being too wrapped up in his grief. The possibility that Merlin is refusing to reach him is one Arthur refuses to contend with. 

“It’s not your fault.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Arthur sighs. “I just—I wish you didn’t have to bear it alone.” 

But this is exactly what his father’s hatred does: a lifetime of fear and loneliness and pain. Even after he was gone, his ghost still leaves an indelible mark on the people he sought to destroy. Arthur feels like he is seeing Merlin for the first time—not only through his secrecy and his lies, but also what the secrecy and lies have cost him. This is what his continuation of his father’s legacy looks like. And Arthur, too, has played an active role in inflicting Merlin pain, and he will continue to inflict it if he doesn’t repeal the laws he inherited. 

“Thank you,” Merlin mutters, using the sleeve of his tunic to wipe his tears. He still doesn’t take Arthur’s hand. When it becomes clear that Merlin wouldn’t, Arthur withdraws, a heaviness sinking into the pit of his stomach. He tells himself that Merlin probably just didn’t notice. 

It takes a while before Merlin speaks again. When he does, it is to tell Arthur the truth about his father’s death. 

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says in a near-whisper when Merlin finishes talking. Distantly, he is aware that he ought to be feeling something—a sense of betrayal, perhaps, or just plain anger. It’s curious that he feels nothing at all. “If a cursed necklace is to blame for my father’s death—if Morgana and Agravaine were at fault all along—why didn’t anybody just tell me?”

“How many people knew about your plan to use magic to heal your father?” Merlin retorts, already defensive. “Would you have believed it if Gaius said it was Agravaine?"

“I don’t know, Merlin,” snaps Arthur. “It certainly would have been nice to be able to make that judgement for myself. Or do you think it’s unlikely that I could do the right thing at all?”

“He was your uncle,” Merlin points out, “you trusted him more than anyone else.” And then he adds, rather callously, “and it did come to choosing between Gaius and Agravaine, remember?”

Arthur suppresses a wince. He remembers full well who he chose, and what that choice nearly cost him. 

“You saw me using magic on your father and he died before your eyes,” Merlin adds. “Would it have mattered who did it?”

“Yes,” Arthur bites out. “Yes, Merlin, it would have.”

“It was still magic that killed him,” insists Merlin, obstinate as ever. “Mine, Morgana’s—what does it matter? The result was still the same.”

Arthur blinks, taken aback. He stares wordlessly and wonders when it was that Merlin began to lose the bright glimmer of optimism he once had. When did he begin to lose hope, and why hadn’t Arthur noticed it sooner?

“You cannot truly believe that,” Arthur demands, incredulous. “You tried to heal him where Morgana tried to kill him. Surely you cannot think that the two are the same, in any way, whatsoever—“

“Uther wouldn’t have died then, if I hadn’t tried—“

“You are, no doubt, the most infuriating man I have ever met,” Arthur huffs. “You couldn’t have known what Morgana and Agravaine were up to.”

Merlin glances at him, surprise evident in his wide eyes. His nose is still red, face still wet with tears. “You are taking this better than I expected you to.”

“Trust me, I can hardly believe it myself,” Arthur lets out a self-deprecating snort. “I should have realised that something was amiss,” he admits. “It never made any sense why the sorcerer—well, you—would go back on your word when everything you wanted was finally within your grasp.”

Now that he is several years removed from it, Arthur can say with certainty that he never should have tried using magic to begin to save his father’s life, least of all because it would have betrayed everything his father believed in. But he was desperate. He was fearful. Kingship was finally upon his shoulders and he felt ill-equipped to deal with it.

He would have gone so far as to say that it would’ve been the opposite of his father’s wishes, once. But that was before he found out the truth about his birth. 

“Gaius said outright that you didn’t kill my father,” Arthur tells him. “He said that you tried everything in his power to save him.”

One day you will learn, Arthur, Gaius had said. One day you will understand just how much they’ve done for you.

“You should have told me about the necklace.”

Merlin is silent for a long time.

“I know,” he finally allows. He is looking down to where his hands are folded upon his lap. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur nods, satisfied. But something still bothers him, impossible to ignore in the back of his mind: “When did you learn the truth about Agravaine’s loyalties?”

Merlin shifts in his seat. “After the Dorocha,” he admits. “He came into Gaius’ chambers to ask about Emrys. He only could’ve heard that name from Morgana.”

It’s far earlier than Arthur thought. And to think that Arthur never suspected Agravaine, not even once—

“I didn’t have any proof that he was in league with Morgana,” Merlin elaborates when Arthur doesn’t respond. “I know how dear he is to you.”

After Uther died, Agravaine was the only family Arthur had left. He was the last link Arthur had to his mother, and now Arthur has none. 

“You must think I was such a fool to trust him,” Arthur murmurs with no small amount of bitterness. To be taken advantage of so easily, to be betrayed by everyone he trusted—is he so naive, so gullible? Is that how his people see him?

“You see the good in people,” replies Merlin earnestly. “That’s not a weakness, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts. “I’m sure my father would tell you otherwise.”

“He’s not the king anymore,” counters Merlin. “You are. And it was Uther that Agravaine and Morgana hated. Not you.”

Despite himself, Arthur’s lips curl into a reluctant smile. It’s a blatant untruth, but Arthur appreciates the effort anyway. “It’s still me they betrayed, Merlin.”

“Agravaine blamed Uther for the deaths of his siblings. You had nothing to do with that,” Merlin insists. “Morgana despised Uther for a life lived in fear. You were—caught in the middle.” He leans closer, holds Arthur’s gaze with a sincerity that takes Arthur by surprise. “You were always more than your father’s son. They never should have directed their hatred at you.”

Perhaps not. They did it anyway.

Arthur looks at Merlin in wonder. It’s at this moment precisely that he realises: whatever he feels towards Merlin, he is certain that Merlin feels exactly the same. He said it before, but it’s only now that Arthur understands—his loyalty is to Arthur and Arthur alone. He would fall on Arthur’s sword before he would betray Arthur. He is as central to Merlin’s being as Merlin is to his: two halves of a whole. 

It’s terrifying, really, that devotion of such magnitude should be directed solely at him. 

A thought occurs to him then: he could kiss Merlin then and there. He could pull Merlin in and truly make the way he feels about Merlin known, put everything he is into the kiss and leave nothing to misinterpretation. Who is going to stop him?

“Shall I continue?”

Arthur swallows, snapping back onto himself. Well.

When Arthur nods, Merlin speaks again, relating the truth of what happened after they were ambushed in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. 

“We searched the woods for days,” Arthur tells him. He sent search party after search party, and none of them returned with anything but a scrap of Merlin’s bloodied jacket. He still has that scrap, cleaned and tucked in the deepest corner of his chest, along with his mother’s sigil and other tokens of great importance. It’s a reminder of what he very nearly lost. 

“They were Morgana’s men,” says Merlin. “Agravaine informed her of your route.”

“She took you?”

“Kept me in her hovel for a bit,” he mumbles, his mouth set in a grim line. “Healed my wound before implanting a fomorroh in my neck.” At Arthur’s questioning glance, he grimaces before elaborating, “It’s a serpent-like creature of dark magic, used by High Priestesses to control a person’s mind.”

Arthur straightens in his seat, suddenly very very still. 

“She ordered me to kill you,” Merlin says quietly. “Unfortunately for her—and fortunately for you, I suppose—I made as terrible an assassin as I make a servant.”

“You could’ve killed me with a thought if you wanted to,” Arthur breathes out. He saw Merlin do it, didn’t he, that day in Thomas’ dungeon? Merlin could have killed him in his sleep, and none would be the wiser.

“I tried my best to fight it, but the fomorroh consumed my mind nonetheless,” Merlin smiles, a bleak little thing. “I remember everything that I did. I couldn’t stop, no matter how badly I wanted to.”

A prisoner in his own body. Arthur can’t imagine anything more horrific. “Allow me to get this straight. Morgana took you.”

Merlin shrinks under Arthur’s furious glare. “Yes.”

“She put a creature of dark magic inside your neck so she can control your thoughts.”

“With the command to kill you, yes.”

Arthur exhales very very slowly, fingers curling into a fist as he tries to get his frustration under control. “Any excuse why you kept me in the dark for this one, Merlin?”

“I—“ Merlin flusters, trailing off. “Killing the fomorroh would’ve required magic, and—“

“You didn’t want me to find out about your magic,” Arthur finishes for him. 

“I was afraid of what it would lead to,” Merlin says in a small voice. “I couldn’t control it, Arthur, I—“ he sighs. “If you were to lock me up until we figured it out, I would have used my magic to escape. If you were to fight me, I would have used my magic to fight you back. If you were to knock me unconscious while you sought Morgana out—“

“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions about what I would’ve done, Merlin.”

“I just couldn’t risk it,” Merlin wrings his hands. “I’m sorry.”

But Arthur isn’t done. “You knew where she was.”

“I did,” Merlin looks down, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I had to destroy the mother beast to keep the fomorroh from growing back in my neck.”

“You fought her.”

“Not as myself,” there is no joy in his admission. “As Emrys. I won, but even after everything—I still couldn’t kill her.”

Arthur forces himself to breathe slowly, in and out. “I am unbelievably furious at you.”

“I should have told you,” Merlin shrinks impossibly smaller. “I know.”

It’s not like Arthur doesn’t understand why Merlin hid it. It doesn’t mean that he is any less angry. They could’ve found Morgana. They could’ve confronted her and finished everything once and for all before she wreaks any more havoc in the kingdom. He understands too, now, Merlin’s reluctance to make peace with Morgana. To be fair to him, the concept sounds exponentially far less appealing now. 

There is fear too, somewhere beneath his anger. It’s another close call—how many times has he come close to losing Merlin without even realising it?

“Swear to me this,” Arthur implores in earnest. “No more lies, Merlin. No more hiding the truth from me.”

Merlin looks up in surprise, glimmering eyes bright with promise. “I swear.”

It’s difficult to stay angry when Merlin looks at him like this: as though Arthur is all that he can see. As though there is no one else and there never will be. 

“Good.” Arthur clears his throat, breaking eye contact to glance out the window. They had been talking for hours—where dusk had only just descended when Merlin entered his chambers, the moon is now high in the sky. “It’s late,” Arthur notes. “Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow.”

Merlin follows Arthur’s gaze, but he is hesitant. “One more thing,” replies Merlin, looking nervous. “Sorry. Just—please. It’s important.”

He is biting his lip, his anxiety palpable. Arthur’s heart sinks again in trepidation.

“Very well.”

Chapter Text

Merlin tells him the truth about the second time Morgana took over Camelot, about how he managed to get Arthur to leave and retreat to safety. 

Of all the things Merlin has told him tonight, this is what makes Arthur stop still. This is the thing that makes him question everything all over again. He never would have thought that Merlin, of all people, would be capable of something like this. 

For a moment after Merlin finishes telling his tale, there is only silence. Arthur stares. He wonders again, now, whether he ever knew Merlin as well as he thought he did. 

“You used your magic against me.”

Merlin’s eyes are glassy. “Yes.”

“You used your magic to take away my free will and obey your command.”

“I didn’t want to,” Merlin looks as though he already has his neck on the executioner’s block. “But you were injured, and you would never have gone willingly. The castle was overrun and it was only going to be a matter of time before they’d kill you, and I couldn’t—“

“Then I should have died fighting!” Arthur shouts, causing Merlin to flinch violently in his seat. “You know I never would have abandoned my people and left them in Morgana’s hands!” Merlin is still as a statue, eyes closed as his tears roll down his cheeks again. “You overstepped, Merlin. You had no right to make any such decisions for a kingdom. Especially not against her king’s will.”

“I was desperate,” Merlin says in a near whisper. “I couldn’t let you die.”

“I wasn’t dying,” Arthur scoffs. “I could’ve still fought.”

“It was only a matter of time before Morgana captured you,” Merlin’s eyes are still closed; he still can’t look at Arthur. He’s holding his breath although it will be enough to make himself disappear. “And if Camelot was to stand a chance at all, you had to live long enough to recapture her.”

The thing is, Merlin may have well been right. And the outcome may have been the absolute best they could have hoped for; a recaptured Camelot, Morgana’s forces defeated, his traitor uncle dead. It still doesn’t erase the piercing sense of betrayal. If they had stayed on, Morgana could very well have captured and killed him, conquering Camelot once and for all. Perhaps she would’ve killed all who refused to kneel before her as she did years ago. Perhaps she would have set their crops ablaze too, ensuring that their children have nowhere to turn. 

Merlin’s intentions were indubitably noble. It doesn’t mean that Arthur isn’t seeing Merlin in a completely new light. 

The same Merlin who smiles at the sight of butterflies. The same Merlin Arthur has caught petting rabbits rather than hunting them. The Merlin who swore absolute fealty to him, to the death, time and time again. It is unthinkable that that same Merlin would be capable of something as chilling as taking Arthur’s free will. He looks at Merlin and wonders if perhaps he ought to feel fear.

Arthur grits his teeth. “That never should have been your decision to make.”

Merlin doesn’t try to defend himself, accepting Arthur’s judgement instead. He’s trembling like a leaf. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, wretched and fearful.

