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Merlin wakes with a start and clambers to his feet as the cell door bangs open.

“Rise and– oh. You’re awake.” The guard sounds disappointed and Merlin shrugs, pushing his shoulder-length hair back to hide a wince.

“Sorry to deprive you of the pleasure of kicking me awake.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not fussy about when I do it.” Merlin flinches when he starts to lash out but he only chuckles. “Put your tunic on. The king wants to speak with you in his chambers.”

“In his chambers? He hasn’t done that for a while. What does he want this time?”

“God, I wish we could gag you permanently. I don’t know and quite frankly, I don’t care. Hopefully it’s something painful.” He shoves Merlin towards the door. “Now get out there.”

Merlin stumbles but regains his footing with a scowl. He tugs his threadbare, dirty sleeves down over the cold iron cuffs, regretting, as he has every day since  he was brought here, letting the Essetirian border patrol see his magic. If he’d just held off on chopping that firewood until later, if he’d paid more attention to his surroundings, then he wouldn’t be here. A prisoner-stroke-slave in Cenred’s castle, a hollow ache in his chest where his magic should be and pain all over from Cenred’s interrogations and the guards’ fun. As he approaches the entrance to the dungeons, a guard following closely, he swallows, pushing down the tattered remains of his pride and pulling himself into a more subservient position. It’s lucky he knows the castle well by now, the skin around his left eye is so swollen he can barely see. He heads to Cenred’s chambers and knocks, entering at his call.

Merlin bows, his whole being screaming with defiant fear, hating himself for the deference. “You wanted to speak to me, sire.”

“Finally. You took your time.”

“Sorry, sire.”

“No matter. Did you know, it’s a year to the day since you arrived. I’m starting to get impatient.”

“So you mean you weren’t impatient when you gave me that beating yesterday?” asks Merlin incredulously. It hurts to even breathe. “Sire.”

“That was because you annoyed me. My impatience will get your mother involved. So you’d better start talking soon.”

Merlin goes cold at the mention of his mother. “Yes, sire.”

Cenred approaches and Merlin determinedly keeps his gaze on the floor, hands behind his back. The king slides his hand under Merlin’s chin and lifts it.

Merlin jerks backwards, stumbling. “Don’t touch me.”

Cenred’s eyes flash dangerously and he lashes out, catching Merlin by the throat and slamming him against the wall. Merlin gasps, hands coming up to scrabble at Cenred’s. “I’ll do what I like. You’re mine, Merlin, or have you forgotten?” Merlin shakes his head frantically. He doesn’t need another reminder, doesn’t think he can stand it on top of the injuries he already has. Cenred throws him to the ground and he scrambles to his knees, unable to stand, panting heavily as he takes in great lungfuls of air. The king watches him struggle thoughtfully.

“You know, Merlin, you could have a comfortable life here if you just told me what I want to know. You’d make a very handsome and powerful consort.”

“I’d rather die,” he rasps. Cenred just hums, used to this response by now, and waits for Merlin to rise before taking his jaw in a grip tighter than before, one that presses on his bruises. Cenred moves his head to each side, appraising him. Merlin thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have resisted earlier, but he can’t always help it. He drops Merlin’s chin, though not before stroking his cheek in a way that makes Merlin force back a shudder.

“The heavy bruising’s unfortunate, although I imagine a bit of makeup will cover it for the state visit.”

“What state visit? And why am I involved?”

“Camelot is coming.” Cenred raises an eyebrow, waiting for Merlin’s response, but when nothing comes he continues, “two weeks from now. They’ll be here for a month for treaty negotiations, and I want you serving.”

Well. That one’s new. “What if they recognise me?”

Cenred chuckles. “I don’t intend on you getting too close, Merlin. You’re to attend me during public events, that’s all. And they won’t recognise you. They think you’re dead, after all. But if you do anything, and I mean anything, to help them remember... well. Ealdor’s a dangerous place.” Merlin swallows, and he knows Cenred knows he understands. “Now. I want you to talk to the steward about sleeping arrangements for you while Camelot is here, and ask the head seamstress to find you some decent clothes. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Excellent. You’re dismissed.”

Merlin dips into as shallow a bow as he can get away with and exits, heading for the steward’s office. Hopefully the guard will stay outside – he usually does, at least. He’s not sure what makes the steward dislike him so much, whether it’s because he’s a sorcerer or from Camelot or perhaps a mixture of the two, but best to get it over with. He’s determined not to react to news of Camelot’s visit outside of the privacy of his own mind.

Well. Maybe in front of Elaine would be all right too.

He knocks and enters. The steward looks up from his writing, lip curling in distaste. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want?”

“The king sent me to check on my sleeping arrangements for Camelot’s visit.”

“Ah yes, that’s right. You’re not staying in the oubliette this time. Well, I’m sure we can find something. Somewhere out of the way, where people won’t have to see you. I’ll let you know when I arrange it.”

“Thank you.” Merlin leaves before the man can taunt him, because he will if he can. Next stop is Elaine, the head seamstress. He heads through the castle to her office, hoping she’s not too busy to stop and chat. He was quick with the steward, and Cenred wasn’t as long as he sometimes is, so that should give him a bit of extra time before the guards drag him away. Elaine, an older woman who gives the impression of being everyone’s mother, is busy with a nobleman when he arrives, but once he’s left, pushing past Merlin far harder than he needs to, she locks the door and steers him into a chair.

“It’s about time for my break anyway. I haven’t seen you in a while, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” he replies dryly.

“Have you been antagonising the guards again?”

“They don’t need provocation to beat me up, you know that. Anyway, this was during Cenred’s latest interrogation.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Why do you always assume I said something?” She just looks at him and he sighs, accepting the small roll of bread with a nod of thanks. “I might’ve told him that the real secret in Camelot is Arthur’s smelly socks.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I’d ask you to stop antagonising him but you won’t.”

“I’ll have to soon.” She looks at him quizzically. “He said that if I take much longer he’ll get my mother involved. I don’t know what to do but... I can’t keep quiet. Not if she’s in danger.”

“I can’t help there I’m afraid. All I can say is to make the decision you can live with.” Merlin nods. “What did Cenred send you for this time?”

“I need a servant’s uniform by the time Camelot arrives. Or, well, Cenred told me to tell you to find me some decent clothes with that look on his face where he’s imagining me with nothing on at all, but I assume a servant’s uniform is what he wants.”

“He’s making you serve him then?” Merlin nods again. “Right. Finish that and I’ll take your measurements.”

He stuffs the last few bites of bread in his mouth, chewing slowly around the pain in his jaw. “Do you know anywhere I can get makeup from that won’t cost me a flogging? This”–he gestures to his face and neck–“isn’t going to fade in two weeks.”

“I’ll lend you some. You can collect it when you collect your uniform.”

“Thanks.” Her hand comes up to measure his neck and he flinches automatically. “Sorry, you can–”

“Cenred again?”

“Yeah. He’s very possessive sometimes. I’m not looking forward to Camelot’s visit.”

“You think he’ll do something?”

“I think he wants to humiliate me and groping me in front of my friends would do it.”

She hums her agreement, writing down the last measurement. “There, you can sit back down now. I thought I told you not to put your tunic on over fresh lashes.”

“Well, I wasn’t going up to Cenred’s chambers without one,” he says indignantly, “he leers enough as it is.” He rubs his uninjured eye tiredly, pushing back tears. Because Elaine cares for him so much but there’s nothing either of them can do.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulls him into a careful hug. “Things will turn out alright in the end.”

“How?” he asks helplessly. She doesn’t have an answer to that.

The carriage rattles to a halt in Essetir’s courtyard, and Uther climbs out, Arthur following. Leon’s just the other side of the door, holding it open, and Arthur looks around for the familiar black head of hair.

“Merlin–” he starts, then remembers. Leon gives him a look, which he ignores. He should be able to go on trips without expecting Merlin to be there by now.

As if reading his mind, Leon says, “he was your best friend, even if you can’t admit it. Of course you still miss him.”

“I can admit it. He was my friend.” It feels strange, saying that Merlin was his friend, but he shouldn’t dishonour his memory by denying it. That’s what Gwen told him anyway.

“And this is why Gwen likes you now,” Leon teases with a smile. Arthur blushes.

“Shut up.”

Leon laughs. He’s been trying to fill Merlin’s role of teasing Arthur, Gwen and Lancelot about their relationship over the past year, but his ingrained propriety makes it hard. Arthur appreciates the effort though. Appreciates all of them.

Arthur stiffens as his father looks at them disapprovingly.

“King Uther,” comes a voice from the steps, and Arthur looks round to see King Cenred and his courtiers standing there. His father nods.

“King Cenred.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, after so long,” says Cenred.

“And you. I hope this visit can go some way into improving relations between our two kingdoms.”

“Indeed. You have had a long journey, allow my servants to show you to your chambers before the banquet this evening.”

Arthur follows a couple of the servants to a large set of chambers decorated with Essetirian shields and drapes. His heart pangs at the sight of the low servant’s cot in the corner. Merlin should be here.

“Why is there a bed there?” asks Arthur, more sharply than he intends.

“My apologies, sire. We were told you would be bringing a servant with you. If you like, you can borrow one for the duration of your stay.”

“No. Just clear away the bed.” He’s sure the servant will report back to Cenred about him refusing the king’s hospitality, but right now he doesn’t care. He can’t have someone replace Merlin.

“Of course, sire. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. Thank you.”

The serving girl curtseys and exits, leaving the male servant to carry in Arthur’s trunk, before he, too, leaves.

Arthur sinks down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. This is about the time Merlin would make a crack about Cenred’s terrible decorating ideas. But he’s not here, of course. He’s dead. And Arthur needs to get used to that.

Cenred strides in just as Merlin is partway through imagining the stone walls exploding for the hundredth time. This scenario was the most elaborate, involving grappling hooks and fireballs.

