Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

OVER THE GLOWING HILLS

PART I

Camelot is one of the most fascinating citadels that Merlin has ever seen.

It is beautiful, although Merlin prefers an alcove of trees, and there’s no kingdom more gorgeous than Dracaneard, even if he might be biased. Still, it was built without magic, and despite that the towers loom high into the sky and the houses are scattered wide and far beyond the castle.

He’s seen several other kingdoms on his trip. Camelot is by far the most impressive, though.

He stands on the hill, for a moment, just content to watch the sprawling citadel between the trees. There is a lake nearby too, glittering in the sunlight. 

“It’s quite impressive, isn’t it?” Merlin says, and pats his horse absentmindedly. Despite his parents’ wishes, he has no other companions. All he needs is Deore and the sack on his back to see the world, and he has his magic if there is any trouble stirring. It’s probably only for his powers that Balinor allowed him to leave the safety of Dracaneard at all, truth be told.

He steers Deore towards the city, and can’t help but beam at his destination.

~*~

Magic has been illegal within Camelot for many years now, and the sheer lack of it sets Merlin on edge. There are no fire breathers in the marketplace, and there are no fortune tellers and truth seers to lure in new customers. There are no druids with new potions for various ailments, and there are no children practising simple spells.

There is beauty in other ways though, Merlin notices. There aren’t fire breathers, but they have sellers of various trinkets, and there is a singer performing in one of the streets. Children run around after poorly-shaped balls and Merlin smiles as they run by him, uncaring of the stranger on the steed.

There might be no magic, but he can still grow used to this.

It’s a bit of a risk to sneak into the castle, but Merlin’s entire existence is a risk in Camelot. He might not be executed, by virtue of his name, but King Uther would be livid if he knew that the Prince of Dracaneard is visiting. They are not on friendly terms, Balinor and Uther—they haven’t been since long before Merlin’s birth.

He leaves Deore with a stable boy, and asks a kind-looking knight for the location of Gaius. Twice he steps into the wrong corridor, but a maid points him in the right direction, and he finds the right room at what might be called the right time.

There’s an elderly man sorting through several books on a ladder, and when Merlin comes in, the man turns. Merlin can pinpoint the exact moment he loses his balance, and it’s no more than natural to send the uncomfortable-looking cot to the right place.

“That’s magic!” the man exclaims, and gets up from the bed with far more of a hurry than Merlin really expected from an elderly physician. “You’re using magic!”

“Erm, yeah,” Merlin says, and winces as remembers the ban on magic. “Sorry?”

“You saved my life,” the physician points out, and looks back to the cot and then towards Merlin again. “How did you do that?”

“Well, I think you just said,” Merlin says sheepishly. Then he remembers his manners, and holds out his hand. “Sorry if I startled you—I just arrived in Camelot, and I really wanted to pay you a visit, actually.”

“Who are you?” Gaius asks, even as he gingerly takes Merlin’s hand. He squints at him, as if Merlin is familiar, even though Merlin hasn’t seen Gaius since he was an infant. And he doesn’t particularly take after either of his parents, although he has his mother’s complexion.

“Merlin,” he offers, and smiles broadly. “Hunith’s son?”

“Hunith’s boy!” Gaius repeats, and then Merlin is engulfed into a hug.

“Hello,” Merlin says brightly, when Gaius lets go of him.

Immediately, Gaius frowns at him. “But what are you doing here? Dracaneard’s relations with Camelot are tense, at best. It is not a good place for you to be, my young Prince Emrys, especially not alone!”

“Don’t call me that,” Merlin says quickly, and looks towards the door. “It’s—no one knows I’m here, actually. It’s just—I’m travelling Albion, you see? And I sort of promised Father that I wouldn’t visit the citadel of Camelot, but I know that Mother’s missed you a lot, and I’d like to get to know you, and Camelot’s a bit of a legend, these days, with the druids’ prophecies—”

Gaius looks at him sternly, and Merlin trails off. He can’t help but grin, though, because he’s made it as far as Camelot, and he’s finally meeting the Uncle he’s been told so much about. And it’s in Camelot, their enemy and the source of their hope—according to the prophecies, the Once and Future King will rise up here, once, and bring back magic. Merlin’s just curious about the kingdom he shares a destiny with.

“Now, Merlin,” Gaius says, and taps the side of his bed. “I’m just an old man, and you’re a young and strong lad, so I expect you to put this back. Then I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me everything about your parents, and about yourself.”

Merlin nods in quiet acceptance, and rolls up his sleeves. Gaius scolds him when he uses a bit of magic, but he’s also smiling fondly, so it can’t have been too bad.

~*~

There’s a knock on the door.

Merlin sits still, his hands stilling over the magic book Gaius had given him to keep busy. He’s sure that no one can see that he has it, so he mutters a quick, “Gesawen,” and watches as the book disappears under his hands. When he carefully pats it, the invisible pages rustle, and he smiles.

The door creaks open, and a young man appears. He is well-clothed and his hair shines golden in the flickering candlelight. Merlin’s magic unexpectedly tingles at the sight of him, and it’s only Merlin’s tight control that stops it from reaching out. He blinks at the visitor, uncertain what to say. This might be the most radiant man he has seen, with his chiselled jaw and his broad shoulders, and he opens his mouth—

“Who are you?” the man demands, prickly. “Where is Gaius?”

“Erm,” Merlin says.

“Well?” Merlin furrows his brow as the golden man strides over. “If you’re here to steal from him—”

“You’re a nice one, aren’t you?” Merlin says. “Hello, nice to meet you too. Yes, certainly, I’m finding my time in Camelot quite enjoyable, the weather’s been really good lately.”

It’s not the first time that Merlin has been stared at like he’s lost his mind, but usually the looks come from his friends or his mother after he might have accidentally set the Tower on fire. Actually, Kilgharrah usually gives him the same stare, but Merlin likes to think that Kilgharrah is the odd one out given all his cryptic talk.