“Every time I think I know you—“ Arthur trails off. He runs his fingers through his hair again, frustrated. Is there an end to Merlin’s secrets? Why is it that every time Arthur uncovers something new about him, another puzzle comes along?

Merlin opens his eyes to look at him with beseeching eyes. “You still do.”

“The Merlin I know would never do something like this,” Arthur maintains. “The Merlin I know would never even contemplate it.”

Something shatters in Merlin’s expression. But how dare he look at Arthur like that—as if he is the one who is hurt, as if Arthur is the one breaking his heart—when Arthur is the one who should still be furious? 

Merlin visibly steels himself, turning his gaze heavenward. His eyes are red-rimmed, resigned. “If you change your mind about—well, everything—I’d understand.”

“That’s not the answer,” snaps Arthur impatiently. “You’ve broken my trust, Merlin.”

“I know,” Merlin’s reply is barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” Arthur demands, incredulous. Is he not even going to fight for it—fight for himself? 

“What would you like me to say, Arthur?” Merlin’s voice breaks. “That I shouldn’t have done it? That I should’ve let you return to the fight, injured and weakened, and do nothing as Morgana and her men kill you? There was no time to argue. They were coming and they had complete control of the castle. If you were to survive—if Camelot was to survive—we had to leave then. I did what I had to do.” He exhales slowly. “Would you have preferred it if somebody knocked you out and carried you outside of Camelot?”

“I would have preferred to make my own decision!”

“Your decision would have got you killed,” Merlin points out flatly, matter-of-factly. As if anything else was simply a wilful delusion. He is drained and no longer weeping, gone past the point of emotions. “Your decision would have left Camelot in Morgana’s hands with no chance to retake it. She would’ve tortured everyone you held dear and murdered every last dissident still loyal to you until there is no one left. She would’ve burnt everything you built to the ground. Is that what you would have preferred?” Something cold creeps into his expression, steel and determination in the way he holds himself together. It would’ve been fascinating to watch if the coldness isn’t aimed at Arthur. “It would have been an honourable death, to die alongside your people. But what purpose would your death achieve?” His mouth tightens. “This was bigger than honour. This was ensuring that there even was a Camelot to return to.”

Childish, Arthur hears. Naive.

Merlin is speaking about ideals like nobility, duty and honour as though they were trifle things—values children only read in books but adults should know better than to strictly adhere to. He speaks about them as though they are not the very cornerstones of Arthur’s morality. Merlin doesn’t have to say explicitly how sometimes, it would pay to be a bit more practical. Arthur hears it nonetheless. 

Arthur gets a distinct feeling that he is being judged and has been found lacking. So he bristles, defensive. “Are you expecting me to be thankful, Merlin?”

“No,” Merlin admits, but he is looking at Arthur although he is seeing Arthur for the first time. As though he, too, is now realising that he doesn’t know Arthur as well as he hoped he would. “You have every right to be angry. I just—I had hoped that you would be a bit—“ he sighs. “I don’t know. More understanding, I suppose.”

Arthur knew this conversation was always going to be difficult. He knew it was going to upend his world again, driving him to question everything he thought he knew. He thought he was prepared for whatever Merlin had to say, thought they would be strong enough to withstand this and not break under the strain. And now, this, too, is cast into doubt. 

Arthur tells himself he asked for this. He tells himself it’s better to know the truth and make informed decisions than not to know at all and turn a blind eye. Merlin hadn’t wanted to tell him, and it’s clear why he reacted so strongly. Why Arthur had to beg the truth out of him.

“You know, it was all only ever for you,” Merlin confesses softly, but he’s looking down at his hands again, picking at something Arthur can’t see. 

Arthur knows. He doesn’t know if it makes things better or worse. 

“Prove it,” Arthur tries to order, but it comes out rather like a plea. “All the things you said you did—the battles you fought in my name, the things you said you did to save me—can you prove any of it?”

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t believe him. It’s not that his trust in Merlin is completely broken yet. But Merlin’s word is all he has to go on for tonight, although he is sure that Gaius will be able to corroborate his story. 

Merlin’s expression shutters nonetheless. He stands, taking off his neckerchief in slow, deliberate movements so Arthur can clearly see what he’s doing. Arthur inhales sharply upon seeing the raw, red mark encircling Merlin’s neck, no doubt from the cold iron collar Thomas’ men fitted on him. The neckerchief is soon joined by Merlin’s shirt, and it steals anything Arthur had to say from the tip of his tongue. He slumps against his chair in stunned silence. 

Merlin’s body is covered by scars. Some of the nasty cuts and painful-looking bruises are no doubt recent, but beyond that—

“Merlin,” Arthur chokes out, his tongue too thick for his mouth and his words stuck somewhere between his throat and his lips. He finds that he can’t say anything else.

Merlin turns around and tips his head forward. “This one is from the fomorroh,” he points at the white line at the base of his neck. “Gaius had to cut the skin open each time a new head spawns in place of the one he just took out.” He shudders. “This one,” he waves at craggy red lines crisscrossing across his back, “is from the serket sting.”

He turns to face Arthur, though he is still not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “This one is from Nimueh,” Merlin gestures at the pale burn mark across his chest. The pink skin there is knotted and twisted, glistening where the candlelight flickers. “She threw fireballs at me when we battled, and it struck me just here.” His lips quirk up in bland amusement, for reasons beyond Arthur’s comprehension. “I wasn’t sure how long I was unconscious for—I think she thought I was dead and she never bothered to check. This one,” he gestures at a different set of scars, overlapping with the burn scar from Nimueh. “Is from the mercenary Morgana sent our way—you know, the one with the mace.” Arthur recognises that one—he had seen it, after all, when he was checking Merlin’s wound. 

“But I looked over that wound,” Arthur exhales, confused. He takes in each scar—there are more marks marring Merlin’s skin than the ones he told Arthur about, each one representing a story Arthur is yet to uncover, but he has seen enough. If he wanted proof, there it is now, all laid bare before his eyes. He’s seen Merlin’s body before—they’ve swam together in ponds and bathed side by side in rivers on many a summer’s day. He is not blind. He certainly would have noticed Merlin’s map of scars. Not even Arthur has that many battle wounds, and he is a seasoned warrior. “I don’t understand. I’ve seen you half-naked before.”

“I used a glamour,” answers Merlin. “And now, well. I’ve promised you no more lies, haven’t I?”

Arthur nods, still reeling from the shock. “Show me.”

Merlin mutters something low and guttural, eyes flashing gold. Slowly, each scar begins to fade, leaving Merlin’s pale skin smooth and unblemished once more. This is what’s familiar. The implication isn’t lost on Arthur.

It’s the first time Arthur has ever asked Merlin to use his magic, he realises. And he only did it to ask Merlin to hide himself again. Merlin does it with such little effort, casual as anything as if it has become second nature to hide himself, born from his sense of self-preservation. 

Arthur feels rather queasy. “All right. Take it off.”

Merlin obeys. It’s mesmerising, the way the scars repaint themselves on Merlin’s skin. Arthur can’t help but watch, entranced.

“Merlin, what on earth will I do with you?” Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t know where all the anger the thought burned under his skin has gone. Its sudden absence leaves Arthur drained, heart-sore. “You are just so—“ Selfless. Incredibly brave, unflinchingly loyal, and altogether too good. 

Merlin grins knowingly. “Stupid?”

“No,” chides Arthur, all too quickly. “Not that.”

There is nothing that Arthur could’ve done that would merit all that Merlin has sacrificed for him—nothing can be worth this. There aren’t enough words to describe the magnitude of everything Merlin has done for Arthur, let alone describe him, describe everything he is to Arthur. He is struck speechless once again, words on the tip of his tongue only for him to swallow them back down.

Merlin fumbles with the shirt he lays on the table, moving his arms as though to cover himself. “Can I put this back on?”

Arthur gesticulates vaguely to convey his assent. Merlin puts his shirt back on, but Arthur’s eyes are only drawn to the redness encircling Merlin’s wrists, no doubt from Thomas’ cold iron cuffs. Arthur hadn’t noticed these, either, all those nights he spent holding Merlin’s hands when he was unconscious in Gaius’ chamber. The darkness and Merlin’s long sleeves hid them well enough, but now the marks stand stark against the pale of his skin.

He holds out an asking hand. “Can I see?”

Merlin draws closer; not quite hesitant but not exactly leaping with eagerness either. He places his wrist gingerly in Arthur’s upturned hand, infinitely trusting. 

Arthur’s breath catches as he strokes his thumb across the inside of Merlin’s wrist, careful that his thumb only barely grazes the raw, exposed skin. Merlin doesn’t flinch. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Merlin says breathlessly, his voice barely above a whisper. He is frozen, wide-eyed, so still he can’t be breathing. 

It dawns on Arthur then: if he was to reach for his sword, Merlin wouldn’t defend himself against Arthur. If Arthur was to condemn him to the pyre, Merlin will simply let him. He wouldn’t try to fight it. He wouldn’t try to escape. If he was to send Merlin into exile—he will probably obey and continue saving Arthur’s life from afar. 

It’s as humbling as it is terrifying. 

He carefully lets go of Merlin’s hand, resolutely ignoring the way his own heart mourns the loss of the touch. 

“You are never to do it again,” Arthur murmurs. “No matter how desperate it gets. You are never to use your magic against me again, do you understand?”

Merlin finally meets Arthur’s eyes, holding his gaze painfully earnestly. “I swear it, Sire.”

And Arthur believes him, for better or for worse. He’s seen the truth mapped over Merlin’s skin—what more proof does he need of Merlin’s loyalty? “Very well,” he says, his throat dry. “You told me the bad. Will you tell me the good, now, as well?”

Merlin impossibly brightens, his little smile lighting up his entire face. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he suggests, but there is infinite fondness in the way he says it. And then he adds, teasing gently, “you know what you’re like when you don’t get enough sleep.”

Arthur glances out the window. It is very late indeed, and unfortunately for him, there is no shortage of the number of things that will require his attention in the morning. It has been a long day for them both, but perhaps even more for Merlin, who is barely suppressing a yawn. 

Arthur reminds himself that Merlin is still recovering from his ordeal. There is no need to uncover everything tonight—Merlin will still be here in the morning.

“Stay in the antechamber tonight,” requests Arthur before he could stop himself.

Merlin’s eyebrow raises, though only barely. When he replies, it is with infinite tenderness in his eyes, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I don’t think the bed is made.”

“So? Just use your magic,” Arthur rolls his eyes, fighting to suppress the flush that threatens to colour his cheeks. “Don’t lie to me and say you’ve never used it to do your chores, Merlin. I’d find that very difficult to believe.”

“Okay,” Merlin grins outright, eyes glimmering. “As you wish, Sire.”

Arthur nods, smiling.

They will be fine. They have all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes to moonlight flooding his room and a sense of unease winding tightly around his chest. He sits up, blindly reaching for the cup of water on his bedside table. He squints outside the window; it is nearly dawn. He has only been asleep for a couple of hours. It’s a calm, peaceful night, and everything seems to be in order—Arthur isn’t sure what woke him, nor is he sure of the reason why his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

His eyes are drawn to the door separating his chamber from the antechamber. Wonders, absently, if Merlin manages to have a restful night of sleep. If his nightmares are still plaguing him. If he is well and all right and not too distraught over everything that transpired that night. 

He thinks again of the way Merlin went white when Arthur forced the truth out of him. How he kept glancing at Arthur as though he would draw his sword and run Merlin through then and there. It’s no surprise that he reacted that way, truly, considering the severity of his deeds. Arthur can’t say that he doesn’t understand—hell, he isn’t sure if he wouldn’t have reacted the same way. 

He marvels again about Merlin’s strength. How did Merlin bear this burden alone? Lord knows Arthur understands too well how isolating duty can feel, and he has an army of advisors. He has his knights and he has his friends. He has Merlin, although he is not sure if the same was ever true in reverse. Merlin had Gaius, sure, and for a time, he had Lancelot. But he could never share the weight of his duty with anybody else. Not truly. Not when the ramifications of his lies still tied his tongue, and not when Arthur's laws still hang over his head. 

Merlin said it was never about the laws. Perhaps it’s true, but Arthur would hazard a guess that it plays a non-insignificant part. Telling another soul would be placing their lives on the line, and if Arthur has learned one thing about Merlin tonight, it’s that he’s selfless to the point of death—he’d bend and break before he’d risk an innocent life.

He sighs, grabbing a pillow and letting it drop on his face. There isn’t any reason for Arthur to be worried now—well, not really. They’d gone through the worst bit and he has faith that things will mend again. Merlin is as safe as can be, probably snoring away in the antechamber. He’s as well as can be. He’s recovering, and he will continue to recover until the bruises fade from his skin and his ears no longer ring with whatever poison Thomas had been feeding him. And now that there are no more secrets between them, surely things can only improve from here on out. 

But cool logic never stopped Arthur’s heart from racing nonetheless. He tells himself that his agitation is without reason, but before he knows what he is doing, he is up, grabbing his sword and pulling on a pair of sleep trousers before walking towards the thin wall separating his room from Merlin’s. His fingers itch with the urge to open the door and check that everything is all right, but he ignores it, pressing his ear against the door instead. He can’t hear anything beyond the thick wood, and the lack of sound should be reassuring in itself. Quiet means that everything is well. Quiet means that Merlin is still safe, soundly asleep in the room, and there isn’t any disturbance.