“How are you finding your new chambers?”

Merlin almost laughs. His new chambers. He’s only in them for a month, and then it’s back to the dungeon. Besides, it’s a tiny, unfurnished room, the only break in the stone walls a metal ring embedded behind him. It doesn’t even have a window.

At least the guards are outside the door.

“They’re fine, sire,” says Merlin sarcastically, “very comfortable. Can I make a request?”

Cenred narrows his eyes. “Watch your tongue.”

“Sorry, sire.”

“Your request? If you behave well enough, I might be magnanimous to grant it.”

“Will you untie me? I’d like to explore my new room. And you’ll have to untie me anyway to serve at the banquet. Sire.”

Cenred shrugs. “Might as well. After all, you can’t serve me tied up in here.” Merlin looks at him in surprise as he yanks the ropes free – he hadn’t been expecting that. He keeps his hands where they are, though. “I just thought you might like to know that Prince Arthur has refused a manservant during his stay here. Seems like he’s too sentimental for his own good.”

Merlin’s anger boils at the disgusted tone, and he snaps, “That’s why I work for Arthur, and left your kingdom years ago. Arthur cares about his servants. You don’t even know their names .”

Cenred kicks Merlin in the stomach and while he’s doubled over, gasping, hands on the floor in front of him for balance, Cenred lifts his chin, tilting it up until Merlin’s forced to meet his eyes. He shivers at the cold anger in them.

“You don’t work for Camelot anymore, Merlin. They all think you’re dead. You’re mine. As you have been since the day you were born.”

“I’m not yours,” spits Merlin, disgusted.

“If you want your mother to stay alive, you are.” Merlin looks away, defeated for the moment, and Cenred drops his chin, standing carefully on Merlin’s hand as he steps back. The bones crunch under his heavy boot and Merlin bites his lip against the agonising pain, looking up at the king. “And I do know the servants’ names, if they work closely with me. I know the seamstress’ name is Elaine, for example.” Cenred smirks. “I expect to see you at the banquet tonight. The guards will be here soon to help you prepare.”

He strolls out the door without a backward glance.

Merlin drops his head, collapsing fully onto the floor, breathing hard. He needs to get himself into a more dignified position before the guards get here, because they’ll want to clean him properly and he doesn’t want any more taunting or humiliation than they’ll already give him, but he can’t make himself move. Elaine. Is she really working for Cenred? Was all that kindness just an act?

Cenred could be lying, of course. That would be just like him, to destroy Merlin further. But it makes a frightening amount of sense if she’s just pretending, and the more Merlin thinks about it the more dread pools in his stomach.

The extra food she manages to procure, coinciding with the times he isn’t fed for the longest. The little bits of advice she gives him, often urging him, subtly, to give in. Hell, even her touches, which on bad days just make him miss home more than ever.

A prisoner with the possibility of hope is far more likely to give in than one with nothing at all to lose.

Merlin shakes his head. No. No, he can’t think about that. It’s a dangerous job, working for Cenred, even if she is that doesn’t mean she doesn’t genuinely want to help him. And he can’t afford to think of her against him, anyway. If he loses the only person in the castle who might be on his side... well. That would break him entirely.

By the time the banquet comes around, Merlin’s been washed and dressed in a clean, if slightly threadbare, set of servant’s clothes, altered to fit him. He can still feel the guards’ rough hands on his skin where they held him down and scrubbed him clean, despite the heavy layer of makeup on top. He resists the urge to scratch at it – he doesn’t want to know what Cenred’s reaction will be if his bruises are visible.

At least he won’t pass out this time. He’s been fed, and granted it was only scraps that he had to eat from a bowl on the floor without using his hands (the guards have to get their entertainment from somewhere now Merlin’s not being tortured for a month, after all), his head’s still a little fuzzy, but it was still food. Enough to keep him alive, he thinks. They can’t exactly let him pass out in front of the guests, after all.

Merlin takes a few deep breaths as servants enter the kitchen, steeling himself. It’s nearly time for the banquet.

For months he’s wished he could see his friends again, but not like this. Never like this.

Be careful what you wish for, he thinks bitterly. It might just come true.

Merlin shakes his head, continuing to plate up the chicken with his unbroken left hand. He’s sure, given the nervous looks the scullery maids are giving them, that there aren’t usually guards stationed inside the kitchens. They’re here for his benefit. Unnecessary really – he’s not planning on running. Once he’s finished he joins the line of servants taking food and wine up to the banquet hall. He swallows. It’s a month. Just a month. He doesn’t even have to look at them. Merlin places the dish on the table and picks up a jug of wine, moving to stand back against the far wall, eyes on the floor as the doors open.

The first people to enter the hall are nobles from Essetir, and then knights and nobles from Uther’s retinue (including Leon, he realises with a pang), most of whom don’t spare the servants a glance. Arthur enters next, doing a double take as he spots Merlin (Merlin’s heart skips a beat, torn between hope that Arthur recognised him and fear for his mother if he did) before shaking his head, shooting him a confused look. Uther doesn’t look at him at all, but Cenred looks him up and down covetously. Merlin shivers. He steps forward and pours Cenred some wine, keeping his gaze lowered (just like a good servant, he thinks bitterly).

Cenred starts his speech and Merlin mostly tunes out. It’s the same long-winded, perfectly diplomatic but with a few sly barbs type thing that Uther used to give in Camelot. Probably still does. Instead, he uses the time to drink in the sight of his friends. Leon, whose hair has more curls than he remembers, who’s doing a good job of pretending to listen but his eyes keep darting to Merlin as if trying to figure him out. Merlin had forgotten just how observant Leon is, he’ll have to be careful. Arthur, his blond hair shining in the torchlight. Merlin can’t see his face from where he’s standing but he can tell he’s bored, even if he’s gotten better at pretending otherwise (or maybe Merlin’s starting to forget things. He doesn’t like that idea). Even Uther, who he’s never liked but who’s displaying clear signs of getting angry. Merlin knows what Cenred’s trying to do, and the Camelot delegation must too. Cenred doesn’t particularly want peace. He wouldn’t be torturing Merlin if he did.

He swallows the lump in his throat. He’s not going to cry. Not in front of Arthur and his other friends, not in front of the Essetirian nobles who’ll mock him mercilessly, and certainly not in front of Cenred.

Once the speech comes to an end, the feasting starts. Uther and Cenred are painstakingly polite to each other, although they hardly talk, and it’s barely a candlemark before Cenred gets started on Merlin. The hall’s noisy, cutlery clanging and voices talking and laughing, and even Uther, sat beside him, doesn’t hear what Cenred murmurs when Merlin bends over to fill his goblet.

“You look good in my crest.” Merlin stiffens as a hand clenches his backside briefly before vanishing.

“Sire,” he mutters tonelessly, not giving away his disgust as he backs away behind Cenred’s chair. And so it begins.

Leon watches Cenred’s servant carefully as the banquet begins. There’s something about him. Maybe it’s just the messy black hair, or the gangliness, but he looks extremely familiar.

It’s not Merlin. It can’t be. But Leon decides to watch him anyway – he just wants to know who the servant is, that’s all, he doesn’t hope it’s Merlin, that’s impossible. Merlin’s dead. Finding out who the servant is is just a handy distraction from the kingdom, and the king, that murdered him.

That’s all.

So Leon watches the servant through carefully-stolen glances. And what he sees worries him.

The man – barely a man really – is thin, nearly skeletal. Worse than Merlin was when he arrived in Camelot. He’s wearing long sleeves but Leon can see his hollow cheeks, the shake in his bony hands. Tired too, then. Or... not just tiredness, he thinks, as the servant bends over to fill Cenred’s cup and stiffens.

Leon knows that stiffen. The court at Camelot’s not much better, but here, he can’t even say anything.

Poor kid.

Then the young man looks up and meets his eyes, and a gasp catches in Leon’s throat.

His eyes are a startling blue flecked with gold. A startlingly familiar blue.

Merlin.

Oh, God, it’s Merlin.

Is it? How can it be?

But it is.

It is.

And he looks helplessly trapped, eyes filled with fear, humiliation, burning anger, tears pricking at them. That’s definitely Merlin, and Leon feels a pang in his chest as the young man looks away quickly, focusing back on Cenred.

Cenred who, unless Leon is very much mistaken, does not look happy.

Arthur nudges Leon surreptitiously. “What’s so interesting?”

“That servant,” mutters Leon, “he... look, just watch him. Especially his eyes. I’ll explain everything later.”

Arthur looks at him weirdly. “You’d better do.”

But Merlin doesn’t look up again.

On their way out of the banquet, after Leon’s had to sit and watch Merlin being groped by Cenred for far too long, he and Arthur make their way to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur sits down when they enter, but Leon stays standing, pacing. He’s too agitated to stay still.

“You’ll wear the floor out pacing like that,” comments Arthur. “So. What was so interesting about that servant? I didn’t spot anything.”

“Merlin,” growls Leon.

Arthur frowns. “What about Merlin? He’s dead.”

“No. Cenred’s servant... that was Merlin.”

“Leon...” says Arthur, far too gently, concerned.

“I know we thought he was dead. But I’d know those eyes anywhere. I’ve never met anyone else with golden flecks in their eyes like that.”

“We never found a body,” says Arthur quietly, long-diminished hope shining in his eyes. “Do you really think it could be him?”

“I do. And even if it wasn’t him, that boy isn’t well.”

“Cenred spent the whole evening groping him, I can’t imagine he would be.” Arthur’s voice is filled with protective fury, and Leon sighs.

“You saw that, then.”

“I think the whole hall saw it. Cenred wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“Bastard,” snarls Leon. Arthur looks at him in mild surprise. Leon doesn’t usually express his anger like this, but right now he’s too angry to keep it in. Either that was deliberate humiliation or Cenred just didn’t care who saw, and although Leon’s inclined to think it’s the former, either way it’s disgusting.