“What?” the man says.

“Just trying to pretend you actually made some pleasant conversation,” Merlin tells him. “You know, like someone with manners would.”

“I don’t know you. We’re not friends.”

“I know. I’d never be friends with such an arse.”

The man laughs loudly. “You can’t talk to me like that. Do you know who I am?”

Merlin shrugs. “No idea. If you’d bothered to ask, you’d know I actually just came to Camelot this afternoon. Although you’re arrogant enough you’d think you were the King himself—”

“I am the King’s son,” the haughty man says. The Prince, apparently. “Arthur.”

Well. Just the person Merlin had decided he wanted to avoid. 

“Great,” Merlin mutters. 

It’s a good thing that Balinor isn’t here—he might kill Merlin personally for getting in the same room as their mortal enemies, the Pendragons. By all accounts, Arthur Pendragon follows the footsteps of Uther Pendragon. The body count of sorcerers rises each day, and Arthur is at the head of his father’s armed forces.

“Who are you?” Arthur Pendragon demands.

“Merlin,” he says quickly. “I’m, erm. Distant family from Gaius. Well, not so distant, really, but I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Arthur frowns at him, and for a moment, Merlin’s heart beats loudly in his chest. The Dragonlords have kept away from the Pendragon family since they started the Purge, and Merlin’s given name isn’t used by most royalty. Even if Arthur Pendragon is aware that Balinor of Dracaneard has a son, they will only know him as Prince Emrys. 

Not that they will expect him here.

“I wasn’t aware he had family,” Arthur says, oddly distant.

“Anyway,” Merlin says, and rises from his chair. It puts him and Arthur at a height, he’s pleased to find. Arthur might be broader, but he doesn’t tower over him, and Merlin feels a little more on even ground at that fact. “Gaius is out. There was a sick woman in the Lower Town, and they asked for his help, so he went. It’s two hours ago, I think, but I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Arthur groans, and runs a hand over his face. “Wonderful,” he mutters, and eyes Merlin darkly. “So we’re left with you. Do you happen to know which one is the sleeping potion? The one that stops the nightmares, whichever one that might be.”

“How should I know?” Merlin exclaims.

“So you’ve got no manners and you’re an idiot,” Prince Arthur says in mock amusement. It really robs him of all his beauty, Merlin decides, even if his hair still looks like it’s spun from gold. No face can make up for that level of tactlessness. 

“If you have trouble sleeping, I could bludgeon you with a rock,” Merlin says sharply. “I’m sure that’ll put you to sleep really quickly.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for the Lady Morgana, you dolt.”

“Has she spent too much time with you?” Merlin asks. “I’m sure that’d give me nightmares too.”

Arthur snorts at that. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem too put out, and the anger leaves Merlin. Certainly Prince Arthur is an absolute bully, but he hasn’t outright attacked Merlin yet. Being the Prince, he could have put a stop to their heated argument any time he wanted.

“Tell Gaius to bring it to her first thing in the morning,” Arthur says. “And please tell him that if you’re going to stay in Camelot, he ought to teach you how to behave around royalty.”

“Right,” Merlin says. “I’ll get right on that, my lord.”

Arthur stares at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Merlin just crosses his arm and smirks, unmoving. 

“There’s something about you, Merlin,” he mutters, and then he turns around and he’s gone. The door rattles shut behind him, and Merlin lets out a breath. 

It takes him five minutes to make the magic book visible again.

~*~

“He is,” Merlin tells Gaius in the morning, “the most prattish person I’ve ever met. He just stormed in here, and he insulted me, and then he just left.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you,” Gaius sighs, sipping from a cup of tea. He looks tired, and Merlin immediately sits down opposite him, frowning. Gaius didn’t come in until the middle of the night—Merlin heard him, still reading through the intricacies of the animation spell in Gaius’ grimoire. 

“Sorry,” Merlin says, a little surly. He watches as Gaius grinds some herbs and mixes them together. On the other table, a vial of water boils softly. Merlin leans forward, taking in Gaius’ practised movements. “So. What are you doing?”

Gaius sees him watching, and raises his eyebrows before he nods towards the herbs. “The sleeping potion for Lady Morgana that Prince Arthur was asking about. He cares much about her, you know, even if neither of them would admit to it. There weren’t a great many children in the castle growing up, and they know each other better than most. He must have been concerned about her, to ask for the potion so late in the evening.”

That makes Merlin feel a little worse. Despite how horribly haughty Arthur had been, his friend deserved better. Nightmares can truly crumble the soul if they go on long enough, Merlin knows. He had visions when he was eleven years old, and they lasted for weeks.

He isn’t about to speak in Arthur Pendragon’s defence, though. There might actually be a law against it, in his own kingdom.

“So what does the potion do?” Merlin asks eagerly. 

Their own physician in Dracaneard is a druid, and one Merlin never got along with. Alfric is mothering and overly concerned, and as a child who liked to scrape his knees, Merlin has spent far too many hours in his care. It means he’s never cared to stay there for longer than he needed to be, especially once Alfric started muttering on about Merlin’s prophesied future.

“Well,” Gaius says, his eyes suddenly glittering with the love for his subject. “The poppy extract is to put the Lady to sleep, you see, but she needs something stronger. There are certain herbs that will calm your soul, and others that will strengthen the effect of the potion. The trick is to use the right ratio for each part, so that they do not undo each other.”

Merlin hangs over the herbs now. They smell strong, and he thinks he recognises yarrow. “And do you add magic? There is a spell, you know. That might help.”

Gaius grows solemn. “No, child. We do not use magic, even if it can help. The king has banned its use, for both good and evil. But the herbs do help, even if the effect of magic might make it more potent—it is not only magic, you see, that can solve problems.”