But there isn’t any harm in checking, surely? 

Arthur’s resolve doesn’t last long. He cedes to the urge and turns the doorknob as quietly as he can, popping his head in when the door swings open without the barest creak. 

Merlin is a still lump on the bed, curled into a little ball facing Arthur, his breathing soft and even and unlabored. His forehead is unlined, red lips slightly parted as he snores softly. He has his blanket pulled right up to his ear, and Arthur’s muscles relax from the tension he didn’t realise he was under upon the sight, a helpless small smile forming on his lips. He is so stupidly in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Arthur slips back into his room, the door closing softly behind him. He leans back against the door. He can’t hear Merlin’s soft snore from here, but should anything happen, he’s sure he would be able to hear it. He glances at his very warm, very comfortable, and very inviting bed. And despite his better judgement, he slides down onto the cold stone floor, a loose grip around the hilt his sword. Sitting guard, just in case. 

He exhales slowly. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of how ridiculous he is being. He will regret this in the morning. His back will protest and he will ache all day tomorrow, but it will be worth the peace of mind he gets now. 

Arthur wakes to Merlin staring curiously at him, head cocked to one side like a curious puppy. Arthur most decidedly does not jump; a king is far too dignified for such a reaction. 

“Good morning,” greets Merlin with a fond little smile. For that brief moment, he sounds just like the man he was before Thomas abducted him—just like the man he was before he spilt all his secrets to Arthur.

Arthur flusters and stands fluidly, ignoring the unbecoming way his joints pop.

“Did you stay there all night?” Merlin’s voice is far too quiet, far too hesitant, and there is a small crease between his brows.

“Of course not,” replies Arthur haughtily, brushing non-existent lint off of his trousers. He hadn’t meant to stay there until the sun is up, clearly. He had intended to wake at dawn and drag himself back to bed to avoid this exact situation. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s all right if you did,” replies Merlin. Everything about him softens, from the lines of his shoulders to the muscles around his eyes. 

“I know it’s all right,” Arthur scoffs. His words catch up with his ears, and to his utter mortification, his cheeks begin to warm, a flush climbing its way up from his bare chest. 

“Can’t have been comfortable.”

Arthur snaps, “shouldn’t you be fetching my breakfast?”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t sure if I’m still your servant,” he shuffles nervously. “After—well, you know. Everything.”

Arthur would happily sign away half his kingdom if it gets Merlin to leave him alone in this instant. “You won’t be for long if you don’t go to fetch my breakfast right now.”

Merlin steps back hurriedly, that little smile wiped off his face. “Of course,” he mumbles, “at once, Sire.”

Merlin gets all the way to the door before Arthur calls on him again. “Oh, and Merlin? Get some for yourself as well.”

Merlin’s answering smile is as bright as the morning sun. 

The moment Merlin is gone, Arthur instructs his guards to send in his apologies to the Court and to tell them that he is indisposed. There’s nothing in his schedule that can’t wait one more day. Best to get it over with once and for all, and then they can move on and focus on building back stronger. 

Merlin takes his sweet time fetching Arthur’s breakfast, no doubt dawdling and stopping every so often to chat with anybody who said hello. He took so long that Arthur was beginning to pace in his chambers, worrying if perhaps Merlin had tripped over his own feet, tumbled down the stairs and cracked his skull open. 

“Sorry, sorry,” babbles Merlin when he finally graces Arthur’s chambers, silver trays balanced precariously in each hand. “Saw Gwen on the way to the kitchens—she wanted to know how I’m getting on. Not a good idea to keep my king waiting, I know, I know.”

Arthur doesn’t miss the way Merlin says his king. And his heart most certainly does not soar at the thought like some lovesick girl’s would. 

He lets out a loud sigh in lieu of a reply.

Merlin sets down the trays on Arthur’s desk, lifting the cloches with great flourish. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch any of your sausages.”

“Ah, I had grown used to having full portions again.”

“I only have your best interest at heart, my Lord,” Merlin retorts lowly, peering from under his eyelashes and causing Arthur’s heart to carelessly skip a beat. “After all, somebody had to ensure that we wouldn’t need any more holes on that belt.”

He clears his throat. It’s nothing short of surreal, the way they revert to this normality so quickly and so easily. As if Merlin was only ever the friend Arthur knew, instead of the powerful Druid legend who also happens to be able to bend a dragon to his will. 

Merlin’s smile fades at Arthur’s lack of answering quip. “Too soon?” He cringes. “Sorry—“

“Stop apologising,” interrupts Arthur. They’re past this now, surely?

“I don’t blame you, you know,” Merlin looks down at his breakfast. “If you’re still angry, I mean.”

“Of course I am,” says Arthur, although he says it without any heat. He might’ve understood why Merlin had to lie, but it still doesn’t erase his lies, and nor does it erase the consequences of those lies. It certainly doesn’t erase the hurt: Arthur had trusted Merlin with everything only to receive so little in return. “But I have no desire to punish you.”

Arthur frowns at Merlin’s breakfast portion, which seems to be inexplicably smaller compared to Arthur’s. He stabs at a sausage and drops it onto Merlin’s plate. He glances away deliberately, pretending he doesn’t see the way Merlin looks at him; as though Arthur hangs his moon and his stars, and there is no one in the world but Arthur.

“Not even a banishment?”

The hopeful lilt in Merlin’s voice stings, and Arthur cannot put into words how much he hates it. He skewers his sausage with a tad more force than necessary. “No.”

“It’s just that—“ Merlin blathers on, every inch the idiot Arthur always thought he was. “Well. You’ve threatened it for less.”

Arthur stiffens. “You know that I never meant them,” he cajoles, by way of an apology. “If I wanted to, I would’ve done it a long time ago, don’t you think?”

Merlin nods slowly. “Right.”

Arthur cuts another piece of his sausage. “Go on then,” he pushes. “Off you go with your story.”

Merlin huffs out a nervous breath. “Where would you like me to start?”

“The beginning would be as good as any.”

So Merlin does; tells Arthur about all the times Merlin saved him, and the truth about some of the victories Arthur has come to claim as his. The sacrifices he has had to make, the losses he bore in Arthur’s name.

“All these years, Merlin,” Arthur shakes his head in disbelief by the time Merlin finishes. “And you never once sought any credit.”

“It’s not why I do it.”

“Then why?” prods Arthur. “What is it that you are after—a title?” 

Merlin flinches violently. Arthur suppresses laughter at the image that forms in his mind’s eye: of Merlin dressed in fineries that befit his noble status, of servants bowing at his feet and calling him my Lord, and Merlin looking like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“Gold?”

“What on earth will I do with lumps of gold?” Merlin mutters, as if the very thought is exceedingly laughable. As though men haven’t started wars for less. 

“Power, then?”

Merlin scoffs. “I already have more than I know what to do with.”

Right. A dragonlord and the child of magic beside.

“So not gold, not power, not titles,” repeats Arthur. “Not credit, not recognition. What is it that you want, then?”

“Is it so difficult to believe that I don’t desire any of those things?”

“Everybody wants something, Merlin.”

Dig deep enough and there will always be something men crave. It’s a simple, universal enough truth. Arthur has always known that Merlin is not like any man he has ever met, but surely there must be something that he wants.

“I just—“ Merlin trails off. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t want to lie anymore,” he admits. “I’m tired of hiding.” He wrings his hands and blathers on. “I understand, of course, with your upbringing and all the havoc you’ve seen magic wreak—“

“Do me a favour, Merlin, and shut up,” interrupts Arthur tiredly, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just—stop making assumptions about what you think I’ll do.” And then he adds, rather bitterly, “I might even surprise you, given half the chance.”

Merlin opens his mouth again. 

“And don’t apologise.”

Merlin’s mouth shuts with a clack. 

“The ban on sorcery will be repealed,” Arthur reiterates. “That has not changed. It is now clear to me that my father was egregiously wrong about magic, as was I,” he thinks again of all the people he has wrongly put to death. There will not come a day when Arthur will stop thinking about them. He thinks about the countless others who are still living in the shadows, nameless and faceless, fearful of the power that came to them and unable to share their secret with another soul. It might be too late for Morgana now, but he can perhaps prevent another from facing the same fate. “But making things right will not be easy.”

Merlin’s eyes are blue like the sea on a warm summer’s day. “You will have my support, Arthur, always,” he swears.

Arthur believes him. He swallows past the thick lump in his throat and nods gratefully. “We have started discussions on the laws I hope to present to Court,” he tells Merlin. “That is—Leon, Elyan, Gwaine, Percival, Guinevere, Gaius, Geoffrey, and I. I should like you to cast a look over it, and—“

Merlin kisses him. 

It happens so quickly that for a brief moment, Arthur doesn’t realise what is happening. He stares, shock-still and uncomprehending, as Merlin’s lips press against his, everything Arthur has ever wanted. And he wisens up, pulling Merlin in like somebody desperate, eyes falling shut as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, fingers tangling in Merlin’s hair. Merlin tastes like the breakfast they just shared. And it’s clumsy, perhaps—so unlike the chaste kisses Arthur has given and received in the past—but it’s undeniably perfect. 

Merlin is the first to break away, dazed. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathes. “I wasn’t sure if you felt the same.”

Arthur doesn’t blush, but it’s a near thing. It seems laughable that Merlin could doubt the depth of what Arthur feels for him. How many kings does Merlin know would share every fear and every doubt they have with their servant, how many would value what they have to say? How many would ride side-by-side with their servant, welcome their ribbing and return them in kind? How many would tolerate Merlin’s impudence, his sausage-stealing tendencies?

“You’ve always been a bit slow,” Arthur replies hoarsely. Between Merlin’s magic and Arthur’s status, there have always been a thousand things separating them and keeping them apart, a chasm that seems impossible to bridge. But no longer. 

Merlin beams, radiant. 

“There is also the matter of having somebody presiding over all matters magical,” Arthur clears his throat. “I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”

“Arthur, I—“ Merlin’s eyes are bright, limned with joy. He looks as though he might cry with happiness. “Thank you.”

“So you will accept?”

And then Merlin blurts, “I’m not sure if I’m the right person for it.”

The bubble bursts. Arthur raises an eyebrow, taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“I appreciate it, Arthur, truly,” Merlin hastens to add. “I just don’t think—I don’t know. You know what I’ve done, but the rest of them don’t. It’s one thing to knight common men who saved your life and pledged their swords to you. It’s another to raise a servant to the position of an advisor.” He deflates. “They’ll just think I’ve ensorcelled you into accepting magic.”

Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin does raise a fair point. “It’s not right that your service has gone unrecognised for so long,” Arthur purses his lips unhappily. “Camelot ought to know the name of her saviour.”

“There will come a time,” replies Merlin gently. “It’s too soon to introduce everything at once.”

Arthur narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to avoid sitting in court meetings?”

“Yeah, don’t really fancy debating your advisors on whether I deserve death just by existing,” deadpans Merlin, who misses the way Arthur’s spine stiffens. “Besides, I already attend the meetings to fill your cup.” But he softens at Arthur’s no doubt crestfallen expression, because he adds: “I told you once—I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die. I still intend to keep that oath.”

“You are the most baffling man to ever walk this earth, you do realise,” Arthur tells him when he finally finds his words again. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“I don’t think arguing with your advisors will be the most productive use of my time, if I’m honest—“

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I get it, they’re boring and have antiquated views—“

“Would rather stay by your side,” Merlin finishes solemnly. “And advise you in private, as I always have.”

“Very well,” Arthur finally agrees. “Who, then?” 

“Gaius?” suggests Merlin thoughtfully. “He’s been doing it in private too, after all. I wouldn’t have been able to defeat half the monsters adamant on eating you if not for his knowledge. And his service to Camelot has been unquestionable.”

But Gaius has advised his father too, and sat by the sidelines as innocents burned. He wonders how kindly other magic users will take to that.

“I do not wish to burden him with more responsibilities in addition to being the Court Physician,” Arthur demurs. “But I shall speak with him. Perhaps he’d know somebody who would be suitable for the job.”

It ought to be Merlin. There isn’t anybody else for the role, but Arthur more than understands Merlin’s reluctance. Perhaps Gaius would be able to convince him.

"I am still furious, by the way," says Arthur conversationally. "Don't think you got away with what you did quite that easily."

"Wouldn't dream of it, my Lord."

For once, the path ahead has never been clearer. 

Chapter Text

Merlin finds Gwen on his way back to the physician’s chambers, vials of Gaius’ remedies clinking noisily in her basket. 

She greets him with a warm smile. “Merlin!”

“Gwen.”

“Back from Arthur’s?” she frowns. “I told him to let you recover in peace. Surely there are plenty of other servants available who can pick up your duties.”

“No, it’s alright, I wanted to see him,” Merlin smiles at her protectiveness. “We had things to discuss. But I appreciate the thought, though.”

“Okay,” she replies, even if she doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m glad I caught you, actually,” says Merlin, fighting the urge to wring his hands. “Can we talk?”

“Er,” she says, a bit shifty, “not that a chat with you wouldn’t be lovely, Merlin, but can this wait?” She lifts her basket pointedly. “It’s just that I have deliveries to make—“

Merlin tries—and fails—not to sound too disappointed. “Oh, of course.”