“We can’t be sure it was Merlin,” says Arthur cautiously, “we need to keep an eye on him. If it is Merlin, we can’t take him home until we’re finished here anyway. But we don’t tell anyone else our suspicions. The last thing we need is for Cenred to find out, and I don’t imagine my father would be very happy that we may be endangering the peace treaty.”

Leon nods. Uther was unhappy enough that Arthur and Morgana grieved Merlin so much, he certainly wouldn’t be happy to find that they’re still looking for him. Of course they can’t be sure it’s Merlin. There could be someone else with eyes like that – it’s not like Leon didn’t spend months hoping everyone he spotted with messy dark hair was Merlin, after all.

But God, he hopes it’s him.

Merlin stiffens as a hand clamps down on the back of his neck.

“Merlin. I need a word. Now.”

Cenred’s voice is an angry hiss, and Merlin feels a shiver down his spine, wondering what he’s done now. Camelot have been here a week and he’s been on his best behaviour. Nonetheless, he sets down the goblet in his hand and follows Cenred out of hall they’re preparing for the ongoing treaty negotiations to a smaller chamber off to the side. Only once the door’s shut behind them does the king let him go, shoving forward so he falls hard on his knees, lack of food making him too weak to keep his balance.

Merlin starts to rise but freezes at a sharp, “Don’t.”

“Sire?”

“It appears your... friends have recognised you. They’ve been trying to talk to you. I wonder what could have caused that.”

“I didn’t do anything!” cries Merlin, panicked. If Cenred blames him, if he remembers the promise about Merlin’s mother... “I wouldn’t, sire! I haven’t let any of them near me. It’s not my fault if they’re observant.”

Cenred raises an eyebrow. “No? So you didn’t make eye contact with them during the welcoming feast, then?”

“I...” Merlin did, that’s the problem, and Cenred knows he did. It was a moment of weakness, he desperately wanted to see his friends properly, and he hadn’t been expecting the sudden spark of recognition in Leon’s eyes. “I did, but it was an accident, sire. A mistake.”

“A mistake, certainly. But it was no accident. You deliberately disobeyed me.”

“Please, sire...”

“Don’t interrupt!” Cenred snarls. Merlin lowers his head, eyes on the floor, and the king presses the tip of his boot to Merlin’s chin, raising his head. “And don’t look away while I’m talking to you.”

“Sorry, sire.” Merlin forces himself not to move away. He can’t risk disobeying further. Can’t risk his mother further.

“Better. Unfortunately, I can’t punish you properly until after Camelot is gone, but rest assured you will be punished.” Merlin opens his mouth slightly and then closes it again. “Yes?”

“Please, sire, I know you need to punish me, but please leave my mother alone. You can put me in the oubliette if you like, I won’t argue, just please leave her out of this.”

It hurts to beg like this, especially when Cenred’s face twists up into a triumphant smile. Merlin tries to ignore the part of himself that sneers at him, calling him a traitor for begging when he promised himself he never would outside of torture, but he can’t do so entirely.

“I think that might be the first time you’ve ever begged for anything when you’re not being tortured. I’m impressed. I’m not putting you in the oubliette though, at least not while Camelot are here. That would make things easier on you, and I’m not in the habit of making things easier for my prisoners. But, as you begged so nicely for it, I’ll give you one more chance. You’ll behave, properly , for the next three weeks. Once Camelot have left, I will ask you, one last time, for your co-operation. You’ll give me the information I’m looking for and become my consort. If you don’t... well, in that case, I hope you said goodbye to your mother before you left Ealdor.” He pauses for a moment, taking the sight of Merlin in. Drinking him in, Merlin knows, because this is what he’s wanted all along. Merlin, knelt at his feet, begging. And Merlin feels so ashamed for doing so. He knows he has to, but that doesn’t help. “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

“Yes, sire.”

“If you disobey me again, though, I may not be so lenient. Now get back to work.”

Cenred strides out of the room, and Merlin takes a minute to collect himself before following, blinking back tears before they can fall and smudge his make-up.

Merlin feels eyes on him throughout the negotiations – Cenred’s covetous ones, the Essetirian lords’ gloating ones, his friends’ – but he doesn’t look up, not once. He can’t afford to, not this time.

It’s only once he’s alone in his tower room, with its dim candlelight and monotonous stone walls and now blood on the floor, that he allows himself to fall apart.

He’s going to have to give in to Cenred, isn’t he? To his advances, to becoming his consort. To having sex, probably, because that’s the sort of man Cenred is.

To helping destroy Camelot.

He can’t agree, it makes him shake just to think about it.

But he has to. For his mother.

But he can’t.

He doesn’t know what to do. Three weeks. That’s all he has left.

If he died... would Cenred give up then?

No. No, his mother would die if he did. Cenred told him that during his first week here. And he’s not sure he wants to die anyway.

Merlin curls up, uncaring of the way it makes his injuries worse, uncaring of the tears streaming down his cheeks, washing away the make-up. He can reapply it later, he has enough. He closes his eyes. Maybe, like this, he can pretend he’s still in Camelot.

But it doesn’t work. The gaping hole in his heart won’t be ignored.

And Merlin just cries. Tomorrow, he knows, he’ll pull himself up, force the jagged, broken pieces of himself back together even though they don’t quite fit anymore, pretend he has a choice in any of this. Pretend giving in isn’t the only option he has left. But tonight... tonight, he’ll let himself cry.

“It’s Merlin,” says Arthur decisively to Leon, a week and a half in. “He’s not looking at us anymore but it’s definitely him. We can bring him home.”

Arthur would know his manservant, his friend, anywhere, especially now Leon’s pointed it out. And it seems they’re not the only ones to have noticed the similarities. A few knights have approached Arthur about their suspicions as well. If Cenred thought Merlin, cheerful, likeable Merlin, could live in Camelot for a year and not befriend anyone enough that they’d recognise him, even now, he was very wrong.

“We still need to approach him,” points out Leon, “successfully, I mean. We can’t just grab him and carry him out.”

“He’s probably light enough. But you’re right. Cenred wouldn’t let that go. I doubt he’ll let Merlin go easily at all. I just... I hope we haven’t made things worse for him.”

Leon nods. “I’m trying not to think about it, to be honest.”

So is Arthur. But it’s impossible. Merlin won’t even look at them anymore. Nothing except stolen, split-second glances when Cenred’s not present. If he’s gotten Merlin hurt worse by trying to see him, he’ll never forgive himself.

“Do we know where Merlin’s being held?”

“The north tower. It’s too heavily guarded for him to be anywhere else.”

“Right. Will you try and corner Merlin first? You know him better than I do.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, surprised at Leon’s boldness. “I’ve never known you to be so bossy with me.”

Leon sighs. “I just want Merlin back, sire.”

“We all do, Leon. We all do.”

Merlin leans over the edge of the tower battlements and stares out at the city, trying to ignore the itching, cloying sensation on his face and neck. He’s never been allowed outside like this before.

He closes his eyes. Like this, cheeks warmed by the setting sun and wind brushing against his face, he can almost imagine he’s still in Camelot.

It’s been a fortnight, and there’s still another, at least, to go. Another fortnight of avoiding his friends, of running away whenever anyone from Camelot approaches in concern or recognition, because he can’t risk his mother’s life. Another fortnight of being humiliated by Cenred in front of everyone. And then, once that’s over, he has decisions to make.

He can’t stay silent for much longer. Originally Cenred only threatened his mother to make sure he didn’t run, but now... what’s he supposed to do? If he refuses to tell his mother will be hurt, and if he doesn’t his friends will be. He could lie, but he’s tried that and Cenred’s reaction once he realised doesn’t bear thinking about.

Elaine said to make the choice he can live with. He’s not sure he can live with either.

Two days ago, Cenred had cornered Merlin and told him, breath stinking of alcohol, that he looked so good in his crest, and perhaps, when Merlin finally agrees to become his consort, he’ll make him wear it all the time.

Cenred really does... Merlin’s not going to think about it. About the inevitable future. He can’t.

Except he does. He can’t stop himself, apparently.

Because Merlin can’t hold out much longer. Against Cenred’s advances, against his interrogations, especially after last week’s threat... the spectre of his mother’s potential fate looms over everything and it’s all too much. He’s trapped. Decisions that have no good answers, no way of escape or even just brief respite. He brings a hand up to stifle a sob. He knows what’s going to happen, because it has to. He’ll give in sooner or later, probably sooner because he doesn’t dare risk his mother’s life much further. Cenred will crown him his consort, although he’ll still be a prisoner really, it just won’t be so obvious. He’ll spill Camelot’s secrets, it’s only a matter of time, and then Camelot will be attacked.

The only time he’ll see Arthur and Leon again will be as the puppet ruler of an enemy kingdom. He doesn’t think he can bear to see their hatred then.

He drops his head to rest his chin on the rough stone, crying hard. He’s been trying so hard to push it all back but he can’t. Not now he’s started thinking about it. The arrival of Uther and Arthur has sent his mind reeling and now everything’s colliding, he can’t separate it. He can’t cope. He’s managed up until now by not thinking of Camelot, minimising his life there, but now Arthur’s right in front of him, and even though he doesn’t dare look much Merlin finds he hasn’t forgotten the minutiae of Arthur’s expressions as much as he feared, the worry and boredom in the twitches of his eyebrows and the slump of his shoulders, and the carefully constructed barriers in his mind are crumbling to dust.

He can’t afford that. Not if he’s going to survive.

Merlin’s tears stream down his face, dripping steadily onto the castle walls and down. He can’t stop them coming and he doesn’t want to. Just for one night. Again. And then he’ll carry on, one day at a time.