Merlin looks at his Uncle’s hands, steady as they continue grinding the herbs. He adds a thick paste, and it doesn’t smell quite so good after that, so he leans back. 

“But you know magic. My mother told me so.”

“Yes, I practised magic. In this very court, even, before King Uther banned it. Since the Purge, I have acted as the royal physician, and I have not used my magic.”

“I don’t understand,” Merlin presses. “You’re a sorcerer. You know magic, and if that book you gave me belonged to you, you’re a knowledgeable sorcerer. My mother loves you, and my father speaks highly of you. Why would you stay in Camelot?”

Gaius’ smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s not insincere. He stands up, and lays a hand on Merlin’s head. It should be odd, for the casual touch from a man Merlin barely knows, but he feels oddly fond, instead. 

“One day, Merlin,” Gaius murmurs, “you might understand that there are reasons for staying even where your existence is in danger. I know Uther isn’t loved in Dracaneard, Merlin, and I cannot blame them. He has done horrible things to a great many innocent people, and I have been expected, over and over, to forgive him. It must seem like madness to you.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “It does, a little.”

Gaius musses Merlin’s hair, and then removes it. “And that is why you must accept the words of your elders, when I tell you that sometimes, you can do most good in the places you least expect to. You must remember that, Merlin.”

He doesn’t quite understand. Still, he smiles, and stares at the unfinished potion. “I will.”

“Now go write to your mother,” Gaius says, and Merlin flees.

~*~

If there is one thing that Merlin likes about being on the road, it’s being unknown.

There is no place in the world he loves more than Dracaneard, truly. It is his home, and it is where he grew up, running in the forests and learning the names of plants and trees and all creatures, and it is where he learnt the speech of the dragons, his kin, and everyone he has ever known and loved waits for him there.

But he is a known entity, not only in Dracaneard. Merlin was born with his eyes shining gold, he has been told—there had been magic in the air, and it had stormed for two weeks after his birth, and it had rained every time he cried.

He is the Prince of Dracaneard, and the son of the last of the Dragonlords, and one day, he is expected to lead his people. But then, the druids call him Emrys, and Kilgharrah talks about a greater destiny than to be a King to his people—he talks about an unavoidable fate, and his role as a protector, and another half to meet. Merlin is known to every magical creature, not as a Prince but as a child whose existence the world has been waiting for, and he has always felt the weight of the expectations weighing him down.

So he likes it. Being unknown. And he likes Gaius, for treating him like a nephew rather than the Prince of Dracaneard. Camelot is grand and imposing and utterly non-magical, and yet something draws Merlin here. The druids that so eagerly talk about Merlin’s destiny often mention Camelot’s as well, and they speak of the Once and Future King. Maybe that is why he feels so intertwined with the kingdom, with its fate.

When he is in Camelot, his magic pulls at him, despite the lack of it in the streets. Its absence upsets him, even though Merlin knows it will be returned, one day, after the Once and Future king has come. The King who was prophesied, the same way Merlin was, and who will first rule over Camelot, and then over Albion.

And Merlin is supposed to pave the way, or so he has been told. The magic feels so close, and yet so far. Camelot feels as if he can’t breathe, sometimes, after spending his life surrounded by magic. At other times, it feels freeing, even though it always feels odd.

Gaius has Merlin running errands for him, although he’d been very uncertain about asking Merlin to do anything for him at first. Merlin doesn’t mind helping out, actually. His mother was a commoner before she married Balinor, and she has always insisted upon the importance of helping others.

Besides, he didn’t have many friends as a child. He spent most of his time with the kitchen boy, Will, and so he’d learnt to scrub pans and wash dishes and sweep the floor along with the youngest servants. His father had despaired of him, but Hunith always smiled, and Merlin liked that Balinor’s manservant Rhonan gave him a small sip of wine after helping.

He hadn’t liked the taste. It felt like being grown-up, though. 

So Merlin helps Gaius. He has spent his day bringing his potions to people and he’d even briefly seen the Lady Morgana, although he’d given the potion to her handmaid, Gwen, who’d seemed particularly nice. He hadn’t had much time to talk, but Merlin thinks he might like to befriend her. She might know more about the Pendragons, too, being so close to Uther’s ward. 

Merlin is curious to know what they’re like in person. His father has always painted the Pendragons in the harshest light he could, but surely not everyone in Camelot will hate them. Gaius doesn’t indulge much in gossip about their persons, and Merlin isn’t expecting much, considering how well his meeting with Prince Arthur went.

It’s still light out when he’s done, fortunately. Merlin finds himself wandering the marketplace again, taking in the people. Apart from the unsettling lack of magic, it’s really very similar to the one in Dracaneard. People are just people, after all, and the noises of merchants shouting and children laughing is the same everywhere.

“How are your manners coming along? ” 

The voice is frighteningly amused, and oddly familiar since Merlin only really knows one person in Camelot, and he turns to find himself face-to-face with the Crown Prince of Camelot. There are three men by his side, evidently knights, and Arthur Pendragon is laughing at him, clad in his own shining armour.

Right. Merlin raises his eyebrows at him. Arthur is clearly a delusional prat if he thinks Merlin is going to bend over and let himself be bullied. They may not know it, but Merlin is the strongest sorcerer in the world. He can tear them apart with the blink of an eye if he wants to.

“I don’t see why telling an arse that he is one isn’t considered common decency,” he says and lifts his chin. Arthur steps closer, almost like a threat, but Merlin doesn’t budge. “Nevermind if he’s a royal arse.”

Arthur laughs, throwing back his head. Merlin is treated to the sight of his pale neck, as strong and broad as the rest of him. 

“Is that so?” Arthur says, and takes one more step. It brings them oddly close together. “I should have you thrown in the stocks for your insolence, but I rather think it’s amusing. Perhaps I should commend you to my father as a jester, Merlin.”