Gwen bites her lip. “How about dinner later this evening?” she suggests, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’ll steal us a nice bit of partridge.”

Merlin clutches at his chest in mock surprise. “Guinevere, I never thought you had it in you.”

“Dine with me tonight."

Merlin nearly drops his broom, whereas Arthur is barely looking up from his parchment. “Are you courting me?”

“You’re one to talk,” snorts Arthur, but there is pink dusting his cheeks. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

“I don’t recall you offering much of a rejection,” retorts Merlin. He cringes. “Besides, I can’t tonight. Sorry.”

That made Arthur look up. “What could possibly be more important than dining with your sovereign?” He demands, “do you know what an honour it is—“

“I’m having dinner with Gwen,” Merlin cuts in before Arthur can work himself into a state. “I need to tell her about my magic.”

“Oh,” Arthur replies, all traces of indignation disappearing at once. “She doesn’t know yet?”

Merlin raises a brow. “Not unless you or Elyan told her.”

“It was never my secret to share,” replies Arthur. “All right, tomorrow then. Do say hello from me.”

Between his other duties, Merlin spends the rest of the day pacing and feeling nervous, practising all he’s going to say to Gwen in his head over and over until it blurs together into an incoherent sentence. 

“I have magic,” he’ll say to her, “I’ve had it from the day I was born.”

He’s beginning to think that perhaps it was a mercy, after all, to be spared from having to tell Arthur about his magic. Having to make the conscious decision to tell Gwen is starting to feel like the worse option, come to think of it. He had been so consumed with fear at the thought of Arthur finding out that it had eclipsed everything else. And for some reason, the prospect of telling Gwen is that much more terrifying. Arthur is his king, his destiny. They were bound together before they can have any say over it. But Gwen is his friend first, the person who made Camelot feel that little bit more like home.

“I wish I could’ve told you,” he’d tell her. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to.”

Gaius breaks him out of his reverie when he puts something in Merlin’s hands. 

“For your nerves, my boy,” he says, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Merlin takes it gratefully. He never could hide anything from Gaius.  

“Thank you,” Merlin says feebly. And just like that, he shatters. “Gaius, what do I tell her?”

“The truth,” replies Gaius, as though it was easy. “I think that perhaps she, more than anybody else, will be able to understand.” 

“How so?”

“Well, you couldn’t have risked her life, for one,” Gaius points out. “Aiding and abetting a sorcerer, whether intentionally or not, is also a crime punishable by death, as you would recall.”

How could Merlin forget Tom, and how his own good intentions nearly sent Gwen to the pyre, once upon a time? 

“She always helped you without question,” Gaius reminds him. “Give her some credit, Merlin.”

“You’re right,” agrees Merlin, even if his heart still races madly in his chest. “Thanks, Gaius,” he adds, downing the tonic all at once.

The tonic doesn’t help as much as Merlin hoped it would, barely taking the edge off his nerves as he stands in front of Gwen’s door, a bunch of wildflowers clutched tightly in his white-knuckled grip.

Gwen opens the door before Merlin can dare himself to knock. 

“Merlin!” she greets, “come in, I’m just finishing off the stew.”

In response, Merlin thrusts the wildflowers with a bit more force than necessary. “These are for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” she smiles. “They’re beautiful.”

“Just picked them on the way,” Merlin lies. He had magicked them into existence just before he made the journey down to Gwen’s house, actually, but she doesn’t need to know that just yet.

“I’ll just grab a vase and put them in water, shall I,” she excuses herself. Merlin had also actually charmed them so they would last longer than regular, non-magical flowers, but Gwen doesn’t need to know this yet, either. 

“Smells lovely, Gwen,” he compliments rather awkwardly as she potters around her cottage. 

“Oh, it’s just simple stew.”

“It never smells like this when I make them.”

“I’m sure your stew is lovely, Merlin,” grins Gwen, “Elyan sings praises about them every time.”

“I had a good teacher, to be fair,” replies Merlin, “and here’s a hint: it sure isn’t Gaius.”

They keep up their idle chatter for a while, and it’s disturbingly normal, almost as if the last few weeks never happened. They’re simply two friends here, breaking bread and catching up, safe in the warmth of Gwen’s cottage.

“It’s good to see you smiling again, Merlin,” Gwen says when their plates are empty and their bellies are full. “You seemed a bit peaky, even just earlier this evening. I must admit that I had worried, even after Arthur managed to get you back.”

The apprehension returns in full force. Merlin looks at Gwen and wants to remember her exactly like this: hair down and at ease, cheeks flushed with warmth and forehead uncreased, without a worry in the world. He wants to remember the kindness in her eyes, the gentleness in her concern.

His throat closes up. “You’re the best friend anyone can ever ask for, you know that, right?”

“And I won’t let you forget it,” she replies easily, but she frowns with concern. “Merlin, what is this about?”

Gods. It was never going to be easy, was it?

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he chokes. And he is so afraid, down to the marrow of his bones. He doesn’t want anything to change; he doesn’t want Gwen to look at him like he was ever any different.

He clasps his hands together, movements slow and deliberate so Gwen can see that he doesn’t pose any harm. He closes his eyes and feels the warmth in his eyes as his irises flare gold, and when he opens his hands again, there is a stem of lavender in his open palms. “I have magic,” he tells her, eyes flicking up to gauge her reaction. “I was born with it.”

Gwen has stiffened, blood draining from her face. When she speaks again, her voice is small, unsure. “Merlin?”

“What Uther said about magic—about magic corrupting, about it being wicked—none of it is true,” he pleads. “Magic can be used for good too. It can be used to heal.” Of everyone else in Camelot, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if Gwen thinks that Merlin is evil. “It can be beautiful.”

She is silent for a long time, hesitant. He can almost see the cogs turning in her mind.

“My father’s recovery from the plague,” she realises with wide eyes. “That was you.”

“I never meant to get you in trouble,” he hiccoughs. “But you were so sad, and he was all you had—“

“Oh, Merlin, thank you,” she interrupts. “I can’t not be grateful, when it gave me more time to spend with him.”

Merlin’s relief is so great that he would have dropped to his knees, had he not already been sat. His voice drops to a near whisper when he says, “I just don’t want you to think any differently of me.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I wouldn’t,” Gwen’s eyes dart nervously to the windows. “I remember when you were enchanted into trying to kill Arthur. If there ever was a time to show your wicked colours, that would have been an unmissable opportunity.” She chuckles in amusement. “No offence, Merlin, but your villainy needs some work.”

Merlin bursts out laughing. 

“Come here,” she stands, beckoning him closer. She wraps him in a tight hug, and it’s all Merlin can do not to sag into her embrace. “Thank you for telling me,” she whispers in his ears. “It must’ve been difficult.”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever really told,” he murmurs into her shoulder. “The rest of them just—found out.”

Gwen pulls back, concern marring her features. “Does Arthur know?”

Merlin nods mutely. “The knights and Gaius, they all do,” he says. “When they came to break me out of the dungeon, there was a battle. They were losing, Gwen, I had to—“

“It’s all right,” she murmurs. “I understand.”

“I wanted to tell you for years,” admits Merlin. “But I could never have endangered you like that.”

“I know,” replies Gwen. “I can’t imagine how lonely you must’ve been.”

Tears spring into his eyes, unbidden. Merlin has to blink them away. 

“But things are changing,” Gwen’s eyes dart nervously to her windows, even though the curtains are drawn closed. She lowers her voice, her lips barely moving. “Arthur told us. It will be for the better.”

Merlin smiles, a heavy weight he didn’t even realise was upon his shoulders lifting on its own accord. For the first time in what feels like years, it feels like he can truly breathe again. 

The rest of the dinner passes companionably. Gwen asks questions and Merlin does his best to tell him everything, although sometimes the details elude him.

“I should go back,” Merlin says, well after dinner is over. He wipes a tear from his eye—they were reminiscing over the time Arthur was jinxed into having donkey ears, and while the ale is good and the company even better, it is getting late. His words are slurring, albeit he would argue that it’s not too noticeable. 

“Okay,” replies Gwen, who is still giggling merrily. 

"Gwen? Look."

With a lazy wave of his hand, the dirty plates clear themselves up, all traces of stew wiped clean from the metal before they stack themselves neatly upon Gwen's table.

"Oh," her eyes widen. "If you wanted to convince me that magic isn't evil, Merlin, this is what you should've opened with." She cringes. "Not that the lavender wasn't sweet—"

Merlin only laughs, shrugging on his jacket. He doesn't stumble over his chair as he gets up, which is a proud achievement in itself. “Thank you for a lovely dinner!” 

“Thank you for the flowers,” she beams back. “And for trusting me with your secret.”

He embraces her fiercely, his heart so full of joy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Get back safely,” she says. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

Merlin waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve got back from worse.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is!”

Merlin winks. "Sleep tight, Gwen. I'll see you in the morning."

The Lower Town is nearly deserted when he walks back. It’s a beautiful night, the air crisp and the chill mild, the clear sky scattered with twinkling stars.

It’s then that an idea strikes, and once it takes root, there is no way Merlin can ignore it. 

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Merlin says breathlessly the moment Arthur opens the door. "Well, two someones, I suppose."

Arthur frowns, bemused. “Do you know what time this is?”

“They wouldn’t mind,” Merlin returns eagerly, not the slightest bit deterred. “Come on. Put your coat on.”

“Will you at least tell me where we are going?” grouses Arthur, after Merlin successfully manhandles him into getting dressed and out of the castle. 

“Come on,” Merlin says instead, torch held aloft in one hand.

He leads Arthur to a clearing, far enough away from the castle not to be seen by anybody. A quietly murmured spell confirms that they’re not being followed, nor is there anybody in their immediate vicinity. He stops abruptly in the middle of the clearing, whirling around to face an unimpressed Arthur. 

“Do you trust me?”

“What kind of question is that?” Arthur demands, rolling his eyes. “Would I have followed you blindly, out of the castle and into an empty clearing with no backup, in the middle of the night—“

Merlin sighs. “It really was just a simple yes or no question.”

“Yes, yes, all right,” huffs Arthur. “I trust you, Merlin. Is that all you wanted to hear? Because there isn’t any need for all this—“

Merlin resolutely ignores him, choosing instead to roar at the cloudless sky. 

“O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd’hup’anankes!"

“Merlin,” calls Arthur, alarmed. “What—“

Merlin holds a hand out to halt Arthur’s steps. “Shh.”

Arthur bristles. “You did not just shush me.”

“Just you wait,” he breathes. “It will be worth it, Arthur, I promise.”

Moments pass in silence. 

“What am I waiting for, exactly, Merlin?” Arthur taps his foot impatiently. Before he can say anything else, however, they both hear it: a faint flapping noise, growing louder as they strain harder to hear it. 

Merlin looks up to see two moving shadows eclipsing the moon, small and distant at first but growing larger and larger as they begin to descend. 

Arthur has gone completely stock-still next to him. 

“Are they—“

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin greets. “Aithusa.”

“Young warlock,” Kilgharrah booms, his rumbling voice reverberating through the clearing. “I see you have brought the young Pendragon with you.”

“I have.”

Kilgharrah tilts his great head ever-so-slightly, the closest he will perhaps come to bowing.

“The Once and Future King,” he rumbles. “In the flesh, at last.” He narrows his eyes, wisps of smoke rising from his flared nostrils. “You are smaller than I thought you would be.”

“Dragon,” Arthur says faintly. “Last time I saw you, you were setting my kingdom on fire.” 

Merlin elbows him.

“Will not happen again,” Kilgharrah sniffs, although he looks anything but contrite. 

Before Merlin can tell them to behave, though, a flurry of white barrels into his chest, knocking him flat on the ground. 

“Aithusa,” he laughs as she licks eagerly at his cheek. “I have missed you too, sweetheart.”

Aithusa chirps excitedly. She was only the size of a hunting dog the last time Merlin saw her, but she has grown twice that size now, and almost three times as heavy. 

“Look how much you’ve grown,” he wheezes, scratching her head fondly. “You’ll be the size of a horse in no time.”

His eyes flit nervously at Arthur, who is watching the whole exchange with an unreadable expression on his face. Merlin stands, wiping the slobber off his face before leading Aithusa to Arthur. 

“This is Arthur.”

“She’s not a dog, Merlin,” Kilgharrah chastises, miffed. “Already, she possesses knowledge of the great prophecy that binds you and the young Pendragon together.” 

“Aithusa,” Arthur greets in his most formal tone. 

Aithusa bows her head in response, and Arthur looks at Merlin in askance.

“It’s alright,” he encourages. “You can touch her.”

So Arthur does. It’s a surreal sight: Arthur’s eyes bright with wonder as he strokes her head slowly and hesitantly at first but clearly heartened when Aithusa doesn’t set him on fire. Arthur’s lips are slowly stretching into a smile as Aithusa leans into his touch, her head butting insistently at Arthur’s hand every time he tries to withdraw. 

“It bodes well for his reign,” Kilgharrah’s voice echoes in Merlin’s head. 

“Yes,” Merlin thinks, “I hope so.”

“I should hope that he would not expect me to do the same,” says Kilgharrah out loud. 

“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

“You never told me dragons could speak our tongue,” comments Arthur as they trek back into Camelot. “No wonder he managed to dodge our attacks easily.”