He stiffens as someone touches his back. No. No. He never wanted to reveal how close he is to breaking. He braces himself for Cenred’s taunting and turns.

It’s not Cenred.

He looks into familiar blue eyes and blonde hair lit up golden by the sunset.

“Arthur?”

Arthur looks like he can’t believe his eyes. Like he’s seeing a dream. “Merlin,” he breathes.

Merlin comes to his senses and stumbles sideways, ducking away from Arthur’s outstretched arm. He aches so badly but he can’t. “No– I have to– I can’t–”

Arthur grabs his wrist before he can dart down the stairs, narrowing his eyes at Merlin’s wince. “Merlin, wait!”

Merlin tries to wrench himself away but he can’t. “Get off me, Arthur! I need to go!”

“Not until you explain why you’re so desperate to avoid me. Avoid all of us.”

“He’s threatened my mother!” Merlin yells desperately. “If Cenred knows you recognise me he’ll hurt my mother! Please, let me go. Please.” Arthur looks like he’s going to laugh and Merlin feels a sudden burst of fury, struggling again. “It’s not funny!”

“No, Merlin, I didn’t mean– it’s just, your mother’s not in Ealdor anymore.”

“What?” His voice is barely a croak. What does Arthur mean, she’s not there? Did something happen?

“Hunith’s been in Camelot for months. A few weeks after you were taken, she came to inform us and never left. It eased the loneliness, I think.”

“Oh.” Merlin can’t really process it. “So Cenred, he can’t– he can’t hurt her?”

“No.”

Merlin puts his free hand over his mouth, knees buckling, and Arthur scoops him up, pulling him into a tight hug. It presses against his bruises and broken ribs and still-healing lash wounds but he doesn’t care about the pain, he just clings on. His mother’s safe and he doesn’t have to worry about her life anymore, doesn’t have to obey Cenred in fear of it, and it’s so– so much, he collapses against Arthur, sobbing into his tunic despite his best efforts.

After a while he swallows his tears, stepping back but not letting go, sniffling. “Sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologise. Just– come with me? You look like you need a good meal at least.”

Merlin nods, and Arthur slings an arm around his shoulders, trying to draw back with a frown when Merlin winces. Merlin grabs his hand quickly before he can.

“Don’t let go. Or– well– you can, I just want to make sure you’re here.” His voice turns small towards the end, embarrassed, but Arthur doesn’t mock him for it.

“All right. I won’t.”

When they reach the bottom of the stairs though Merlin draws away, linking his hands behind his back. There’s guards around here, and if they see Merlin with Arthur they’ll report it to Cenred and he’ll be angry and– well. Even without his mother at stake he doesn’t want that.

“Merlin?” murmurs Arthur, confused.

“Guards. I– go ahead, I know where your chambers are.”

Arthur gives him a long, studying look and nods, walking off briskly. Merlin swallows, firming his shoulders, and heads off in the opposite direction. He walks upstairs and into the empty chamber directly above Arthur’s, hurrying over to the window and opening it. It’s not a very big drop down, so provided his hands work properly it should be fine.

Merlin clumsily ties one end of the rope he’d grabbed from the store cupboard on the way up to the bedpost and takes hold of it partway down. Then he clambers out of the window and drops.

He makes it to the top half of Arthur’s window, and kicks it desperately. His ribs hurt, and his left hand’s starting to twitch but he can’t switch to his right, the agonising pain will cause him to fall. Come on Arthur.

The window opens and his legs are grabbed. Forcing his panic down at the restraint, he lets go of the rope and lets himself be hauled inside, landing atop Arthur on the floor.

“Fuck you’re light. I can’t decide whether that was brilliant or completely mad.” Merlin snorts, climbing off and offering his friend a hand up. Arthur takes it, narrowing his eyes.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Which one?”

“I meant the one with missing nails but...”

Merlin looks down at his left hand, where two nails have been removed. The nailbeds are becoming less sensitive. “It’s fine, they’ll grow back.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. And what about the other hand?”

He remembers the crunch of bone under Cenred’s boot and thinks he might throw up. “Not now. Can I–” He gestures towards the table and Arthur nods.

“Go ahead.” Merlin sits down. “So I know I said you could have a good meal, but I don’t actually have much food and it would look suspicious if I ordered more. I’ve ordered a bath though, and I have some leftovers from earlier that no-one’s taken away yet.” He nods towards a tray besides Merlin that he had yet to notice, and Merlin picks up some bread, nibbling on it. He’s starving, but he knows he can’t eat too fast or too much, or he’ll be sick.

“How are you? How’s everyone?” Now that he can ask he finds himself overwhelmed by longing. His old life’s tangible, just out of reach, and he wants to know everything.

Arthur opens his mouth to respond but there’s a knock on the door and Merlin dives under the desk, heart pounding – he doesn’t want anyone to see him who might report his whereabouts to Cenred. Arthur flips a cape across the open front, hiding him.

“Enter.”

The door creaks open and Merlin hears footsteps and a thud, and then the pouring of water. Then the door shuts behind them.

“They’re gone.”

Merlin scrambles out from under the desk, hitting his head on the way. “Ow.”

Arthur smiles. “Still as clumsy as ever, Mer lin.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Do you want a bath now then? Or you can wait but it might go cold.” He looks at Merlin nervously. “Of course, you could always keep it warm. With your–” He waggles his fingers in the air, and oh .

That’s why he’s nervous.

“You know?” He thinks he should be afraid, and maybe he will be later, but right now he’s too overwhelmed.

“Hunith told us, after we thought you were dead. She said that it was only right that we knew what you’d done for us. Gaius filled in the blanks.”

“Oh.”

“I’m so sorry for everything I said, everything I did. I didn’t know but that’s not an excuse, and–”

He’s cut off by Merlin pulling him into a hug. They don’t do this, but Merlin needs it right now, needs to feel his closest friend, to make sure he’s really here, that this isn’t another dream or illusion, and he thinks Arthur might too. There’s a beat before Arthur reciprocates, wrapping his arms around Merlin and leaning his head on his shoulder.

“You’re alive,” he murmurs, voice choked. “You’re really alive. After all this time. I... god, I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Likewise.”

“How are you still alive? I thought... I mean, your mother said...”

Merlin pulls away slightly, and they jump at a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“Sir Leon, your highness.”

Merlin smiles, eyes welling with tears. Gods, he’s missed that voice. Arthur lets him go and opens the door, ushering Leon inside.

“Is everything alright, sire? I came as quickly as I could, but...” He trails off when his eyes land on Merlin, and all he can do is stare.

“Leon?” asks Merlin quietly. That seems to break the lock and he strides over, ignoring Merlin’s flinch to pull him into a bear-like hug. Merlin grips back. It’s been so long since Leon’s held him like this, like an older brother would, and it makes him feel so safe.

After a while, he pulls away enough to speak. Merlin’s hair is damp with tears, and he didn’t realise Leon ever cried like that.

“I knew it was you. You kept running away whenever any of us tried to speak to you, so I didn’t think you would... why are you here now? Not that I’m complaining.”

“It appears,” growls Arthur, “that Cenred threatened his mother if he spoke to us.”

Leon frowns. “But she’s in Camelot.”

“Yeah, well, Cenred didn’t exactly see the need to inform me of that fact.”

“Oh, little falcon.” He hugs Merlin again, then, to Merlin’s confusion, kneels.

“Leon?”

“I must apologise. I failed you. You were here all this time, and we assumed you were dead, didn’t look for you enough. You’re my little brother and I left you here, and for that I’ll never forgive myself.”

Merlin crouches down and pulls his friend up. “Leon, don’t. There’s nothing you could’ve done. I expect my mother told you that sorcerers don’t come back from Cenred’s army and she was right. I would’ve died the day I arrived here for processing if I hadn’t been recognised as Arthur’s manservant. There’s no way you could’ve known that would happen, or that he’d keep me alive. I didn’t know that, and I knew of Cenred’s reputation better than anyone else in Camelot. You didn’t fail me. You never could.”

Leon looks unconvinced. “We did search, Lancelot and I. Arthur couldn’t get away. The route from Ealdor to Cenred’s castle is known, as are some of his holdings for sorcerers. But it wasn’t good enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Or yours, Arthur, I know you’re blaming yourself. And if it helps I forgive you, although there’s nothing to forgive.”

Leon dips his head. “Thank you.”

“What did Cenred want you for then?” asks Arthur. Merlin sits back down at the table, picking up a grape, and the others join him. They must’ve guessed, but maybe Arthur just wants to hear it from Merlin.

“He wants to find out Camelot’s secrets. And as the prince’s manservant, I’m ideal for questioning. Also, he’s quite taken with the idea of me as his consort.”

Arthur stares. “His consort? Merlin, he didn’t...”

“No! No, Arthur, no! He wants me under him willingly, he wouldn’t... do anything. Not yet anyway.”

“Except grope you in front of us,” says Leon quietly. Merlin nods, face burning. “I’m sorry but I have to ask. How much does he know?”

Merlin physically recoils at this, a feeling horribly like betrayal burning in his gut. “What– no! He doesn’t know anything! How could you possibly think I’d–”

“I’ve heard about Cenred’s interrogation techniques from some of the older knights who took part in the last war against Essetir,” Leon responds, “and I couldn’t withstand a whole year of it.”

“Oh.” Merlin deflates. “I’m sure you could. I’m not that strong.”

“Yes you are. You didn’t reveal anything?”

“Well, I mean, I told him about Arthur’s smelly socks. But nothing more important. I wouldn’t.”

Arthur ruffles his hair. “You’re the bravest person I know. And we weren’t questioning your loyalty. Even the strongest and most devoted person can break under torture.”

Merlin flinches. He’s been avoiding that word, even in his own head. “He didn’t... not everyday,” he attempts, not sure whether he’s doing it for himself or his friends. “I mean, sometimes I needed medical treatment, and some days he made me serve him, so he didn’t interrogate me then.”