“I only live to serve, my lord,” Merlin mocks.

“Now, see,” Arthur says, a delighted smile on his face. “That’s already better. Perhaps you’re not the biggest idiot in the world after all!”

“No, I would never dare to strip you of that title,” Merlin agrees.

His arm is suddenly on his back, twisted painfully. Arthur moves faster than he’d have presumed, Merlin thinks vaguely, but then Arthur pushes forward and that hurts. Magic hums under his skin, and Merlin shoves it back forcefully. No use in wasting ten years of being taught how to control the magic that bursts out of him at times—especially in a situation where the Prince of Camelot will have his head for it before Merlin can bother to explain.

He is fully expecting to be forced to his knees, but Arthur Pendragon lets go as quickly as he took hold of him, and Merlin stumbles back. Arthur is still smiling, and Merlin hates that he thinks he can get away with this. 

“See, Merlin,” Arthur says calmly. “You’re really quite a moron, to insult someone so far above your own station. Now, I’ve been very merciful—”

“You may be a prince,” Merlin spits out, and his shoulder aches from the rough treatment but he doesn’t want to rub it in front of Arthur, “but you know nothing of being noble.”

He stalks off. Arthur calls after him, but there are better things in Camelot than the prattish brutes that rule it. 

~*~

Lady Morgana is indeed quite beautiful, although in a very different way than Prince Arthur. She is dark to his gold, and she is smooth and kind to Arthur’s roughness. It’s odd to see them sitting together at the feast. Gaius said they get along quite well, but they don’t seem too fond of one another.

Although it’s hard to imagine anyone being fond of Arthur.

Gaius told Merlin to come to the feast, if only because there would be so many others that Merlin would hardly be noticed. It’s a good way of watching the royal family, and although Gaius has many fine qualities, cooking certainly isn’t one of them.

He is still in a bad mood, though. Arthur hasn’t seen Merlin, but Merlin barely can stop watching him. The Prince mostly talks to his father as far as he’s seen, and the smile he wears dutifully cannot seem convincing to anyone else. Uther does not smile at all, and Merlin is uneasy at the sight of Camelot’s king.

“Are they happy?” Merlin asks suddenly, playing with his pork.

Gaius looks up and follows the trace of his gaze. He turns back with a shake of his head, pointing his fork towards Merlin. “Those are not concerns of yours, Merlin.”

“Sorry,” he says, but leans forward. “It’s just—they don’t seem happy. And my magic, I can’t—it’s sort of twisted, when I look at them. Like it’s trying to tell me something.”

“Maybe it’s telling you to stay far away from the Pendragon family,” Gaius says sharply. “Don’t mention your talents in public, my boy. There are too many ears who might hear."

Merlin stabs the pork, but he’s not hungry anymore. His magic feels erratic in Camelot, in a way it hasn’t in years. There’s supposed to be a singer, he’s heard, one of the best in the kingdom, but he isn’t in the mood for music any longer. In fact, he feels like packing his meagre belongings for the continuation of his journey. He’s seen Camelot, the great land of prophecy, and he’s met one out of two Pendragons—that’s more than enough, and certainly it’s more than Balinor ever wanted him to do.

“I think I’ll retire,” he says sourly, and stands. Gaius pulls at his sleeve, though, and Merlin wants to comment just as he sees the singer—Lady Helen, he recalls—appear through the main entrance. 

Merlin imperceptibly nods at Gaius and tugs himself free. There is another door behind the royals, and he can sneak away through there. He forces himself to walk quietly as Lady Helen begins her song, and almost regrets leaving, because her voice is really beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The sense of magic is almost a shock after going several days without it. It is woven into her song, and Merlin’s magic protects him as naturally as breathing. What it can’t do is protect the others from falling to the same fate.

He turns, and the banquet hall is filled with spider webs and dust. In the middle of it stands Lady Helen, her hands spread towards Arthur, a knife held in one. She smiles as everyone else’s heads bob slowly with the music. They are falling asleep—or maybe dying.

It is not wise to interfere, maybe, but Gaius’ skin is pale and waxy. And Merlin already loves him, this wise old physician who has taken in Merlin with all the fondness in his heart, and he can’t let all these people die.

Merlin glances around the room, desperation settling into his bones. She’s magic, like him, but this isn’t right. His eye catches the chandelier above Helen’s head, and his eyes flash gold.

The chandelier falls, and the spell breaks.

The people sit up in shock, but Merlin has his eyes on Lady Helen. She transforms, her glamour breaking, but the venom in her expression remains the same. Her knife has fallen to the ground, but it is within her reach.

She must come to the same conclusion that Merlin does. With a cry, she grabs it, and then it flies towards Arthur—Arthur, who has stood up in the confusion, spider webs clinging to his golden hair and his eyes wide. Arthur, who will not be able to move away in time.

Merlin slows time. He is already standing near the royals, so it takes only three steps to get to Arthur’s side and pull him away. Time resumes, and Arthur lands beside Merlin on the cold floor.

When Merlin looks up, the knife is embedded in the chair, and the sorceress dies.

“You saved his life,” says Uther Pendragon, as Merlin gets to his feet. Arthur stands already, watching Merlin with clear shock on his face. Merlin isn’t sure if it’s because of what just occurred or if it’s because Merlin saved him. He isn’t really certain himself.

“I suppose I did, yeah,” Merlin says, and scratches the back of his neck. A woman is dead—a sorceress is dead, because he chose to save Arthur Pendragon. Granted, it wasn’t a fair use of her power to enchant a room full of people, or to use it to kill, but—well, he’s not quite sure how to feel.

“You must be rewarded,” Uther says, eyeing Merlin up and down. If there ever was a way to avoid the attention of a king, Merlin thinks bitterly, he should refrain from saving his heir the next time.