“Huh,” Merlin grunts. “I never actually thought of that.”

“And that’s why I’m the commander of the army, Merlin, and not you.”

Chapter Text

Arthur insists on walking Merlin to his chambers, despite the latter’s protestations.

“I know you rescued me not too long ago, but you do realise that I’m not actually a damsel in distress?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Arthur without heat. “You’re hardly walking straight. Gods, you’ve never actually been to the tavern, have you?"

“Course I have,” sputters Merlin as he stumbles over thin air. “That’s where you’d hear the best gossip!”

Arthur tosses his head back with laughter, arm reaching out instinctually to steady Merlin. “Such a girl, Merlin.”

He ruffles Merlin’s hair and Merlin leans easily onto him, open and trusting as he always has been. 

Merlin doesn’t even try and pretend to take offence. “I’m so pleased you know now,” he sighs. 

Arthur doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s smiling. He can hear it in Merlin’s voice. And no matter how difficult it will be to argue their case in Court later, it will be worth it just for this: Merlin resting his head against Arthur’s shoulder, content and trusting and happy.

“Are you going to tuck me in as well?” teases Merlin when they finally reach the door to the antechamber.

Never let it be said that Arthur is one to back from a challenge. His voice drops low when he asks, “Why, would you like me to?”

“Of course not,” Merlin denies quickly, but there is a smattering of pink across his cheeks that has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “I’m not a child, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Arthur mutters under his breath. 

Merlin looks away, blissfully oblivious. He clears his throat nervously. “Right, then.”

“Right,” Arthur doesn’t move from where he is standing. “I shall see you in the morning.”

He doesn’t leave until the door firmly closes. 

The morning comes, and with it, the first small council session with Merlin sat by Arthur’s side. 

Arthur knew that Merlin would provide invaluable input in shaping the drafts, but he had underestimated how good Merlin would be at it. The points he raises can only come from someone who has lived the life he has, faced the hardships he’s faced. Every time he speaks, Geoffrey stares at him as though he has sprouted another head, amusing the rest of the group to no end.

Arthur looks around the room, studying the expressions on the faces of his friends. They all look at Merlin with respect and admiration and pride so clearly shining in their eyes, and he has no doubt that they are all thinking the same thing as he: there is only one person who could be Camelot’s Court Sorcerer. 

“What?” asks Merlin when he notices their staring, the tips of his ears turning red. “Have I got something on my face?”

“On your teeth, actually,” Arthur lies. 

“And you didn’t think to mention it before I start talking?”

“Never got the chance.”

“Prat,” Merlin mumbles when he finds that there is, in fact, nothing on his teeth.

Arthur only tosses his head back and laughs. 

Arthur asks Merlin to stay behind after the meeting concludes, claiming that he has a list of chores for Merlin to complete. 

“Merlin,” he asks once the rest of the group leaves. “What would you have me do with Thomas?”

“He can rot in the dungeon, for all I care,” answers Merlin, his forced nonchalance betrayed by the way his mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, but not to Arthur’s eye. “I’ll defer to your judgement, my Lord.”

Arthur hums, leaning back against his chair. “You know, something is still bothering me.”

“Oh?”

“You are clearly very powerful,” he peers into his goblet curiously, “a child of magic, some say. And a Dragonlord besides.” His stomach is in knots for reasons he cannot name, but he ploughs through nonetheless. “All that power, yet you let them torture you. Why?”

“Let them?” Merlin gapes, affronted. “Did you think I stayed in that dungeon for fun?”

Arthur hurries to backtrack. “That’s not what I meant.”

“So what did you mean?” Merlin demands, his voice several degrees colder. “Did you think I stayed there by choice? Did you not think that I tried to escape?”

“Did you?”

“Of course I did!” Merlin snaps. He takes off his kerchief furiously, revealing the raw red mark still encircling his neck. “Did you forget the bit where they chained me in cold iron? You do know what they do to people’s magic?”

“You broke free eventually—”

“You think I didn’t try hard enough,” Merlin scoffs in disbelief, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Apologies, my Lord. I do regret wasting the Kingdom’s resources.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” Arthur snaps back. “All I wanted to know was why you didn’t break yourself out when you have the power you have.“

“It was rather difficult, considering the chain,” Merlin replies coldly. “Considering the titchy amount of food—poisoned, too, let’s not forget—they gave me. Oh, and also the regular beating. Can’t forget that one.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says helplessly. “I apologise, I shouldn't have—“

“I did try, you know,” says Merlin quietly. “But perhaps I just wasn’t desperate enough.”

Arthur’s stomach twists horribly. “What do you mean?” 

“A part of me thought you were going to break me out, to tell you the truth,” Merlin whispers, his voice harsh. “You never did leave a man behind, before.” He sighs. “I think I only managed to break the chain because I had to. There was no other way, at that point. You were losing. There wasn’t any other option.” He rubs a tired hand over his face. “I suppose that before that, I was still clinging to the hope that you’d come. So I wasn’t under as much pressure.”

Arthur looks at Merlin and wonders how he ever could’ve thought that Merlin was capable of being evil. The knot in Arthur’s stomach tightens—it’s awfully telling that Merlin would be pushed to the point of desperation when the lives of his friends are threatened, but not his own. 

It’s like he's seeing Merlin for the first time again.

“You’d use your magic to save others,” Arthur finds himself saying out loud. “But not yourself.”

Merlin startles. And then he mumbles, weakly, “it’s not like that.”

“They could’ve killed you.”

“They wouldn’t have,” says Merlin ruefully. “I’m the leverage they had against you.”

“But they could have,” insists Arthur. He remembers the way they found Merlin and he knows that he will never forget it for as long as he is alive. For the brief, everlasting moment between seeing Merlin and finding his pulse, the earth had stopped and Arthur had gone. “They very nearly did.”

“I’d be no use to them dead,” Merlin smiles, bitter. “Besides, they know that I am Emrys. So I’m definitely a thousand times more useful alive, better yet if they manage to turn me against you. Not that they didn’t try, mind.”

Arthur is silent for a long while. “I should’ve come earlier.”

Merlin’s eyes flicker up to meet Arthur’s, deliberating. “Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Arthur admits, ashamed. It’s the truth, but saying it out loud still makes him feel like a coward. It sounds feeble now, and not nearly enough. “I didn’t even know where to start searching. Thomas claims to have eyes and ears within Camelot’s walls. I didn’t want to alert them.” He meets Merlin’s accusing eyes, beseeching. “The last thing I wanted was for them to hurt you because I went looking.”

Merlin is the first to break the gaze. “It’s fine,” he says quietly. “They told me what they demanded of you. I didn’t think you’d cave.”

He stands from his seat and walks closer to Merlin. “It’s not.” He tilts his chin upward, so that Merlin would meet Arthur’s eyes once more. “I am sorry.”

“I stopped waiting, in the end,” Merlin whispers, his eyes bright. “I thought you’d forgotten—“

Arthur grabs the back of Merlin’s head, knocking their foreheads together. “I couldn’t have,” he exhales, eyes drifting closed. “Merlin, I could never have left you behind.”

“Okay,” Merlin nods, somewhat shakily. “Okay.”

“I dreamt of you every night,” Arthur tells him, fingers gripping tight. “That’s what led me to you, eventually.”

“I saw you too,” replies Merlin. “Sometimes, you were kind—you’d help me eat where I couldn’t, or you’d try to fight Thomas’ men when they torture me. Other times—“ his breath hitches. “Other times, you’d tell me that it’s useless to hope, because you were never going to come.”

Arthur stiffens, pulling back. “Merlin, I’d never—“

“I know now,” Merlin cuts in. “But down there, it was difficult to tell between what’s real and what’s not.” 

Arthur pulls away, tangling their fingers together before lifting their entwined hands to his lips. “This is real.”

Merlin stares, his eyes bright. “Not like you to be so—“ he trails off, looking rather close to tears.

“Like what?” drawls Arthur, injecting some levity into his tone. “Gentle? Courteous?” His lips stretch into a grin. “I have always been this gallant, Merlin. Do pay attention sometimes.”

The Court is growing restless; they can clearly tell that something is afoot. Even though the members of Arthur’s innermost circle have dutifully kept their lips sealed, the fact that they have convened almost daily proves more than sufficient to cause restlessness in the Court.

Arthur can see the discontent writ in the faces of his father’s advisors. These men have sat in Court for as long as Arthur has known them, their loyalty to Uther rewarded in abundance. They are the old guards of his father’s ways, quick at every opportunity to tell Arthur what his father would have done instead. 

But for all that they claim to know Uther, Arthur wonders how many of them know the entire truth of what he had done. And then, he wonders how much the truth will matter. After all, their compliance with Uther’s ways is the very reason they possess everything they do—why their bellies are always full and their chambers are always warm. 

How much of that accordance is real, Arthur wonders, and how much of it is simply a bid for more gold and power? Should Arthur formally announce his intention to break from his father’s ways, will they be as quick to support him too, to ensure that their seat is safe? Most of them are old enough to remember the time before the Purge. They would have seen enough to know that Uther’s Purge was built on lies, and yet they had stood firmly by Uther’s side the entire time.

(They would have preferred the lies, of course. Why wouldn’t they? Uther’s lies allowed them to be comfortable in the world they built. They don’t rewrite history anew; there's no guilt to confront, no sin to atone for.)

He wonders what they’ll do once he reveals the truth. Will they claim that they always believed Uther’s stance was too harsh, but kept silent out of fear? Or will they double down, insisting that Uther was right to cleanse the land of magic? Will they break from Arthur and raise a rebellion to fight for Uther’s legacy?

It’s this thought, now, that plagues Arthur’s mind in his waking moments. This is why he picks at his drafts incessantly, trying his very best to ensure that they are as faultless as can be. This is the fear that has kept him from formally stating his intentions to the Court for so long. The very last thing he wants to do is to plunge Camelot into an all-out civil war.

When Arthur was young, one of his tutors used to tell him that whatever will be, will be. That it is futile to try and control things that are outside of his control. Arthur knows that he cannot control how his father’s advisors will react. He can merely control how he delivers the news of his decision and how much he chooses to divulge. 

His head may know this, but it doesn’t make sleep come any easier.

When Arthur finally announces his intention to repeal the ban on magic, he does it on a regular Wednesday. It goes down the way he expected it to go down.

“This is a conspiracy,” sputters the red-faced Lord Aelfrid, who was granted his seat exactly because of his staunch loyalty to Uther.

“My Lord,” Leon says mildly, in a somewhat amused way, even. “Surely you are not accusing the King of treason?”

“King Uther, gods rest his soul, left behind a legacy anybody would be proud of,” Aelfrid sniffs insistently, shaking his head. “Allowing magic back into the land would irrevocably sully that legacy. It’s nothing less than a desecration of his memory.“

“Your loyalty to my father is commendable,” Arthur replies flatly. “But now, knowing that magic can and has been used for good as well as evil, pretending otherwise would be unjust.”

“I have yet to see proof—”

“Lord Godwyn, we have both lived long enough to know that that is simply untrue,” interrupts Geoffrey, to widened eyes and raised eyebrows from the rest of the Court. “There was a time when magic was not only allowed in Camelot, but actively flourished. You remember this as well as I.”

“For all the good it got us,” snorts Aelfrid derisively. He turns to face Arthur, pleading. “Sire, it killed your mother, the late Queen Ygraine—“

Arthur stiffens, and the room falls into silence. For a brief moment, he allows himself to entertain the thought of cutting out Aelfrid’s tongue. How dare he speak her name to try and manipulate Arthur thus, as though he hadn’t been one of the very advisors endlessly pressuring Uther to secure his line of succession at all costs?

“Nimueh’s trickery killed my mother,” says Arthur evenly. “Not magic itself.”

Perhaps it was her treachery; perhaps it was the price his father had agreed on. Arthur supposes he will never know the truth. But in this chamber, surrounded by his father’s old friends and men who have looked up to him, accusing him of knowingly murdering his wife seems ill-advised. What they know is this: Uther and Ygraine had struggled for years to beget an heir, but he had loved her so much that remarrying was never an option. How could he betray her by sacrificing her life in return for an heir, when he could not even bear the thought of taking another wife to ensure his succession? 

But what they didn’t know was this: even before entering the deal, Uther had been well aware that magic would extract a price, and he struck the deal anyway. 

“King Uther’s grief nearly drove him to ruin,” recalls Godwyn sagely. “Over the years, the ban he placed has protected many others from sharing his fate.”

From the corner of Arthur’s eye, he can see Gwaine boggling, half in amazement and half in incredulity. It’s only the years of Court training that keep Arthur from expressing himself outwardly as Gwaine has. He takes a deep breath and bites his tongue, restraining himself from demanding, and how many innocent families has the Purge driven to ruin?

Arthur doesn’t doubt that it’s truly what Godwyn believes. It’s what Arthur used to believe too, once upon a time.