“But he still hurt you, humiliated you.” Merlin’s hand drifts to his neck at Arthur’s words. “You don’t have to minimise it.”

Merlin shakes his head. He does, if he lets himself think about what Cenred’s doing he’ll break. “I need... can I have a bath?”

“Of course,” answers Arthur gently. “Do you want to heat it up again?”

Merlin shakes his head, rolling his sleeves up. “I can’t. Cold iron.”

Leon takes his hand, examining the thin band around it, giving particular focus to the small keyhole. “I might be able to pick that, if you want?”

Merlin holds out both hands. “I haven’t been able to access my magic for a year, so I’m not sure what will happen.”

Leon nods, fishing a small piece of metal out from somewhere and inserting it into the keyhole on his left cuff. There’s a twist and it splits and falls away.

A hot, burning sensation fills him, churning, spreading through his veins. The second cuff’s removed and the sensation fills him completely, building until it presses on his head, his stomach, everywhere, like it’s squeezing him, and he can’t see can’t hear can’t think, there’s a buzzing in his head and it’s overwhelming and he screams.

There’s a flash of golden light and everything goes black.

When his vision returns his cheek’s resting on the table and someone’s shaking his shoulder. He lifts his head weakly.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Your magic’s back then, I take it?”

Merlin nods, stopping quickly when his head throbs. “How long was I out?”

“About a minute,” answers Leon, amusement evident in his tone. Merlin narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“What’d I do?”

“Apparently, your magic hates Cenred just as much as the rest of us.” Merlin looks around at Arthur’s words, taking in the changes. Everything with Essetir’s crest and colours on – the wall hangings, the bedspread, the decorative shields – has either transformed into Camelot’s red and gold or broken.

“Ah. Oops?”

“Only you,” says Arthur, laughing, “would change the entire decor of the room you were in without noticing.” Merlin flushes. “Do you want to have that bath now then?”

Merlin nods and thinks heatheatheat at the water.

There’s a loud pop and the water evaporates.

Arthur buries his head in his hands.

“Can you refill it?” asks Leon. Merlin thinks at the water again and it fills steadily until the tub’s just about full. He’s not sure about the temperature but it’s his magic doing it, so it’s unlikely to be dangerous.

He tries to stand but his legs are shaking too badly and he has to steady himself on the table.

“I might– I think I need some help.”

Arthur nods. “Who do you want to help you?” Merlin shrugs. There’s not much wrong with him, it’s just magical exhaustion, and he trusts both of them. But he’ll need help in the bath as well, which he tells them, embarrassed.

“Needing help’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll do it, if you like?” Merlin nods at Leon’s suggestion. Somehow it feels less intrusive than Arthur doing it, less wrong. Arthur pulls the privacy screen over and then retreats, leaving Leon to help Merlin undress and climb into the tub. The warm water feels amazing against his skin, and he sinks down into it, using a rag to scrub the thick makeup off his face and neck and hands. With that gone it feels like he can breathe again.

“Now you’ve done that,” says Leon from somewhere behind him, sounding slightly bemused, “what do you want me to help with?”

“Can you wash my back? It’s just– I can’t reach it.”

“Of course. Do you want me to wash your hair as well?”

Merlin thinks for a moment and then nods. It’s not like it’s any of the guards touching his head, he tells himself. Leon’s nice. He’s not going to hold his head underwater until it feels like he’s drowning, or rub soap into the wounds on his scalp so hard he cries out, or throw ice-cold water over him to “cleanse the sorcerous stench”. He’s safe, and it’ll be fine.

Leon rubs his back firmly but carefully, cleaning the scars and the still-healing wounds and the (nearly non-existent) clear skin in between. It feels good. He only hopes his friend doesn’t try to read the letters carved into his skin. They’re deep and painful and he doesn’t want anyone else reading them, it’s humiliating enough that they’re there.

Luckily Leon says nothing, and once he reaches Merlin’s hair, Merlin tensing up despite his best efforts, the gentle kneading on his scalp slowly sends him into a trance.

Leon tries his best to be gentle with Merlin’s back, to not let his anger make him press harder and scare his friend. Because it will. Merlin’s trying but Leon’s seen his flinches, the fear lurking in his eyes, and if he thinks Leon’s angry he’ll definitely be scared. It’s hard though. There’s barely an inch of skin that isn’t marked, flogging scars and burns and cuts everywhere. Someone’s even carved a word into his back, the letters large and jagged and deep, and he tries not to read it, to treat the cuts like any other scars, because Merlin’s so private and he wouldn’t want anyone reading it, does he even know what it says himself, but he can’t help it and it makes him feel sick.

Oh, Merlin.

He can count every vertebra, and he’s sure that if he were to see his chest his ribs would all be visible too. He saw how thin his wrists were earlier, and the bruises on them, bruises that extend all over his body, and he knew Merlin had been tortured, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this. He catalogues anything he thinks might need treating as he goes – there isn’t much, most of it’s older or just bruises (because of course they wouldn’t want to make it obvious that Merlin’s been tortured, he thinks bitterly), but his wrists look like they’ve been burnt. Does cold iron always do that to sorcerers? He feels deeply guilty about his past.

And of course there’s his hand.

Shaking his head, Leon moves onto Merlin’s hair, noting the way the young man tenses before sinking into his touch. Leon kneads his scalp gently, careful of any underlying wounds (he finds a lump the size of an egg but no cuts or abrasions. At least, not new ones), and he hears his friend’s breathing deepen, falling into a kind of trance. Leon keeps going gently until the soap’s lathered in, and then looks at the clean bucket of water beside him. Probably best not to tip the whole thing over his head without warning. Leon cups some clean water in his hands and pours it onto his hair. Some of it streams down his forehead.

Merlin jerks awake, arms flailing, gasping, and Leon scoots round him as he lifts his hands to his face, scrabbling at it, grasping, like he’s trying to pull something off. Leon grabs his wrists before he can hurt himself but that only makes things worse. He starts writhing and pleading, and his eyes are open but they’re glazed over with terror, he isn’t seeing Leon at all.

“Please, please don’t, not again, no, anything else, I’ll take anything, please.”

Leon slips his hands down Merlin’s arms so he can take his left hand and squeezes it. “It’s just me, Merlin, it’s just Leon.”

“No more water. Please, no more water.”

Oh.

Oh God.

“It’s alright, no more water. Come on out of there.” He lifts his worryingly light friend around the waist and carries him onto the floor, quickly snagging a towel off the screen. “No more water. Let’s dry you off, hmm?” He mouths a quick “dry clothes” to Arthur, who’s just come out from around the screen, and starts towelling Merlin dry, starting with his face and working downwards. The drier he gets the more alert he seems, the pure terror receding into wariness lurking in the shadows.

“Leon?”

“Yes, it’s me, little falcon. You’re dry now. Do you want some dry clothes?” Merlin nods and Leon helps him dress in one of Arthur’s nightshirts and a pair of breeches, the nightshirt slipping down his thin shoulders to show his collarbones. Then, before Leon can suggest they move to the bed, Merlin launches himself at him, hugging him tightly and burying his head in his neck. Leon catches him and rubs his back soothingly as his body racks with loud, messy, gasping sobs. He’s trying to say something but it won’t come out.

“Shh, it’s alright, just relax. You can tell me later. Just let it out, there you go, that’s it.” He keeps up the platitudes and eventually Merlin subsides into hiccups, having cried himself almost to sleep. Leon lifts his friend into his arms and carries him over to the bed, tucking him under the blankets. Before he can pull away completely Merlin grabs his arm.

“Leon?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you... can you leave the curtains open?”

“Of course.”

Merlin gives him a small, forced smile and lets go, curling up and closing his eyes. Leon strokes his hair until his breathing evens out into sleep.

“I’m going to kill Cenred,” growls Arthur quietly. Leon looks up to see him standing on the other side of the bed, looking down at his friend. He darts his gaze up to Leon, eyes filled with tears.

“You’ll have to get in line.”

“You’re crying.” Leon lifts a hand to his cheek and it comes away wet. Oh. “Did I hear him right? ‘No more water’?”

“Unfortunately.”

Arthur rests a hand on Merlin’s head and he grumbles in his sleep. “What are we going to do? He’s...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Leon knows what he’s saying. Merlin’s been tortured for a year. His voice is quieter, and not an overwhelmed quiet, Leon knows that one, it’s a scared kind of quiet, the kind that develops when you desperately don’t want to be noticed. And he flinches away from them, fear lurking in his eyes, curling up defensively to sleep in a way he never has before, instinctively trying to protect himself. Some of that will diminish with time, and getting him away from this place will certainly help, but he won’t recover entirely. He’s struggling to cope and that’ll only get worse once he has space to think.

He’s seen it in knights who’ve been through something traumatic before. They push themselves on until they don’t have to anymore and only then do they break, shattering into pieces that can’t always be put together again.

“What about Sir Hector?”

“You think he’ll be able to help?”

“He’s supported knights through trauma before, including ones who were prisoners during our last war with Essetir. And I believe he knows about Merlin’s magic. He’s the closest thing we have to someone who understands what Merlin’s been through, and he needs that. Needs more than us.”

“Hector has always had a soft spot for Merlin,” Arthur muses. It’s true. Rumour has it they met when Merlin had accidentally spilt wine on the retired knight’s chess partner, and when he’d stormed off, leaving Merlin upset with insults about his parentage, Hector had invited Merlin to play instead, claiming he would be a far more interesting conversationalist.

Coincidentally, no-one has ever called Merlin a bastard since.

“We’ll ask him,” decides Arthur. “And we need to talk to my father in the morning, he needs to know that Cenred’s been torturing a member of the royal household for information on Camelot. It’s the proof we need that Cenred’s not after peace.”