“It’s really nothing, sire,” he says, trying not to look at Arthur. “I don’t need anything, but thank you.”

Uther is insistent. “No, no, I must. Who are you, boy? What is your name?”

“Erm,” Merlin says, and winces. “I’m Merlin, my lord. I’m—well, I’m a distant relation from Gaius? I haven’t—”

“Wonderful,” Uther says, as if it is. “Loyalty must run in the family, then. You have done us a great service tonight, boy, and this debt must be repaid.”

“Honestly, you don’t have to, your Highness.”

“No, absolutely,” Uther says. “You will be rewarded a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

“Father!” Arthur says.

Merlin tamps back a frustrated groan. 

~*~

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. Merlin’s bed is small and uncomfortable, and the thin blanket is a touch rough against his skin. He wishes he were home and with his friends—Freya, who would discuss the druid language with him, and Will, who would make Merlin push the boundaries of his magic. 

He will leave tomorrow. He’ll find Arthur, and he’ll explain to him that—what? He’s the Prince of Dracaneard, so it would be highly improper for him to serve as Arthur’s manservant?

Great. He’ll just tell them that he is only a visitor, and he cannot take a job. He would have liked to stay in Camelot a little longer, albeit not anywhere near the royal family, but it’ll be enough of a reason to turn down Uther’s generous offer.

He’ll just pack his bags and say farewell to Gaius, and maybe he can ask him to write to Merlin—

“Young warlock.”

Merlin sits up in his bed. That is not a dream, and there is no one in his room. He can hear Gaius’ gentle snoring in the other room, and nothing else. Still, he knows this voice, this cadence, this gentle insistence in his mind.

“Kilgharrah?” he whispers to himself, and throws off the blanket.

“I am waiting for you outside the city. Come to the lake, and we shall speak.”

Merlin hurries in putting on his trousers and his boots. He doesn’t bother to change shirts, although he does take the brown jacket and slings it over his shoulders. Gaius still sleeps when Merlin creeps out of the doors.

The guards are easy enough to evade with a smidge of magic. For a moment, Merlin thinks of taking Deore from the stables and taking her to see Kilgharrah, but he isn’t sure if the stableboys will be sleeping there, so he decides to walk.

It takes an hour, but the lake is beautiful, calmly reflecting the light of the stars. And beside it, intently staring at Merlin, sits Kilgharrah.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks, incredulous. 

Kilgharrah bows his head. “I am here for you, young warlock. I would not venture so near Camelot if it were for any other reason.”

“Great,” Merlin mutters, and scratches his neck. “Look, I’ll be leaving Camelot tomorrow. It’s really not safe for you here—or for me, for that matter—”

“You must remain,” Kilgharrah says.

“What?”

“You heard what I said, Merlin. Under no circumstances must you leave Camelot. This is a place of destiny, and it is here that your fate will unravel. This is where you will find yourself, and this is where the Once and Future King will once rule. You must stay, and learn to be who you are.”

“Right,” Merlin says slowly. “Say that again, but this time leave out all the cryptic advice.”

Kilgharrah huffs, smoke coming out of his nose. “Arthur Pendragon is the Once and Future King who will unite all of Albion. The prophecy, as you well know, speaks of Camelot bringing forth the King who will unite Albion and return magic. You are to guide him in this. That is the true meaning of the prophecy.”

Merlin can’t help it. He laughs—loudly. “Arthur, the Once and Future King? You can’t be serious. Him? He’s a bully. The Once and Future King is supposed to—I don’t know exactly, but something with my reign, right? Something later, when I’m older, and I can—I don’t know, start making peace. That’s what the prophecy means—it doesn’t mean Arthur and me. You’ve got this wrong.”

“There is no right or wrong,” says Kilgharrah, annoyance bleeding into his voice. “There is simply what is. None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. Arthur is the Once and Future King, and you are to be by his side. You are two sides of the same coin, and what is yours shall be his.”

“But he’s an idiot,” Merlin bites.

“Then maybe you should change that,” Kilgharrah murmurs. “Without you, Albion shall not succeed, young warlock. Your powers are extraordinary, I have told you this before. Your own fate is tied into Arthur Pendragon’s. He needs you, as you need him.”

“I can’t do this, Kilgharrah,” Merlin says. “I don’t belong in Camelot! Magic isn’t even legal here! I didn’t know—I wasn’t supposed to be fulfilling my destiny now! I need to return to Dracaneard within half a year, or frankly, my mother might actually kill me. If all of that weren’t bad enough, Arthur hates me, and I don’t like him!”

“I suppose that you’ll have to do something about that too, then,” Kilgharrah tells him sagely, and flies off. Merlin roars at him, but even the Dragon language isn’t enough to get the dragon to come down. Instead, Merlin has to watch as Kilgharrah disappears in the night.

The prophecy. All of it is coming together, and Merlin falls onto the ground, uncaring of the grass stains. The union of Albion is a golden prophecy, and one that Merlin wants to see come true more than anything else. The return of magic to all kingdoms, and not just in Dracaneard—it would be glorious and beautiful, and it will mean the end of the deaths of so many magical creatures.

And if Arthur is the Once and Future King, that changes things. Merlin, somehow, is destined to walk this path with him. It is them that unites Albion and ends the feud between Camelot and Dracaneard. Merlin has no idea how it will come to happen, but Kilgharrah has never lied. 

He returns to Camelot in the deep of the night, and feels more unsettled than he ever has before.

~*~

Gaius turns pale as a sheet when Merlin tells him, but then the physician pats Merlin’s hand with a pained smile.

“I suppose,” he says, “that means you’ll be staying for a while longer?”