“My father was a strong king,” Arthur bites out, keeping his face impassive. “I have long admired his courage in making difficult decisions for what he had believed to be the good of the kingdom. I am certain the Purge came from the desire to protect our people from something he thought was responsible for taking my mother’s life.” The words burn his way out of his mouth, leaving ash on his tongue. He exhales slowly. “But even before he entered the deal with the High Priestess Nimueh, he knew that the Old Religion requires balance. For a life to be created, another must be taken. My father knew this, and he chose to do it anyway behind my mother’s back. Why did you think that her brothers blamed him for her death?” Arthur exhales slowly, noting the way the old guards have stilled, blood draining from their faces. “It is exceedingly obvious to me now that a terrible wrong has been committed upon the people of Camelot, and this is not something I can let stand in clear conscience.”

He levels a pointed look at Aelfrid, Godwyn, and all the others who stood still while Uther carried out his murderous rampage. The ones who watched innocents burn and never lifted a finger to help. The ones who knew how wrong Uther was and turned a blind eye nonetheless. 

“We know that when it came to magic, my father can often be blinded by his hatred. But by waging a war against magic, he only created more enemies,” continues Arthur. “It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, in the end. Banning all magic has only harmed the ones who have used it for good, and pushed those with malicious intent further down the path of darkness.”

He can see the realisation dawning in the eyes of the younger members of the Court. They were too young to remember the Purge–some of them never lived through it at all–and had only inherited the reality Uther constructed. Arthur watches as they shift uncomfortably in their seats, aware of the ways they, like Arthur, were complicit in perpetuating Uther’s crime.

“They could have just as easily stopped,” says Lord Gowan, another one of Uther’s old guards. “They knew magic was outlawed in Camelot. Nobody held a knife to their throats and forced them to use magic. They simply could have stopped using magic at any time.”

“Do you think it’s always a matter of choice, Lord Gowan?” Gwaine finally bites out. “Do you think they would have chosen to have magic, given the option? Would they truly have chosen a life lived in fear, always looking over their shoulder?”

“Magic is a source of power, Sir Gwaine,” Gowan drawls out. “Not difficult to see its dangerous appeal.” 

The discussion goes on for hours, round and round in circles, covering the same points at least three times over. In the end,  the thing that makes those in the room sit a little straighter is this:

“In banning magic altogether, we have left our defences vulnerable to magical attacks,” Arthur points out. “Time and again, we have seen how woefully unprepared we are to fight sorcerers wishing us harm.”

“We have heard word of Morgana amassing forces in the east, allying herself with the warlord Horsa,” reports Leon, right on cue. “No doubt she will make another attempt for Camelot’s throne.”

“Justice for magic users is a central part of her campaign,” adds Gaius. “It is the reason why so many followers of the Old Religion have pledged themselves to her cause. Allowing magic back into Camelot is one way to considerably weaken her campaign, giving people fewer reasons to willingly join her forces.”

“Will they trust Camelot, however?” Pellinor asks quietly. “Who’s to say that they won’t still join her, regardless?”

It’s not difficult to see his point. If it was Arthur who had been prosecuted his entire life, and the one who prosecuted him suddenly had a change of heart, Arthur wouldn’t be too keen on trusting them, either.

“Is it not worth trying anyway?” counters Gaius. “Surely any man we can prevent from joining Morgana’s side is a victory for our side, even if they won’t join us.”

Some of the Court members nod in agreement—even some of Uther’s ones were beginning to look thoughtful and considering.

“Figures that doing the right thing wouldn’t be enough,” Gwaine mutters under his breath, later, as they file out from the chamber. “Figures that correcting our wrongs wouldn’t make them pay attention, but this would.”

“The meeting went well,” comments Merlin wryly. They are having lunch—well, Arthur is having lunch, and Merlin is pottering noisily around Arthur’s perfectly tidy chambers. 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “We know it wasn’t going to be easy,” he mutters. He can feel a headache brewing on the horizon. “It probably went as well as it could have done.”

“I know,” says Merlin, not sounding particularly bothered. “You did well, Arthur. Truly.”

It’s nigh impossible to keep the vulnerability from bleeding through to his voice. He looks at Merlin fondly. “You think so?”

“As you said, it was never going to be easy,” replies Merlin from somewhere behind Arthur’s chair. “It will be a tremendous change for Camelot. All you can do now is give them time.”

“I just—“ he sighs. “I don’t understand how they could’ve stood by the sidelines and let my father carry on the way he did,” he shakes his head. “They knew full well that he lied about magic. The justification he provided for the Purge, the reason he had for waging his war—it was all based on lies.”

Merlin stops whatever he was doing and turns to look at him, the lines around his eyes softening. “Fear is a powerful thing,” he replies simply. “They saw the example your father made of Peredur. They saw the people driven out of their homes—or worse, marched to their deaths—for daring to speak against your father. They decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”

He looks at Merlin and sees the ghosts of the thousands that perished. All simply because their lords, sworn to protect them, decided that they weren’t worth it. How do they sleep at night? Do the screams of the innocent souls not ring in their ears, the way they constantly ring in Arthur’s? What are they telling themselves to allay the guilt they surely must feel?

“Not all men are like you, Arthur,” says Merlin. “They don’t all fight for what they believe is right. A fair few of them usually fight for gold, or power, or vengeance.” His lips twist in a sardonic little smile. “A lot of them are simply following orders.”

And how many times has Arthur done the same? How many times has he followed his father’s orders without questioning whether he was doing the right thing?

Gold, power, vengeance. Every man has a price. But sometimes, it’s as simple as the glint of pride in his father’s eye.

“Word travels fast, King Arthur,” says Thomas by way of greeting when Arthur finally sees him again. “Even the dungeon is abuzz.” He leans closer, peering out the gaps in the metal grating. “All that, only for you to give us what we asked of you.” 

Arthur stands his ground, unflinching. He knows Thomas is merely looking for a rise out of him—it’s perhaps the only victory he will get in the dungeon Arthur chucked him in. He thinks, perhaps, that he ought to have a bit of sympathy for the man who was so deeply wronged by Uther. But every time the thought rears its head, all Arthur can see is Merlin, slumped in the corner of his cell, poison dribbling out the corner of his lips. 

“Come to a conclusion yet?” Thomas gloats. “You could have saved all this effort if you had just met our demands to begin with. And Merlin would have been returned to you, safe and unharmed. All that he suffered,” he makes a tsking sound, “he suffered needlessly.”

Arthur’s breath catches, blood running cold in his veins. 

But that’s not true, is it? If Arthur had simply complied, he never would have come to the conclusions he did. He never would have learnt all he should have learnt. He would’ve repealed the ban with a heaviness in his heart; he wouldn’t have meant it. It would’ve been selfish; it would’ve been for Merlin alone.

“You will be forgotten down here, Thomas,” Arthur tells him. It’s cruel, perhaps, but he doesn’t have it in him to feel a modicum of regret. “Your men are dead. Your rebellion is quashed. As far as the people of Camelot are concerned, the reversal of my father’s laws never had anything to do with you.” 

Thomas purses his lips tightly, brows knitting in anger, and Arthur knows he is right. If justice is all Thomas wanted, he would’ve been happy with this outcome. But it was never going to be enough: he wanted martyrdom. He wanted to be known as the reason magic was allowed back into Camelot. 

A part of Arthur wants to turn and leave. He wants to abandon Thomas in his cell so he can be forgotten, without judgement and without closure. The rest of the world can move on without him and nobody will ever remember his name.

It sounds a bit too much like something his father would have done. 

“I hereby find you guilty of conspiracy and high treason. You will be executed at dawn.”

In the months immediately following Arthur’s declaration, there is a sense that the relative peace in Camelot hangs in a delicate balance. To Arthur’s relief, his worst nightmare of a Camelot torn in half by a civil war doesn’t materialise, but it’s clear that the Court is divided into two camps. True to form, they squabble and fight over the minutest details in what Arthur is certain is a deliberate effort to hinder progress. But the more his father’s old guards try to wear him down, the harder Arthur fights back. It’s an uphill battle, but Arthur refuses to budge, and the longer they draw out the debates, the more people Arthur manages to convince to join his side instead. 

It’s not until Samhain that the ban on magic is formally overturned, and Arthur orders a feast to commemorate the occasion. Despite the lavish spread of food and the entertainers’ best attempts to elicit laughter and delight, the celebration feels somewhat muted. There is still a wariness palpable in the air, a guardedness in the way people hold themselves. It’s as if the kingdom is still waiting with bated breath, on the verge of a great change, but not quite there yet. 

It’s a drastic change, Arthur knows, and it will take more than this to heal the rift his father caused. 

Arthur stands, and the anxious chatter around the room fades into silence. “Today, we welcome the coming of a new age,” he begins. “For too long, we have been blinded by fear and hatred of magic. It divided us. It turned brothers against brothers, sisters against sisters. It tore apart our families and our communities. But no longer—this ends today.

“Some of you may question my decision tonight,” Arthur acknowledges. “Some of you may think it foolish or naive. And I know your hesitation came from the honourable desire to protect our home and our loved ones. But magic in itself is not evil; it simply is, and we have nothing to fear from it. And magic can be beautiful, if we let it.”

Arthur raises his goblet. “Today, we take a step towards a fairer Camelot, one where no longer will anyone live in fear of themselves—“

Before Arthur can finish his sentence, the door to the hall opens with a great bang. In runs a man whose body is aflame, his face contorted into an expression of great pain. He opens his mouth as if to scream and the sound of Morgana’s laughter echoes through the hall, shrill and haunting. Arthur’s knights surround him immediately, their swords raised and ready.

“Stop!” Leon shouts when he gets closer. He squints to make out the figure engulfed by the flame before looking up at Arthur, astonished. “This is a Knight of Camelot!”

Upon hearing Leon’s cry, the flaming knight grabs a red-hot gauntlet and throws it to the floor in Arthur’s direction. He then drops to his knees before collapsing to the ground in a heap. 

Arthur shoots an uncertain, questioning look at Gaius, who appears equal parts bemused and horrified.  

“It seems, Sire, that Morgana has declared war upon Camelot.”

Chapter Text

“Seems like reaching out to Morgana is out of the question.”

Arthur glares.

Merlin puts his hands up, grimacing. “Sorry. Just saying.”

“She does choose her moments, I’ll give her that,” Arthur huffs, shaking his head. “Always had a penchant for the dramatic.”

“I don’t understand,” Gwen frowns. “Why would she do this now, of all times? She wanted magic back in Camelot, and now she got it.”

“With Camelot welcoming magic, she runs the risk of losing the support of some of her followers,” answers Arthur grimly. “Especially those who are not as committed to her—methods. If she was going to attack, there’s no better time than the present.”

“She’d probably take it as an insult, too,” adds Merlin. “That magic is back in Camelot without her on the throne.” 

With him on the throne, Arthur hears. The catalyst for the Purge; the son who continued the legacy of his father’s madness for so long. He can see how it would be a kick in the teeth for many who desired vengeance, not just Morgana. 

Leon looks uncertainly at the three of them in turn. “King Bayard’s spies have confirmed that Morgana is allied with Horsa, a Saxon warlord commanding men in their hundreds,” he says. “This is corroborated by Queen Annis, who reported that some of the villages on their border have been ransacked and pillaged.” 

Arthur’s heart sinks. Though he knew war with Morgana was always inevitable, he would have done anything he could to avert it. There is no time to mourn the sister he once had now. “We need our men battle-ready,” he tells Leon. “Send missives to all our allies and alert our vassals. We don’t know when she’s planning to attack and we must be prepared.”

Leon nods, brusque. “At once, my Lord.”

After the room clears, Merlin squeezes Gwen’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“I had hoped that there would still be good in her,” Gwen shakes her head. “I suppose I should have known the moment she accused me of practising witchcraft. I thought there was still a part of her I recognised. Now, I just feel like a fool.”

“No one can blame you for missing the Morgana you knew.”

“We were like sisters,” Gwen looks away, appearing wistful. “She was alone and afraid, I understand that. I understand why she couldn’t tell Uther, or even Arthur. But me? What exactly did she think I was going to do?” She sighs. “She could’ve trusted me, but she never even tried.”

Merlin falls silent, considering his words carefully. “Maybe she didn’t want things to change between you and her.”

“Having magic does change things, whether she wanted it to or not,” Gwen counters. “You can’t help what hand you are given. It’s how you respond to it that defines you.”

Merlin looks away, fiddling with a stray thread that has come loose from his tunic. “Perhaps she was just afraid that she’d lose you as a friend.”

When she looks at Merlin, her eyes are too knowing. “Then perhaps she didn’t know me at all.”

Morgana’s declaration means that all of the kingdom’s resources are now diverted to support the preparations for war. Everything else, including the continued discussions about the intricacies of repealing magic, slips down in the order of priority. 

“She would likely have sorcerers fighting for her,” Merlin tells Arthur. “Even with magic back into Camelot, there are still a lot of angry, grieving people out there demanding vengeance.”

The repeal isn’t enough; it was never going to be. Arthur can try to fix his and his father’s mistakes to the best of his ability, but it still won’t bring innocents back from the dead.

It is something Arthur had feared, of course, but confronting it is another matter entirely. 

“I’ve sent word to Alator of the Catha, Iseldir, and anyone who might be listening. Anybody who has pledged themselves to Emrys and is willing to fight will be on our side,” continues Merlin, oblivious to the seeds of doubt being sown in Arthur’s head. He shoots an uncertain look at Arthur. “If you don’t object, of course.”