Leon nods, hoping Uther isn’t too hard on Merlin, whether it’s deliberate or not. Merlin might be the strongest person he knows but right now, curled up asleep, his cheeks hollow and body bruised and scarred, he seems so fragile.

“Whatever happens now,” says Arthur quietly, running a hand through Merlin’s hair, “he’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s coming home.”

Uther’s not sure what to expect when he enters his son’s chambers just after breakfast but it’s not Cenred’s gaunt serving boy sitting at the table, dressed in his son’s clothes, a blanket around his shoulders, chatting quietly to Arthur and Sir Leon. His face and neck are bruised, and white bandages peek out of the ends of his sleeves, his right hand swathed in the same. And Uther’s not sure why he’s paying so much attention to him really, only that he seems very injured, far more so than yesterday.

He shuts the door behind him and the boy jumps about a foot in the air, watching him with wide, startled eyes.

“Arthur. What is this... summons about? And why do you have a serving boy sitting at the breakfast table?” The boy tries to stand, looking scared, but Arthur puts a hand on his arm.

“No, Merlin, sit down.”

Uther frowns. Didn’t Gaius’ ward have a name like that? Mervin? Marlin? Something like that.

He dismisses the ridiculous thought (the boy’s dead) and takes the remaining seat at the table. Merlin shrinks back.

“Father, Cenred doesn’t want peace. He’s been torturing Merlin for Camelot’s secrets.”

Uther looks at the boy closely. Maybe he is Gaius’ Merlin. He feels his blood boil, at more than the deception. It’s not long over a year since the business with the questing beast, and he still remembers how it felt when he thought he was going to lose his son. For Cenred to do the same thing to one of his oldest friends...

“What happened? How much does Cenred know?” he demands.

“He doesn’t know anything, sire,” says Merlin quietly (too quietly, quieter than Uther remembers him ever being). “As for what happened, he had me kidnapped while I was visiting my mother, because being Prince Arthur’s manservant I was his best chance at discovering Camelot’s secrets.” He pauses. “At least, he thought I was his best chance.”

Uther narrows his eyes. “You didn’t say anything?” He finds it hard to believe that a peasant would be able to withstand such treatment.

“No, sire. If I had you’d know about it.”

And he would, that’s true. Which means he’s withstood a year of torture. For Camelot’s sake. Sometimes, the boy is bafflingly loyal.

“You’ve said it yourself, father, Merlin’s stubborn. I believe him.”

“As do I.” Merlin stares. “Now, I believe our next step is to confront Cenred. I want to see what he has to say for himself, before we start a war we have no guarantee of winning. We will inform the knights of the situation first, of course. Sir Leon, you’re in charge of that.”

“Yes, sire.” He exits the room, although not before clasping Merlin’s shoulder reassuringly. A knight’s clasp.

Uther turns to Merlin, who shifts uncomfortably. “It seems I must commend you on keeping your silence. You have once again fulfilled your duty to Camelot beyond what I would have expected.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“You deserve a reward. What would you like?”

The boy’s gaze flickers to Arthur, then back to Uther and finally settles on his lap. “I just– I just want to go home, sire.”

It’s a small group that confronts Cenred later that morning. Luckily Arthur’s managed to persuade his father not to bring too many knights, because Merlin thinks he might be sick as it is, and he doesn’t know what Cenred will reveal when he discovers he’s lost Merlin for good (because Arthur’s promised he can go home and he’s clinging to that like a lifeline). So it’s best if this confrontation isn’t too public – just himself, Uther, Arthur, Leon and Sir Hector. Although the others now know for certain that Merlin’s alive, Hector’s the only one who’s seen him.

When they’d reunited, Hector’s eyes had lit up, and he’d shaken Merlin’s hand vigorously, proclaiming that it was “good to see you again, dear boy, I thought I never would,” which for him means he’s overjoyed. He also catalogued his visible injuries with a practised eye, looking angrier by the second.

Now they’re standing in the main hall opposite Cenred’s throne, Uther in front, Arthur to his right, and Merlin behind to the left, Leon and Hector standing protectively just in front. Cenred hasn’t spotted Merlin yet, thankfully, he’s too far back and the king isn’t expecting him to be there.

He doesn’t know where Cenred thinks he is, actually, but he looks angry and Merlin shudders. He must’ve discovered Merlin’s disobeyed him by now.

“King Uther. You requested a meeting.”

“I did. It has come to my attention that you have been torturing a member of my household for information.”

“Are you certain they are correct? I’m not suggesting they’re lying, you understand, merely mistaken.”

“Quite certain. Merlin?” Merlin steps forward, balling his fists to stop them from trembling. “Merlin is my son’s manservant, and you have held him here for over a year. My son has spoken to him, seen the scars himself, and unless you are calling the Prince of Camelot a liar...”

“But of course not.” Cenred looks over them all, and Merlin can see he knows he’s trapped. Then his gaze lands on Merlin, dark, furious, foreboding, and Merlin–

Merlin takes a step back.

That anger always makes the pain worse. He remembers the carving, his hand, his body throbs with remembered pain, his scars flare, and he backs up, not taking his eyes off Cenred in case it makes his anger worse, and he hits the wall.

He takes a deep breath. Arthur promised he could go home. He’s not alone. He’s never run before, never been able to in this castle, and he’s not about to start now.

He takes a small step forward, and another, until he’s between Hector and Leon. He can’t go any further, but that’s alright, he’s still here.

“You’re afraid of me,” sneers Cenred abruptly. Merlin doesn’t know if he’s missed part of the conversation or if Cenred’s realised he can’t deny the accusations, but his focus has switched to Merlin. Merlin swallows.

“No, sire.” But his voice is croaky and trembling slightly, giving away the lie. Cenred smirks.

“You are. Afraid of the pain? Or afraid of what I’ll do to your mother now?”

Merlin’s anger flares. “You can’t hurt her. She’s not in Ealdor, she hasn’t been for months, and you know that, so stop pretending otherwise.” He rolls up his sleeves to display his uncuffed wrists, and sees a flash of something that’s almost like fear in Cenred’s eyes. “I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

“King Cenred,” cuts in Uther impatiently, “there is no point in continuing these talks when you clearly do not want peace. We’re going to leave now, and you’re going to let us, and once we return to Camelot you had better pray that we don’t declare war.”

Cenred grinds his teeth. “Very well. But you won’t win a war. You don’t have the strength. I have sorcerers in my army, after all. Oh, and Merlin?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Have you told them how you begged? How pathetic you were when you pleaded for mercy, sobbed at my feet for it? Do they know how broken you are?”

Merlin avoids the gazes now focused on him, cheeks burning. He never wanted this, never wanted anyone he cares about to know how weak he is. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur stiffen.

“Leave him alone,” he warns dangerously.

“No, I don’t think I will. If I can’t have him, neither can you.” And in one fluid motion, he reaches down into his boot, pulls out a dagger and throws it at Merlin’s heart.

Merlin jumps aside, but his injuries slow him down and he’s not fast enough to avoid a nick to the shoulder. He gasps.

Without warning, his magic bursts out of him and pushes its way into Cenred, who slumps over in his throne, unconscious.

Arthur hurries over. “Merlin, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Arthur grabs his arm roughly, examining his shoulder. “Ow! Arthur! I’m fine!”

Arthur looks at him, eyes panicked. “You were stabbed.”

“It’s just a small cut, it’s already stopped bleeding.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. Stop panicking, Arthur. If anyone should be worried it’s me, honestly.” He lets out a shaky laugh, jolting Arthur out of his panic. “Did your father see anything?”

They both look at Uther, who shows no signs of having noticed the rather blatant display of magic. He scowls at them.

“You were lucky there. Let’s go.”

When Merlin descends the steps of the castle, he spots Elaine standing to the side at the bottom and makes a beeline for her, ignoring the knights wanting to greet him.

“So,” she says as he comes to stand opposite her, “I guess this is goodbye.”

“I guess so.” Merlin looks down, fiddling with the sleeves of his borrowed, over-long tunic. “Did you– was any of your kindness real? Or was it all for Cenred? Please tell me it wasn’t all for Cenred.”

“I could tell you that, but I don’t think either of us want any more lies.” Her voice is cooler than usual, and Merlin’s heart sinks like a stone.

“No. No. I just thought, maybe... but no.” He walks off, trying to do so without a backward glance, he’s not going to let her see how much it hurts, and jumps when Arthur’s hand lands on his shoulder. Arthur retracts it quickly.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I... um... who wanted to say hello?”

“Some of the knights. Shall I tell them not to touch you?”

Merlin nods. “Please.”

“Some of the knights” turns out to be most of them, and Merlin’s a little overwhelmed. They try their best, he can tell, not touching and retreating quickly, but it’s still a lot, the knights crowding around him, clinking chainmail and– and–

“All right, that’s enough, give the boy some space!” calls a gruff voice, and Merlin looks up to see Sir Hector clearing a path towards him with his walking stick. He flinches automatically as the retired knight comes close, and Hector’s eyes crinkle in concern.

“You all right, Merlin?” Merlin nods, concentrating on breathing. They’re Camelot knights, not Essetir guards, he’s safe. Safe.

“I can’t– I’m not– I’m safe. I know that, I’m safe.”

“You know it, but your body doesn’t. Come. We’re about to leave, why don’t you ride in my carriage?”

Merlin startles. “But I’m just a servant. Why would you– why?”

Hector shrugs. “You’re too injured to ride, even if we had any horses. And I want to talk to you.”

Merlin nods, and Hector, in turn, nods to Leon, who helps Merlin carefully into the carriage and onto a padded bench.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, little falcon. I’ll see you when we make camp later.”

“We’re not stopping for lunch?” asks Merlin, surprised. Uther always stops for lunch. Leon shakes his head.