“I suppose,” Merlin echoes morosely, and then tries for a smile. “At least I’ll be able to spend some more time with you. And who knows, perhaps Arthur might not be so bad. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to get to know him, if I’m truly going to be his manservant.”

Gaius blinks. “You are still going to take up the position? Are you sure that’s wise, Merlin? Do you know the first thing about being a manservant?”

Merlin has never had a manservant of his own, but Balinor does. “Well, no. But it can’t be too hard, and I don’t mind doing some menial work. It’ll allow me to get to know Arthur better, and that’s really all that I need to be doing, if I’m staying.”

Arthur is the Once and Future King that the magical world has staked all their hopes on. The prophecy has always been vague, but Merlin had really thought things were going to play out differently. The concern weighs heavily on him, but so does the burden of his people—and for them, he will make sure Arthur is worthy of his title.

“Please tell your mother it isn’t my fault,” Gaius says, rubbing his forehead.

Merlin grins.

Chapter Text

The first week is horrible. Merlin barely knows what to do and what to expect, and Arthur seems intent on ignoring him even when Merlin nervously chatters. It is not his intention to fill the silence—he’d rather wish he could keep his own mouth shut out of fear of what he might give away, but he doesn’t know how to be around Arthur.

He spends a day in the stocks. He can’t say it’s really undeserved, but it’s a tad much.

Then he learns how to dress Arthur more efficiently, and he can even ignore the tantalising stretch of his back muscles as he helps him into his armour each day. Arthur still insults him, but it seems a little less biting, and Merlin learns to keep his own more scathing comments in check.

It is a Tuesday when Arthur comments on his breakfast.

“Where are the grapes?” he asks, and lifts the bread as if the fruit might be hiding. Merlin rolls his eyes.

“They are out of season, my lord,” he says. “Yesterday’s grapes were the last that the kitchen had in stock.”

That is another thing—Merlin has learnt a lot about food and its preparation this week. He certainly has a newfound appreciation for the kitchen staff, even if Cook doesn’t trust Merlin yet to keep his fingers to himself. She is right not to, unfortunately.

“Oh,” Arthur says, and visibly deflates. It is the first time Merlin actually feels a little bad for him, and Arthur does not say anything horribly unkind to him as he finishes his breakfast. 

And really, Arthur can be quite helpful when he tells Merlin how to buckle the straps on his armour exactly, and how to keep a sword clean. He isn’t nice, but he is… just. If that is a word that can be applied to Arthur Pendragon. Merlin does what he is supposed to, and if he does not not know how to do it, Arthur teaches him. In return, Merlin does his best, and they have a quiet truce.

On Wednesday, Merlin mutters a quick spell just before he brings Arthur his breakfast, and a portion of grapes appears next to Arthur’s cheese.

“You brought me grapes,” Arthur says, and it almost sounds accusing as he pops one in his mouth. “And they’re good ones, too. I thought you said they were out of season.”

“They are, my lord,” Merlin says, and smiles mysteriously. “I have my own ways.”

It doesn’t make Arthur any less of a spoiled prat. Still, things are somehow easier.

~*~

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin almost trips over Arthur’s abandoned clothes in the middle of the room as he enters.

“How in the world did you make such a mess in such little time?” Merlin complains, gathering the clothes and throwing them on Arthur’s table. “I cleaned your chambers this morning.”

“If that is what you call cleaning,” Arthur says, affronted. “Next time, perhaps you should make sure to add some soap to the water.”

“Add soap to your bathwater,” Merlin mutters, just loudly enough for Arthur to hear, although it’s not his best comeback. The life of a servant is tiring, and Merlin isn’t used to waking up with dawn. Besides, Arthur is demanding when he’s in a bad mood, and he’s been in one for two days.

Arthur rummages through his wardrobe, even as Merlin sits down to clean the armour. “I will be having my dinner with my father and Morgana tonight,” Arthur says, as he inspects a red tunic. “You will be expected to serve us. Do you know how to do that?”

“Pour wine in your cups when they’re empty, I expect,” Merlin says.

“Without pouring it all over one of us, hopefully,” Arthur says. “If you can be expected to do that, anyway.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“I know, you just do a really great impression of one, all the time.”

“I get my practice from watching you.”

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, and then shuts it again. It is so unlike him that Merlin stops scrubbing the chestplate, and stares at Arthur instead. The Prince of Camelot falls on his bed and buries his face in the pillows.

“You should go,” Arthur mumbles, and waves vaguely at the door. “You need to wash before dinner, and my father will be watching you like a hawk to make sure you act like a proper manservant. Which you aren’t, so you’ll need to pretend.”

Merlin puts away the armour, slowly getting closer. Arthur hasn’t gotten up from the bed, yet, and he can’t see his face.

“I’m not done with your armour yet,” he says awkwardly. “And you’ll want me to muck the stables tomorrow morning, so I should—”

“Just leave, Merlin,” Arthur says.

“Look—are you okay? I know I’m just your servant, but—”

“Go away!”

Merlin leaves.

~*~

The next day, he doesn’t have to wait long after knocking on the door. It’s Gwen who opens it, smiling beatifically when she sees him. The sight of her smile is a relief, after the horrible tension that abounded at Arthur's family dinner last night. Merlin feels like he hasn’t seen anyone smile in years.

The fact most of the conversation had revolved around someone who’d been beheaded for the use of magic had made it especially difficult to bear for Merlin. He’d slipped out as soon as he was allowed to.

“Merlin! What are you doing here?”

He smiles tersely. “I’m here to bring Lady Morgana’s sleeping potion. From Gaius?”

Gwen’s eyes grow larger in realisation. “Oh, that is right! Sorry, I forgot you’re also apprenticing with Gaius, I’ve just seen you with Prince Arthur so often now.”

“Don’t remind me,” Merlin says. “I’m mostly glad I’m not spending all of my time with His Royal Pratness.”