“If anybody wishes to take up arms against Morgana, far be it from me to stand in the way,” Arthur smiles tightly. “We will be grateful for their help."

“Can we trust them?” asks Leon, with curiosity more than anything else. “Forgive me, Merlin, but I thought I’d ask. Why would anybody with magic, who has spent their entire lives in hiding for fear of being persecuted, fight for Camelot?”

It’s not an unreasonable concern: what if they have hidden motives of their own? What if if they join Camelot’s ranks, only to turn and attack Camelot’s men from behind? 

Merlin looks as though he had been expecting this question. “Morgana and her followers pose a threat to their way of life as well as ours. It was never peace she seeks; it’s retribution,” explains Merlin. “Even among magic users, there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and Morgana has crossed a fair few of them.”

Leon nods, satisfied.

“If you trust them, so too shall I,” adds Arthur. “It would be an honour to have them fight alongside us.”

Morgana’s army is mobilising fast, which means that they don’t have a lot of time to prepare and take the battle away from the heart of the kingdom. And in those short, precious weeks, Arthur hardly sees Merlin—he’s busy discussing strategy with his knights, and Merlin spends most of his time liaising with the Druids. 

Not many of them choose to take up arms—not surprising, considering that they’re mostly peaceful people.

“Our magic is not suited for fighting,” Iseldir tells them apologetically. “However, if we can help by healing your injured, we will gladly do so.” 

“Thank you, Iseldir.”

It takes some time to track Merlin down. Eventually, Arthur finds him surrounded by armour parts, anxiously weaving enchantments into each bit of metal.  

Arthur sits down next to him, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. “You look terrible,” he nudges Merlin’s shoulder gently. “When was the last time you slept?”

“There are too many things that need doing,” says Merlin, whose hair is sticking up all over the place. He sticks his hand out over a pile of Arthur’s chainmail, muttering something in that guttural language that makes something trickle down Arthur’s spine. Arthur watches, entranced, as Merlin’s eyes glow the colour of molten gold. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get quite used to it.

“What are you doing to it?”

“Making it lighter,” answers Merlin curtly. He is already moving on to Arthur’s vambrace. “Stronger, too. So that it offers more protection.”

Arthur makes a show of looking up at the sky. It’s a calm evening. The moon is high and between the rustling of leaves overhead, there are a couple of owls hooting merrily away at each other. “It’s late. You should get some rest.” He stands, offering an arm to pull Merlin up. “Come on. This can wait.”

“But—“

Arthur sighs, aggravated. “If you won’t rest for yourself, then rest because we’d need you in top form when we meet them in battle,” he argues. “You’re our best defence against their magic.”

“No pressure then,” mumbles Merlin, taking Arthur’s proffered hand and letting himself be pulled to a standing position. “But don’t forget, we’ll also have a dragon on our side.”

“I’d pay good coin to see the look on Morgana’s face when she sees him,” Arthur snorts. 

Merlin smiles tightly and lets Arthur drag him to his tent. 

They will meet Morgana’s men at the fields of Camlann.

Merlin’s fingers fumble as he straps Arthur into his armour. He works in complete silence as he fiddles with a buckle, uncharacteristically clumsy.

“Kilgharrah came back,” he eventually reports, his voice rough. “There would be no camp for them to return to. He burned it all to the ground.”

Arthur nods sharply. “Good.”

They fall into silence again, Merlin still refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. 

“Hey,” Arthur folds Merlin’s fingers into his own, not surprised when he finds them shaking. “Merlin, look at me.”

Merlin does, albeit reluctantly. Arthur grabs the back of Merlin’s head and leans forward, knocking their foreheads together. 

“This isn’t goodbye,” Merlin chokes tightly. His fear and nervousness are palpable. He’s still the bravest man Arthur knows.

“No,” agrees Arthur. “We’re not done yet.”

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Arthur promises easily. How can he not, when he has this to come back to? He has everything worth fighting for: a beautiful kingdom to call home and wonderful people to defend. He thinks of the future stretched in front of them, of kingdoms united under peace and prosperity. He thinks about generations of children that will grow fearless and carefree—of a day when Morgana’s threats will be long forgotten, like a nightmare they would scarcely believe was ever real. “We’ll finish this, and then we’ll go home.” 

Merlin nods. “Okay.” 

There is still so much they are yet to do. Any battle they won will be another step towards that glittering dream. 

Arthur’s tongue is too thick for his mouth, his throat too dry for his words to come out as anything other than a rasp. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Me?” Merlin lets out a breathy chuckle. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Yes, you,” he presses a chaste kiss upon Merlin’s lips; ephemeral, a vow all on its own. Merlin might be the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, but Arthur will always worry about him. “Just promise me, Merlin.” 

“I promise.”

“And whatever you do, don’t hold back.”

“I won’t,” Merlin pulls back and looks at him with searching eyes. “But only if you promise to do the same.”

She’s gone, Arthur hears. Don’t hesitate. Your sister is long gone.

“I promise.”

“Tonight, we do battle,” Arthur tells his men, although he can barely hear himself above the pounding in his chest. “Tonight, we end this war. We end a war as old as the land itself: war against tyranny, greed, and spite. Not all will greet the dawn—some will live, some will die. But each and every one of you fights with honour, and with pride. For not only do we fight for our lives, we fight for the future. The future of Camelot. The future of Albion. The future of the united kingdoms.” Arthur takes a deep breath and holds his sword aloft. “For the love of Camelot!”

His men echo his cry. Arthur looks up to the cliffs where he knows Merlin is standing, watching him. He imagines that he can see Merlin nod. Above them, Kilgharrah soars overhead, flying low enough to block out the moonlight and cast a shadow over the plains. 

When Arthur leads the charge, his men follow.

It’s a battle for the ages; one that has been foretold for an eternity. Arthur's world narrows down to the sword in his hand and the enemy looking to strike him down. 

Pure instinct takes over; it’s something that was drilled into his nature since he was barely old enough to hold up a stick. There’s no time to pause, no room to think. He can’t see Morgana, and he’s preoccupied enough with the fight at hand to wonder where she is.

It’s a bloodbath. Morgana’s hatred is echoed in the way her soldiers’ faces twist; it’s in the way they fight. Merlin and his small contingent of sorcerers more than hold their own, taking out tens of enemies at once, and having Kilgharrah on their side is certainly a great advantage—a significant portion of Morgana’s army fled at the mere sight of him, and Arthur would be lying if he said he didn’t watch the scene unfold with grim satisfaction. 

The battle goes on for what feels like aeons. But in the end, it was always going to be between the three of them. 

“It’s over, Morgana,” says Merlin. Dawn is breaking around them, and they are standing a fair distance away from Arthur, but he can still hear the power thrumming deep in Merlin’s voice. “Look around you. You’ve lost.”

The valley is strewn with bodies, broken and groaning and dying. It looks like most of them are wearing Morgana’s colours, but under the dust and the grime of battle, Arthur cannot be sure. 

“I should’ve known that you were Emrys,” Morgana hisses back at Merlin. “You were always a thorn in my side.”

“I blame myself for what you’ve become,” Merlin says with a coldness Arthur didn’t think he was capable of. “But this has to end.”

They battle fiercely, trading fires and lightning bolts, hexes and curses and everything in between. 

Arthur fights to get to them, striking down any man who dares to stand in his path. It’s a fool’s errand, perhaps, and there isn’t much he can do magic-wise in a duel between the High Priestess of the Old Religion and Magic itself, but he’ll be damned before he lets Merlin face Morgana alone.

“Look who has come to join us,” Morgana pants after one of Merlin’s spells knocks her off-balance, greeting him with a gleeful smile. “What a joy it is to see you, Arthur.” 

She raises a hand to attack him, but she never gets the chance. Before she could open her mouth, Merlin roars something in that old, guttural language and there is a flash of bright white light, sending her flying. 

She doesn’t move again. Arthur spares her a moment of regret. 

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, rushing to his side and pulling him into a tight embrace. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been worse,” he grunts.

“Good.”

But then Merlin’s eyes widen, fixed on something behind Arthur. Before Arthur can turn to look, Merlin shoves him harshly aside. 

“What—“

By the time Arthur realises what is happening, it’s already too late. Merlin staggers as something hit him, sinking into his flesh with a wet squelch. He exhales sharply, as though all the air is rushed out of his lungs at once. Arthur will never forget the sound for as long as he is alive. 

He follows Merlin’s gaze as he looks down, uncomprehending, to where Morgana’s dagger is embedded in his torso.

“Oh,” says Merlin, stunned. He pulls the dagger out slowly—it’s the same, ornate one Arthur once gifted her for her name day, all those years ago. 

“No,” Arthur breathes, catching Merlin as he falls. “Merlin, no.”

In the distance, two dragons roar in sorrow, loud enough to split the sky.

Arthur looks to where Morgana lies facing the sky, the stars reflected in her unseeing eyes. Her arm is still outstretched from where she flung the dagger, and he can still see traces of where her lips curled in satisfaction, having finally meted out the revenge she longed for. Now, with Merlin’s blood gushing out his wound and coating Arthur’s hands, it’s difficult to recall a time he ever felt any affection for her. 

He has seen a wound like this a hundred times; he knows that there is no time to go to the healers’ tent. No time to hope for Gaius to perform a miracle. Merlin has minutes, if not seconds, before he bleeds out in Arthur’s arms.

For the briefest moment, the world falls into silence and everything comes to a standstill. There is no battle around them. No army to defeat, no Morgana, no kingdom to defend. It’s just the two of them. There is only Merlin’s familiar weight in Arthur’s arms, the full moon illuminating the sky, and nothing else matters. 

Merlin’s eyes are already half-lidded as he rapidly loses consciousness. His mouth moves voicelessly, but there is no need for sound—Arthur would always know the shape of his name forming on Merlin’s lips. 

There is a lump in Arthur’s throat he cannot swallow against, an ache between his ribs he is sure will never go away.

“You promised,” Arthur finds himself saying. He draws Merlin into a careful cradle, even as his own limbs are going numb. Not like this. Not with them standing on the verge of the golden age the prophecies promised. They’ve only had so little time with each other. It’s not nearly enough. “Merlin, you promised.”

They were so close to having everything. For it to be snatched away from their reach—

“I just got you back.”

Arthur’s arms tighten around Merlin, as though he would be able to make Merlin stay by anchoring him here, and his tears burn where they spill on his cheeks. Merlin raises a trembling hand with great effort and Arthur grasps it with his own, pressing it against his cheek. He leans into it, helpless to do anything else. 

Merlin’s eyes flare gold, but where they were bright and brilliant before, they only flicker weakly now. Images flash before Arthur’s eyes, but whether it occurs only in his mind or outside of it, he cannot tell. The images are all of him, seen through Merlin’s eyes: golden and beautiful and good, and Arthur’s heart constricts so tightly in his chest that he cannot breathe. 

He sees himself the way he was when Merlin first met him: brash and arrogant, confident as he twists Merlin’s arm behind his back. He sees himself fighting in a tourney, trouncing every opponent with all the self-assurance of someone who knew they will not be beaten, and can feel the echoing swell of Merlin’s pride. He sees himself outwitting Merlin and drinking the poisoned chalice on that beach, feels Merlin’s blind, unbridled panic as he crouches before Arthur’s unconscious body. 

It’s a thousand more memories like this: Arthur grinning as he drags his knuckles on Merlin’s head to get a smile out of him. Both of them astride their horses, riding back after a successful hunt on a calm summer’s day, teasing back and forth as two equals. Merlin polishing Arthur’s armour in the corner of his room, talking quietly about his day as Arthur leans over his desk, pen scratching on unrolled parchment. Arthur addressing the anxious audience, apologising for his and his father’s mistakes, his hair almost white in the sunlight. 

Their very first kiss, unexpected and impulsive and perfect. 

And threading together all these memories is the clear fondness Merlin holds for Arthur. He can feel it as surely as though they were his own. 

The images dim, losing their bright colours before fading entirely. This time, when Merlin’s eyes meet Arthur’s again, they are bright, limned with tears.

Something shatters. He should’ve known that this was a goodbye.

“My love,” Merlin whispers, his lips stretching into a tremulous smile. “My love.”

This is how a king breaks: into pieces, all at once. In all his years, Arthur has never known anguish like this. He didn’t even know it was possible to ache this badly and still be able to draw a breath. He leans forward and presses the gentlest of kisses upon Merlin’s forehead and doesn’t let go. 

“I love you,” Arthur sobs, pulling close until there is no more distance between them. “So much. Gods. I never know what to do with it, sometimes.” He clenches his eyes tightly, his voice breaking when he begs, “Don’t leave me with it, Merlin.”

But Merlin doesn’t stir. He doesn’t do so much as twitch in Arthur’s arms, and Arthur can tell that he just isn’t there anymore. Arthur curls over him and cries, his sobs harsh with heartbreak.

"You're killing me, Merlin," he hiccoughs. Once upon a time, his grief would have turned into anger. It would have led him back down to the heart of the battle, and he wouldn’t have hesitated from slaying every Saxon standing in his way. But he is only painfully hollow now, every last emotion drained out of him. No mother, no father, no sister. And now, Merlin too is taken from him. What is there left for him? How does one half exist without the other?