“We’ll eat as we ride. Uther wants to get back to Camelot as quickly as possible, in case Cenred declares war. If we only stop overnight we can make it back in two days, just about.”

Merlin nods thoughtfully. Cenred will declare war, he’s almost certain of it. His ego won’t take the blow of being denied Merlin well.

“Just two more days until we’re home then?”

Leon ruffles his hair. “Yes. Only two days.” He hops out of the carriage and Merlin sighs. Two days. He just has to hold on for two more days.

He snorts humourlessly to himself. Hold on. As if he hasn’t already broken.

There’s nothing to distract Merlin right now, now he’s alone in this carriage, nothing to chase him from his thoughts, and he ducks his head. He’d really hoped– he’d thought that maybe, possibly, he still had someone on his side in there. But he didn’t. Cenred wasn’t lying. It was all a trick to break him further, to get him to reveal Camelot’s secrets. She was only kind because she wanted something.

How many people in Camelot, in Ealdor, were only nice to him because they wanted something? Arthur and Leon haven’t been, he’s almost sure of it, they wouldn’t have been so clearly happy to see him if they were. But who else has? Gwen wasn’t, was she? Or Gaius? They wouldn’t.

No. No, they wouldn’t. He knows that. Cenred’s just messing with his head. Still. Even though he’s not here, he’s still messing with his head.

He jumps as something hits his shoulders.

Oh. It’s a blanket. He wraps it tightly around himself.

“You’re shaking,” says Hector, sitting down opposite, “I thought that might help.”

Oh. He is. When did that happen?

“Thank you.” Merlin pauses, before the words just come pouring out before he can stop them. “Do you want anything?”

“Well, I’d like you back in Camelot, but since that’s already happening, no, not especially.” He narrows his eyes, watching Merlin thoughtfully. “Why? What happened?”

“I–” The carriage jolts and Merlin grips the seat hard as they start to move, ribs flaring, “I thought there was someone on my side here, but it turns out she was working for Cenred all along. She was only being kind because he ordered her to, because they wanted something from me. And I can’t help thinking... how many others are the similar?”

“Some, certainly,” says Hector frankly, “that’s the way these things work. But your friends aren’t. You didn’t see how distraught they were when they found out you were gone. And Gaius hasn’t been the same since. He’s slower, wearier, even with Hunith around. It’s like he’s aged thirty years in the time you’ve been absent. There’s always people who will try to take advantage of you. But I wouldn’t worry about your friends.”

Merlin nods. “I should’ve known. About Elaine. Cenred knew things about me that he never should’ve known, things I’d only ever told Elaine in there. I was so vulnerable in front of her, far too vulnerable. I should’ve guessed it was her! Because of course, no-one actually cared about me in there. I’m so stupid !” His magic builds and with a yell it releases in a stream, cracking the wood beside Hector’s head. Merlin ducks his head, ashamed. “Sorry.”

“You’re not stupid for being hopeful,” says Hector mildly. Merlin looks up to see him looking completely unruffled, and for some reason that just makes it worse.

“Maybe not. But I am for being so gullible. It’s obvious now, why didn’t I see it before?”

“Because you were being tortured. You can’t be expected to keep your guard up at all times, especially while you’re sleep deprived, starving and in pain. No-one could be expected to do that, not even the great Emrys.” Merlin’s cheeks heat up. How does the old knight always know how to fluster him? “Speaking of all that, when was the last time you ate? Before you spoke to Cenred this morning?” Merlin nods. “Right. Well. You know what Gaius says about feeding starvation victims.”

“Little and often,” replies Merlin quietly.

“Exactly.” Hector rummages around in one of the packs until he pulls out an apple and a small piece of bread. “Eat.”

He tosses it to Merlin, and Merlin catches it automatically with a flinch. Even though he should just let things hit him, no matter how much they hurt, but he can’t always–

Oh. Right. Hector. He takes a bite of his bread to cover his slip, which, thankfully, the knight doesn’t mention.

“The crack’s not too bad. Hasn’t even gone all the way through. Your magic’s a little unpredictable at the moment then?”

Merlin nods. “I haven’t even been able to access it for a year,” he says around a mouthful of bread, “I’m out of practice.”

“That’s all right. We’ll get you back into it.” He pauses. “You know I’ve helped knights with trauma before. I’d like to offer you my services, if you’ll let me help.”

“But– I’m not a knight, I– it’s not that bad, why–”

“I know you don’t like accepting help, dear boy, but just think about it, will you?”

So Merlin does. He thinks about not even being able to wash properly because the water running down his forehead reminded him too much of water being poured over his face as torture, about not being able to get a decent sleep in a year even when left alone because of the nightmares and fear, about his newfound problems with crowds and being touched. About how he’d flinched away from a bread roll because, just for a moment, his mind had slipped away and he’d thought it was the guards throwing a rock at him.

How, even now he’s left, Cenred is still messing with his head.

Maybe... maybe it is worse than he’s been allowing himself to think. He nods.

“I’ll take it.”

Hector smiles. “Good lad. Now,” and he gets a twinkle in his eyes that sets Merlin on edge, “once you’ve finished eating, you owe me a game of chess.”

And he pulls out a folded chessboard, pieces in a little box, and starts setting it up on the seat.

Merlin crosses the carriage carefully to sit beside him, examining one of the small, finely-carved wooden pieces. They even have faces. Hector sets about placing them in little round hollows on the board, where they barely even rattle from the movement of the carriage.

Merlin wishes he had something like that to stop his ribs jostling so much.

“Where did you get this? It’s beautiful.”

“Well before you were born. It was a gift from a man named Balinor.” For a moment the old knight looks sad, before it vanishes and Merlin thinks he must have imagined it. “You remind me of him, you know.”

Something in that sparks Merlin’s long-suppressed curiosity. He’d love to know how this Balinor carves like this. “Can I meet him?”

“I have no idea where he is. Maybe, one day. If we ever see him again.” Merlin nods and takes a bite of his apple. He hadn’t expected to be able to, really. “So. White or black?”

They stop to make camp just as the sun’s starting to set, and Leon helps Merlin out of the carriage. He spots something black on the ground and bends down gingerly to pick it up. A pawn.

“I’ve found your missing chess piece,” he says to Hector, handing it over.

“Hmm. Must’ve rolled out when the carriage stopped. Thank you, dear boy.”

Merlin shrugs. It was his fault it fell out in the first place. His hand had spasmed and he’d lost control of it, the little wooden piece dropping from his fingers.

“How was the journey?”

“All right. But I’m definitely not able to ride yet.”

“You should go and sit by the firepit for a bit, little falcon. Rest your ribs.”

Merlin frowns. “But I should help set up camp first.”

“Merlin, you’ve got a broken hand and broken ribs, not to mention anything else that I don’t know about. And you’re exhausted. Go and sit down. If you really want to help, you can light the fire. You’re the best person I know at lighting fires.” His eyes are twinkling, and Merlin knows he’s guessed why. He doesn’t really need to use his hands to light it, which Leon must have worked out or he wouldn’t have suggested it. Merlin gives him a small smile and nods.

“I’ll do that.”

He walks over to the firepit and sinks down on the ground against a large log. Someone’s already collected firewood, and he strikes the stones together awkwardly, eyes glowing gold as the flames burst up high before settling into a low simmer.

Merlin closes his eyes, feeling the cooling air on his face and hands and feet. He hasn’t felt it so freely in over a year. It brushes against his cheeks, no makeup to dampen the feeling or stone walls with tiny, barred windows that he has to imagine the view from. The setting sun warms his cheeks and he can see a fiery red glow behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes and watches the sunset through blurred vision, clouds scudding across. It looks like someone’s set the sky on fire and it’s beautiful.

He’d forgotten just how beautiful the sunset is.

He’s so absorbed in watching it that he jumps a mile when someone’s hand lands on his shoulder, toppling forward as he tries to jump to his feet and spin around, almost falling into the fire. The flames lap at the side of his foot, sole dropping onto the embers as he stumbles, and it heats and heats.

Merlin’s chained from the ceiling, watching the fire in the corner fearfully. It’s already getting hot, though that could just be his terror.

“This is what would happen to you if you were to ever return to Camelot,” says Cenred from the doorway. “If you tell me what I want to know, I can give you a good life here. You know my offer. If not... well, you’ll see. So will you tell me?”

“Never,” spits Merlin.

“Same answer as always. Continue then.” The last word is spoken to the guard holding a torch, who lights it before bringing it close to Merlin’s dangling legs, closer and closer until the flame touches his feet, the agony white hot and the fear all-encompassing.

Merlin screams.

He’s shaking hard, and Cenred opens his mouth and–

“Merlin? Merlin!”

That’s not Cenred’s voice.

Merlin jerks his eyes open. Oh. Someone’s shaking him. Someone’s still screaming and– right. That’s him. The sound dies as he snaps his mouth shut, and his vision clears until he can see Arthur kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders, a worried look on his face. He himself is sitting on a log, something that he takes a while to notice. His heart is beating hard and fast like a rabbit, and his foot throbs slightly.

“Arthur?” he croaks, voice hoarse from screaming. Arthur gives him a small smile and squeezes his shoulders gently.

“Yeah. It’s me. Are you back?” Merlin nods. “Can Leon take a look at your foot?” Merlin nods again, and someone lifts his foot gently, taking care not to hurt him as they examine it. Merlin keeps his gaze on Arthur as he does so, trying to keep himself rounded in the here and now.

“It’s not badly burnt. I’m going to wash and bandage it, if someone will fetch me a waterskin and some bandages. And Merlin, don’t put your foot down until I’ve treated it, and try not to walk on it until it’s healed. All right?”