“I thought I recognised a voice,” Morgana says, appearing in the doorway. She smiles at him in delight and Merlin colours, even as Gwen opens the door further to usher him in. Merlin just tightly keeps hold of the sleeping draught for Morgana.

“Good morning, my lady,” he says. “What I just said—I didn’t mean—”

“Oh hush now, Merlin, I know what you meant. I love Arthur, but I know he isn’t the easiest person to be around. I don’t envy you, you know, for having to follow him around all day.”

“He’s not all that bad,” Merlin says, and can’t explain to himself why he feels the need to defend Arthur.

“I know he’s not,” Morgana says, waving away Merlin’s words. “Still, he is stubborn and prideful. I think you’re good for him, you know. You talk back to him. It’s quite funny, to see him try and keep up with you.”

It feels more like Merlin is trying to keep up with Arthur, most days, but he won’t tell her that. He smiles awkwardly as he hands over the potion to her. Her fingers brush his, and they are cold, but he feels something else underneath that touch.

Magic, he realises with a shock. Morgana is a sorceress—and quite a powerful one, at that.

“How are you finding Camelot so far?” Gwen asks him, even as Merlin stares at Morgana. Lady Morgana does not seem to notice—she has already put the potion away, and runs her finger over a book that sits on her table before she turns back towards them.

Does she know? Is she hiding it, and if so, can Merlin talk to her about it?

“Erm,” he says, when Gwen’s question registers. “Yeah, it’s—it’s a lovely city. And it has been really nice to connect with Gaius. The other servants are really nice, too, so getting used to the new job isn’t so bad.”

“Despite Uther, you mean?” Morgana adds, and eyes him knowingly. “Listen, Merlin. Dinner yesterday—Uther is always a little intense when it comes to his laws, and I do not agree with him most of the time. I’m sorry you had to see our screaming match, but I swear that Uther will not hurt a soul. He is fair to the servants, I promise you.”

Unless they are accused of witchcraft, as Merlin had learnt yesterday. Now, he wonders if Morgana’s obstinate remarks about Uther’s ban on magic have more personal foundations, or if that is just the kind of person she is. It could be both—she doesn’t seem to have noticed Merlin’s magic, or she is a better actress than he suspects she is. She would have to be good, if she’s still alive under Uther’s reign.

“Don’t worry,” Merlin says, and ducks his head. “I don’t fear Uther.”

“Oh, you should try and keep your head down, Merlin,” Gwen interjects, looking terribly concerned. “The King is a just man, but he still is a royal. Not that I would say that you’re like that, Lady Morgana, or that the King is—”

“I know what you mean, Gwen,” Morgana says kindly, and lays a calming hand on Gwen’s shoulder. They must be friends, Merlin realises, and doesn’t know how he didn’t think of it before. Gwen is always very kind when she speaks of Morgana, and Morgana seems to enjoy her handmaiden’s presence.

“I promise I’ll try and keep myself out of trouble,” Merlin offers. “I hardly need to spend another day in the stocks.”

Morgana smiles, and Merlin’s heart throbs with sympathy for her. He won’t bring up her magic, because there’s no way she can benefit from it—but he’ll watch her. From a distance, just to make sure she’s safe in Camelot. Maybe she knows, and he doesn’t need to get involved at all.

“I thought you looked quite fetching with the tomatoes in your hair,” Gwen says, and then blushes a deep crimson. “Oh, I didn’t—it’s not that you should be in the stock, or that you don’t look fetching normally—”

She is so kind, and Merlin has known her for only two weeks and already sort of loves her. He pats her arm. “The tomatoes are my favourites, too.”

She smiles broadly.

~*~

Merlin sends letters to his parents every few weeks. They never send one back, usually on account of Merlin never being where they expect him to be. They could scry, but Hunith likes getting the letters, and Balinor’s schedule tends to be irregular, so writing makes it easier. 

It makes it easier to lie, too, although he feels guilty about that.

Prophecy or no, Balinor would never allow his only son to be in Camelot. There is history between Balinor and Uther, Merlin knows, but he never was told any details. If Balinor was to be believed, the Once and Future King was to come during Merlin’s reign, after the Pendragons had all died out and their bloodline had come to dust. Merlin never knew what he believed until Kilgharrah told him plainly—the Priestesses and the druids and Balinor all have their own theories, and Merlin always thought he’d have years to figure it out.

And yet, his prophecy is here and now, and lies in the hands of Arthur. Arthur, who can be just and kind, and who is also an arrogant prince six out of seven days in the week. But Merlin can see it, if he sorts of squints—see the sort of man Arthur might become, if he learns to be just a little more understanding. And Merlin can help him with that, by the dragons, if that is his part of this prophecy.

He owes it to his kingdom to try, and stand by Arthur’s side. He owes it to the people who have magic who don’t live in Dracaneard. He owes it to Morgana, whether she knows about her magic or not, because she will never be accepted by her king. Maybe, he’s starting to think, he owes it to Arthur, too. To get to know him for some months so he can show him, one day, how beautiful magic can be.

And so Merlin lies—he writes that he saw Gaius for three days and left. He says that he never saw Uther Pendragon or his son, and that he is on his way south. That he is not near home yet, and that he will not return for some time yet as he journeys further.

And all the while, he stays in Camelot.

~*~

“What I do not understand,” Merlin says lightly, “is why hunting is a sport to be enjoyed. In fact, I think of it more as something to be reviled. Preying upon these poor animals—”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says.

“It’s not as if we need the food,” Merlin continues. Above him, birds chirp happily—probably because they will not be victim to Arthur’s arrows. “There is hunting for food, and then there’s hunting for fun, and the latter—”

“Merlin, what have we talked about?” Arthur asks.

“Well. You talked, and I—”

“I do not care about your opinions. I do not need to hear your opinions. You are here to carry my weapons and prepare my food, and I expect you to be silent for the rest of the trip, before you scare off all the sport!”