A sudden chirp next to him tears Arthur momentarily from his grief, and he sits up in surprise. A white dragon has materialised next to him, sat on her haunches and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Aithusa,” Arthur breathes, and his throat feels like it has been scraped raw. Arthur was so lost in mourning that he hadn’t noticed her approach.  Though she had protested most vehemently about being left behind, Merlin decided she was too young to fight.

He is reminded, suddenly, of how the Great Dragon healed Merlin from a fatal Serket sting. Dragon magic is powerful and ancient. Perhaps there is still hope yet.

He turns to her, beseeching. “Can you help him? He was stabbed, and I can’t—“ his voice breaks again, tears spilling anew. “Please. I can’t lose him.”

But Aithusa only makes a keening noise in the back of her throat. She leans forward, gently laying her head against Merlin’s torso. 

Arthur’s shoulders slope in defeat. “I know,” he mutters, stroking her head gently as she weeps over her fallen lord. “Yeah. I know.”

It’s just the three of them for a while. Arthur knows he should return to the dying battle, making them aware of Camelot’s victory. But now, more alone than ever, it’s difficult to find the strength to stand again. 

“They said we were foretold, did you know?” Arthur tells Aithusa as he strokes her head, forcing the bitter words out from where it was choking him. “We had a destiny together.” He remembers the way Merlin blushed when he relayed the words to Arthur, pink high on his cheeks. “He was supposed to stand by my side as we unite Albion.” He remembers the joy that bubbles in his chest upon hearing of the prophecy. Remembers the warmth of Merlin’s calloused fingers and how they slot with his. “And like a fool, I believed it.”

Were they always living on borrowed time? With the stakes so high, is this always the way it was going to end?

Aithusa chirps and butts Arthur’s hand, nudging it gently towards Merlin’s neck. Arthur snatches it away as though burnt, but Aithusa is rather insistent.

“Aithusa, stop that.”

But Aithusa shakes her head, nudging Arthur’s hand towards Merlin’s neck every time Arthur tries to pull away.

“Fine,” Arthur finally acquiesces, if only to get her to stop. He places two fingers on Merlin’s neck, where he knows Merlin’s pulse points are. Rather than a resounding stillness that he expected, he finds a slow rhythm instead—sluggish and faint, but certainly there. It’s terrifying to hope. He presses harder, though only slightly, and the pulse is still there. There is warmth in Merlin’s skin, the slightest rise and fall to his chest.

He springs into movement, scrabbling to lift Merlin’s tunic to find that his wound has healed somewhat. There is a fresh layer of skin where the wound was open before—it looks as though it could be a week old. 

He looks up at Aithusa, who is baring her teeth in something that resembles a smile. 

“I—“ Arthur trails off helplessly, lost for words. He sags in relief; a puppet with its strings cut. “You healed him.”

Aithusa chirps in confirmation. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says with feeling, feeling rather like he’s about to burst into tears again. “Thank you.”

Later, after Morgana’s men lay down their arms and Merlin is safely under the Druids' care, Arthur spends an eternity trying to wash his hands. But Merlin’s blood is everywhere—seeping into his undershirt, getting under Arthur’s nails. And no matter how hard Arthur tries to scrub, it stubbornly refuses to come off. 

"I can't get it off," he mutters feverishly when his tent flap opens. He's not sure who entered. He can't bring himself to care. "It won't come off."

"Arthur," says Gaius, rushing quickly to his side. "Arthur, stop."

Arthur doesn't. He can't bring himself to. His breath hitches, catching in the back of his throat.

"Arthur, please. You'll hurt yourself." Gaius grabs his hands to pull them out of the basin, firmly and gently. "Merlin is fine," Gaius promises. "He's responding well to Iseldir's tinctures and charms. He'll make full recovery."

Arthur looks up sharply and blinks, Gaius' words penetrating through the haze that had descended on his brain. "Good," he mumbles. "That's good."

"Come," says Gaius. "See for yourself."

When Merlin finally wakes, he finds Arthur by his bedside. 

“You’re awake,” Arthur notes. “Tell me why I shouldn’t lock you up in a tower and out of harm’s way.”

Merlin blinks slowly, feeling as though he has been run over by  a horse and cart. “Arthur?”

Arthur isn’t looking at him. He is flicking through a very familiar book that used to live under a loose floorboard in Merlin’s room. “I suppose I ought to thank you for bringing peace to Camelot at last.”

Merlin rasps out, “You could sound like you mean it.”

Arthur hands him a cup of water wordlessly, still most decidedly not looking at him.

Merlin accepts the water gratefully, arms trembling with disuse. “Thank you.” 

Arthur sits back down and leisurely flips onto another page, looking for all the worlds as though he was completely absorbed in what he’s reading. “You nearly died,” he comments tonelessly. He would have sounded as though he was merely commenting on the weather, if not for the catch in his voice that gives him away. “Again. As a matter of fact, I’m fairly sure you actually did.”

“I remember,” Merlin cringes. He remembers being cradled in Arthur’s arms, touching his face like a lover. He remembers showing everything he was and everything Arthur meant to him; he remembers saying goodbye. He had felt safe, happy to be in the embrace of the man he loves, even as coldness crept into his limbs. “What happened?”

“Aithusa healed you.” 

“Oh,” Merlin replies intelligently, not knowing what else he can say to make things any better.

Arthur is in pain. He tries to hide it, like he always does, but it rolls off him in waves. Merlin knows him too well not to notice the subtle crease between his brows, the way he holds on to Merlin’s magic book a little bit too tightly. His back is too straight, the clench in his jaw too tight. 

He frowns. “You are angry with me.”

Arthur doesn’t bother looking up. “Furious.”

“Arthur—“ Merlin sighs. “We always knew one of us could die. Or both, even.”

“I suppose.”

“So why are you angry?”

Arthur slams Merlin's book closed. “Why did you take the knife that was meant for me?”

“Are you serious?” Merlin stares, incredulous. “There is no Camelot without you. I did what I had to do.” He grits his jaw and tilts his head up proudly. “It is my duty to protect you.”

“You could’ve used your magic to shove me aside,” Arthur counters coldly. “You could’ve used magic to nudge the knife away from its trajectory. But instead, you shoved me aside, placing yourself in harm’s way—“

“I wasn't thinking,” Merlin winces. “There wasn’t any time.”

“Why are you so keen to die for me?” Arthur accuses hotly. “Do you have a death wish, Merlin? Why do you always leap at the chance to sacrifice yourself?”

Merlin gapes wordlessly. Then he mumbles, rather helplessly, “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Arthur sags, all the fight drained out of him. The crease between his brows deepens with hurt. “Explain it to me, Merlin. Because I don’t understand.”

He’s afraid, Merlin realises. Beneath the fury and the righteous anger, there is simply fear. 

“It scared you,” exhales Merlin with wonder. 

Arthur looks at him in puzzlement, momentarily distracted from his anger. “What?”

“It scared you, me nearly dying.”

For a moment, Arthur glances between the book in his hand and Merlin’s head in a considering manner. “If you weren’t just at death’s door three days ago, I’d throw this book at your head right now,” he mutters venomously. “After everything—after all that we spoke about, all we went through together—how much of an idiot are you? How can you not know by now?”

Merlin can feel his gaze softening, even if he is rather torn between feeling offended and feeling warm with affection. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, putting everything he is into the words. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You are the most maddening man alive,” sniffs Arthur. “It is truly a mystery why I care so much for you.”

"You wouldn't have it any other way, really," he grins. He gestures vaguely at the bed. “Come here, Arthur.”

Arthur regards Merlin’s bed suspiciously, looking both pleased and wary at Merlin’s offer. And then he complains, “your bed is too small.”

“Whose fault is that?” Merlin retorts without missing a beat. “You should give me a raise so I can afford a bigger one.” He pats the pillow next to his head. “Come on. I’ll use my magic to soften it, so it can meet His Majesty the Prat’s exacting standards.”

Of course, it’s only then that Arthur is convinced.

“Can you use your magic to make it bigger too?”

Merlin rolls his eyes as he obliges. “I should’ve known that you’d be this demanding with my magic too.”

Arthur doesn’t grace that with a response, opting instead to lift the blanket with great flourish and climb in. “Budge up.”

Merlin sighs loudly in aggravation, not quite managing to hide his smile, and indulges him.

“I told you once that I was born to serve you,” Merlin says softly once Arthur finishes fidgeting, shifting and turning to get comfortable. “That is my purpose. That’s why I’m here. Whatever it takes, Arthur. Whatever it costs.”

“Not this,” denies Arthur immediately, fingers twitching reflexively where it rests over Merlin’s heart. “I have lost enough in life. I will not lose this too.” 

Merlin hums in acknowledgement, shifting so he can lie closer to his king. He inhales sharply as a sharp pain shoots through his torso. He suddenly remembers that while a dragon’s magic is immensely strong and has helped massively in keeping him alive, he was still just stabbed.

“You fool, try not to move too much,” Arthur snaps as shifts closer.

But there are worse things than this, Merlin decides. Arthur is a warm presence by his side, his calloused finger tracing invisible patterns over Merlin’s heart. How did they get here?

“They said we were like two sides of the same coin.”

“Who did?”

“The dragon,” answers Merlin. “The big one. And some of the druids too.”

Merlin can hear the affection in Arthur’s voice when he replies, “Yeah?”

“I like to think that’s why I dreamt of you, when I was imprisoned in Thomas’ dungeon,” Merlin tells him. “Even when it was locked away, my magic found a way to reach out to you.”

He was so blind for so long. It seems ridiculous, in hindsight, to think that they could ever be anything but this. That he could ever delude himself into thinking that Arthur doesn’t feel the same way. 

“Such a girl,” says Arthur, but his voice is choked. He squeezes Merlin’s hand in his.

Merlin tries his best to face Arthur while still staying supine. Arthur’s face is very close, their breaths mingling together. Even with the circles under his eyes and the exhaustion written in every line of his body, he is still the most magnificent thing Merlin has ever seen. 

“You like the thought as much as I do.”

Arthur hums, not denying the accusation. They fall into companionable silence, Arthur’s fingers tangled with Merlin’s own, Arthur’s feet brushing against his leg.

“My offer from before still stands,” Arthur suddenly says. “For you to become Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, I mean. After the display you put on during the battle, even Aelfrid knows that there isn’t anybody more deserving of the role.” The conviction in his voice is so very sincere, and his eyes are so very blue. Merlin has no defences when Arthur is being like this. “They’ve all seen it, now. Much like I have.”

Merlin only stares at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh, thank you, Arthur,” says Arthur mockingly in a terrible approximation of Merlin’s voice. “What an honour it would be to serve at the Court of Camelot. Of course I will accept.”

He just regained consciousness. It is a lot to process so soon.

“I did just nearly die, you know, so forgive me for not functioning at full capacity,” Merlin blurts, like a complete and utter idiot. He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, not in part due to the way Arthur pales, his face turning bloodless. His finger stills from where it was tracing invisible shapes over Merlin’s heart. “No, sorry. I’m being an arse—“

“You are,” agrees Arthur eagerly, but Merlin can see the pain that lingers in Arthur’s eyes from the loss that almost was. “I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to it.”

Merlin sighs. Why is he so opposed to the idea? Once upon a time, this was everything he ever wanted. The recognition he always craved is within his fingertips, now, but why is he so afraid to grasp it?

Perhaps he simply likes being close to Arthur without anybody questioning his motive. Perhaps he enjoys the freedom to essentially do as he wishes, without suspicion following his every move and without always having to justify his actions. Perhaps he doesn’t want anybody to treat him any differently.

Perhaps he just likes things the way they are. “Dunno,” he answers instead. “Suppose it would be a big change.”

“But things have already changed.”

“I know.”

 It’s Arthur’s turn to sigh impatiently. “So what is it?”

“Maybe I just like this,” he huffs. “Is that truly so difficult to imagine?”

“You like being a servant,” Arthur doesn’t sound remotely convinced. “You like people treating you like dirt, you like everyone else taking credit for your actions—“

Not a servant, Merlin wants to correct. Arthur's servant. 

But he would never live it down if he says it out loud, so he doesn't. 

“It’s not really Camelot I serve, you know,” Merlin tells him. “It never was. I’m not even from here.”

Arthur falls silent, ducking his head. If Merlin didn’t know any better, he would’ve said that the smile on Arthur’s face makes him look almost bashful.

He takes in Arthur’s earnestness and knows that Arthur isn’t going to let this go. “This is important to you, isn’t it?”

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again; his jaw works but no words come out. “It’s not fair,” he finally says. “You deserve so much more than what you’ve received.” 

“I don’t know, “ Merlin murmurs, nudging Arthur gently. “I think I have it pretty good.”

“The amount of complaining you do, I really wouldn’t have known.”

Merlin grins, pleased to be back in familiar territory. 

“If it’s truly your wish that somebody else takes up the position, so be it,” Arthur finally says. He won’t ask again; he’s too proud to beg, Merlin knows, even if he can’t quite hide his disappointment. “But know that you must respect whomever I choose for the position, and you’ll have to defer to them—“

“Fine,” Merlin grunts. “I’ll do it. Only because I don’t trust anybody else to protect your sorry arse.”

Arthur beams, pressing a soft kiss onto Merlin’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Now go to sleep,” Merlin says gruffly. “You look terrible.”

Arthur does.