Merlin nods, stifling a sob. Just that little show that Leon cares, that Arthur cares, it’s too much for him. Arthur nods just slightly and Merlin can’t help himself, falling forward into his friends arms and burying his head in his shoulder. He can’t stop the tears now, they just come streaming out, as Arthur rubs circles into his back.

It doesn’t matter about the throbbing in his foot, or the aching of his ribs, or the way his hand’s started twitching again. It doesn’t matter because he’s free, he’s going home, he’s safe.

Even if his body doesn’t feel it yet, even if his mind doesn’t fully believe it.

“Sorry,” murmurs Merlin through racking sobs, “’m sorry.”

“Hey, shh, it’s all right,” soothes Arthur, “you have nothing to apologise for. You can have a nap before we eat, if you like. You’ve got time.”

Merlin shakes his head. “This all... this all feels like a dream. Like if I go to sleep I’ll wake up in Cenred’s dungeons. And I know you’ll say it’s not, and it hurts too much to be probably, but if it is I don’t want to stop dreaming. I don’t want to sleep.”

And Arthur’s arms just tighten around him.

Merlin doesn’t take long to fall asleep after they’ve eaten that night, despite his reluctance. Arthur shifts his curled-up form onto his bedroll (Merlin’s injured, he needs it more than Arthur does) and just watches him.

A year. He has trouble believing it. That Merlin’s here, not all right by a long shot despite how much he pretends, but alive and coming home. God, it’s been so long.

Merlin whimpers in his sleep and pulls in on himself, shaking his head. “No... no,” he murmurs fearfully, “no, please. I don’t know anything... I wouldn’t tell you... please, no...” Arthur’s heart breaks for what must be the hundredth time since they reunited. He bends down, shaking his friend’s shoulder.

And then Merlin screams, a terrified, agonised, ear-splitting scream.

Arthur shakes his shoulder harder. “Merlin, wake up. You’re dreaming.” Merlin thrashes, yelling out. “Merlin!” He snaps his eyes open, limbs flailing, and he sees Arthur, or someone at least. Arthur feels a sharp burst of pain around his eye and reels back, allowing Merlin to scramble away to the far side of the tent, crouching and watching Arthur fearfully through slightly glazed eyes.

Arthur ignores the throbbing pain (he didn’t realise Merlin could punch so hard) and mirrors him loosely.

“Merlin, it’s me. It’s Arthur. You’re in a tent, in a clearing in the Forest of Merendra. You’re safe. Breathe for me. Just breathe. You’re safe, it’s just me and you, just Arthur and Merlin.”

“A– Arthur?”

“Yes, Merlin. It’s me.”

Merlin nods, shaky fingers playing with the grass at his feet.

“I’m alright. I’m– I’m fine. I’m– safe?”

“Yes.”

Merlin nods again, taking deliberate, slow breaths. “Can we go outside?”

“Of course.” He grabs the blankets off the bedroll and they leave the tent, sitting on the log by the abandoned firepit. Arthur drapes a blanket over Merlin’s shoulders and Merlin leans against him, curling a hand around his arm. The sky above them twinkles with stars.

“Light the fire, will you?”

Merlin’s eyes flash gold and the fire flares up before settling into a warm simmer. Arthur’s already starting to feel warmer, and he shrugs his own blanket over himself.

“It’s been so long since I was able to sit under the stars,” murmurs Merlin.

Arthur frowns. “But I found you outside.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be there. It was the first time I’d ever been left unguarded, I think Cenred wanted to show me what I could have if I told him what he wanted to know and agreed to become his consort.”

Arthur’s heart clenches. Merlin loves being outside. He once explained, when Arthur asked why on earth he liked collecting herbs for Gaius so much, that Camelot had too much stone, that he felt trapped sometimes. To be stuck inside for a year...

“You can spend as much time as you like outside now,” he says gently. Merlin nods against him.

“That... might take some time to remember.” He pauses, staring into the fire. “Can you... I mean, I know you’re being careful of my ribs, and I keep flinching, but can I have a hug?”

Merlin mutters the end of his request, flushing slightly, and Arthur pulls him into his arms. Merlin sags against him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Arthur squeezes him briefly and they sit in silence for a while, just listening to the crackle of the fire and the rustling of the trees, before Merlin speaks quietly. “It’s nice to feel fresh air on my face.”

“I bet it is.”

“Cenred said... he said that you wouldn’t care about me after you saw the– my back. That I might as well betray Camelot because you wouldn’t stay loyal to me. But... you have. Even Uther... you’re bringing me home.”

“Of course we are. You’re my friend, Merlin, of course we wouldn’t abandon you.”

Merlin nods against him. “I know. I do, I... it was just hard to remember sometimes. In Cenred’s dungeon. When it was worst.”

Arthur’s heart breaks. For Merlin to lose hope, Merlin of all people...

“Only a day and then you’ll be home. Just a day.”

“A day.” Merlin turns and smiles weakly at him. “Seems... unreal. Tell me about Camelot? I haven’t seen it for a year.”

“Camelot herself is the same as always. Your mother is working for Gaius as his apprentice, and George has taken your position as my servant, which is... annoying.”

Merlin stifles a laugh. “You sound like you meant something else.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Do I still have a job when I return?”

“I expect so. I’d much rather have you as my servant.”

“I might not... I mean, there’s tasks I might not be able to perform now. My hands get all twitchy sometimes and I can’t cope with everything.”

“We can find someone to take over if need be. I’d still prefer you.”

Merlin gives him a relieved smile. “How’s Morgana? And Gwen?”

“Morgana has magic.” Arthur narrows his eyes at Merlin’s lack of reaction. “Did you know?”

“No, I... Gaius said he hoped she didn’t. But she really does?”

“Yes. Hunith’s been teaching her to control it, like she said she did with you as a child. She hasn’t got far enough to scry yet, although she wanted to try scrying you when she was good enough. Guess that’s not necessary anymore.”

“Guess not. How’s Gwen?”

“She’s... well. Lancelot’s living in Camelot now, and they’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

“Are they courting?” asks Merlin eagerly.

Arthur finds himself blushing. “Not... exactly.”

“Then they’re still pining? Seriously?”

“Not that either.”

“Then what ? Arthur, why are you blushing?”

“He’s blushing,” says Leon, crossing the camp to sit opposite them, “because he’s courting both of them.”

Merlin blinks. “Oh.”

“Is that a good oh or a bad oh?” asks Arthur nervously.

“Good, I guess. I just... wasn’t expecting it. But I’m happy for you. All three of you.”

“Thank you, Merlin.” He turns to Leon. “Why are you here?”

“I woke up and heard you talking. And I wanted to see Merlin. Make sure finding you wasn’t a dream.”

“I can understand that,” says Merlin. “Sometimes it certainly feels that way.”

“I’m very glad it wasn’t. Arthur, what the hell happened to your eye?”

Arthur glances at Merlin. “Merlin... accidentally punched me.”

Merlin yelps, conjuring a damp cloth and pressing it to Arthur’s rapidly-bruising eye. “I punched you? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you badly injured?”

“I’m fine. Merlin. Merlin!” Merlin flinches as Arthur lays a hand on his arm. “I’m fine. All right? It was an accident, you were having a nightmare. Calm down.”

“Are you all right, little falcon?” asks Leon, frowning.

Merlin closes his eyes momentarily. “Yeah. I’m– I’m all right. I just– the last time I hurt someone by accident it was... it was bad.” He swallows. “Can I have a hug?”

“Course you can,” says Arthur easily, “who would you like a hug from?”

“Both of you?” Merlin asks hopefully. Arthur pulls the younger man back into his arms as Leon walks around the fire to join them.

“Cuddle pile it is then,” says Leon.

“Cuddle pile from which I can still see the stars?”

Arthur shifts slightly. “Better?”

“Better.”

They set out early that morning, but it’s still getting late by the time they get their first sight of Camelot. Merlin’s face is unashamedly pressed to the window in the carriage so he can see, and he thinks Hector is enjoying this.

After last night, Merlin knows this isn’t a dream. Not unless it’s a very long, very involved one. And they don’t seem to happen anymore.

They turn a corner and crest a hill, and Merlin sees his first sight of Camelot in far too long.

The low light is glinting off the white of the castle, turning it a pale yellow-orange. It stands tall up into the sky. Merlin doesn’t remember it being quite so majestic, but soon it turns blurry. He swipes tears away with the back of his hand but they just keep coming.

Camelot.

Home.

At long last.

He laughs helplessly, a small, joyous thing. He never thought he’d see the place again.

“Just wait until you see who’s waiting for you,” says Hector, a grin in his voice. Merlin doesn’t look round, doesn’t answer, his throat too choked up to speak, just continues to watch as they make their way down the hill towards Camelot.

He doesn’t want to miss a second of their approach.

Eventually, after what feels like hours and somehow minutes at the same time, they pass through the wrought iron gates of the citadel and continue up to the courtyard. The courtiers are waiting on the steps, and he spots Gaius and Morgana, and there’s Gwen off to the side, and– oh– oh, gods– is that–

“Ma?” he breathes, voice tiny, breath hitching. He leans back as Leon opens the carriage and helps him down, and she doesn’t notice him at first, a small frown on her face as she clearly wonders why she’s here, and then she does see him, and her eyes widen, and that unlocks Merlin’s body. He takes off running, ignoring the fact that everything hurts, that he shouldn’t be putting weight on his burnt foot, that he can’t actually run properly anymore, none of that matters because his mother’s there and he hasn’t seen her in over a year, and they collide at the bottom of the steps, Merlin falling into her arms, throwing his own around her.

She’s here. She’s here. After all this time... He breathes in deeply. She even smells the same. Flowers and earth and herbs.

“Ma,” he chokes out, seemingly unable to say anything except her name from his childhood, “ma.”

“Oh, Merlin. My Merlin. You’re alive. You’re home.”

Yes. He’s home. His mother’s here, and he’s home.