Merlin huffs, but stays silent. The one upside to coming with Arthur is that he can ride Deore into the forest, even if Arthur is coming to kill. Not that Arthur knows Deore is Merlin’s. Arthur’s wrong assumption that Deore’s one of Camelot’s horses is a little funny, actually, and there’s no way to explain, so Merlin hasn’t bothered. He has missed being in nature, and he misses travelling on horseback—even if nothing compares to riding a dragon, and Merlin mournfully thinks back to the dragons at home, Naimroa and Ekaitza and Rathuris—no matter how sore he feels after a full day’s ride.

There is a reason he left Dracaneard, after all. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says eventually. “Merlin. Merlin. Are you ignoring me because I told you to shut up? How old are you, five?”

“I’m eighteen,” Merlin informs him flatly. “And despite that, I’m far more mature than you.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, and rolls his eyes. 

“Well. What were you calling my name out for? You want my riveting conversation back, is that it?”

“Hardly riveting. I just thought—well, you’ve been my manservant for three weeks, and I realised, despite your incessant chattering, I don’t actually know anything about you.”

Merlin stares at Arthur incredulously. “You want to know. About me.”

“Oh, don’t pretend to be interesting,” Arthur says. “You are my personal servant. If you are to be tirelessly devoted to my being, I should at least know where you are from.”

That is a hard question to answer, but it’s not as if Merlin has not lied to Arthur before. By omission, if nothing else.

“Ealdor,” he says eventually. “I don’t imagine you’ve heard of it. It’s a tiny town on the border with Essetir. It’s not much—a few houses. We’re mostly a farming community, so everyone pitches in.”

He has been to Ealdor a few times in his life. Hunith is originally from there, and it is where Balinor had met her. Sometimes, it feels more like home than the sprawling castle of Dracaneard. As a child, he pretended to actually live there, when no one else had been around, nothing more than a farmer’s boy in a small town, and he sometimes wonders if it would’ve been easier or harder.

“Sounds charming,” Arthur drawls, but Merlin has learnt to differentiate between Arthur actually being sarcastic and pretending to be sarcastic. This is the latter.

“It is,” he says. 

“So why did you leave?”

Merlin catches his lower lip with his teeth. That is a more difficult question to answer, even if Arthur doesn’t know it. It’s also one he can be more truthful with.

“I felt out of place,” he admits. “When you’re in a community like the one I grew up in—everyone knows you. Thinks they know you, anyway. I just didn’t fit in anymore. I guess I wanted to find a place where I did.”

Arthur looks straight ahead. “Had any luck?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says. “It’s running away, and that’s probably something I should stop doing.”

And he ran straight into the arms of destiny. Just Merlin’s luck, really, to find himself head over heels in the middle of the prophecy he thought he’d have years to prepare for. As he’s riding in the forest with Arthur, though, it doesn’t feel as dreadful as it could have been. At least it isn’t entirely lonely.

“Not if you do find a place.”

“Haven’t you ever felt that way, then?” Merlin asks, and is surprised that he finds himself genuinely curious. “That you wanted to leave home, despite the responsibilities? That you thought you belonged in another place?”

Arthur looks pensive. “I don’t think so. Camelot has always felt like home.”

“Lucky, I suppose,” Merlin says, and shrugs.

“If you’re not sure of where you belong… Why did you come to Camelot?”

“Seemed as good a place as any.”

“Right,” Arthur says, and sounds properly amused. “Obviously, you could’ve been bothering any prince you wanted with your useless prattling.”

Merlin snorts. “I’ll have you know that I could, in fact.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re friends with all the kingdoms.”

“Not really, but I’d like to be.”

“So, Camelot is special, then.”

“Don’t let your head grow too big, my lord,” Merlin says, and grins at Arthur. “I might have decided to honour your kingdom with my presence, for now, but I won’t be here for next summer. I’m sure my mother would have my head if I stayed away for any longer.”

“Wait,” Arthur says, and cranes his neck so he can look at Merlin fully. “I thought you meant to move to Camelot on a more permanent basis. To live with Gaius.”

Merlin blinks at him. Arthur’s face is creased, and Merlin can’t understand why he is surprised by this. If anything, he would have thought Arthur would be glad to hear that Merlin isn’t going to stick around forever.

“No, I was just coming to visit,” he says, and cheerily adds, “Don’t worry, my lord. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

~*~

There is a sorcerer at Uther’s feast. Again.

They have feasts and banquets and tournaments about every week, it feels like. Merlin has mastered the art of slipping in between knights and nobles and filling their goblets. Some of them are rude, but most are indifferent, and there’s a few kind faces. If nothing else, Merlin thinks, as he dodges a stray elbow to avoid spilling wine, this experience will definitely shape his view of servants forever.

The sorcerer sits next to Sir Leon. He is dressed as a knight with an emblem Merlin doesn’t recognise, but it might all just be a glamour. He eats slowly and carefully, and does not take his eyes off of Arthur for the entire meal.

Merlin might have taken him for any ordinary, if slightly obsessed, man. That is, if he hadn’t seen him murmur into a potion and watched his eyes glow gold. It had partially been luck, but Merlin is also much more attuned to magic in Camelot than he is used to. It is the lack of magic, is his best guess, that makes him more sensitive to feeling others’ spells; Dracaneard is full of the druids’ spells and the High Priestesses’ rituals, and they have four dragons and their inherent magic living in the caves near the castle. Merlin was tutored by many of Balinor’s eight court sorcerers; he has spent long hours learning to recognise the magic of nature with Iseldir and even more trying to avoid having to be taught by Nimueh and Morgause. Magic is everywhere, in Dracaneard, and in Camelot it’s like he is left grasping for the tentative feeling of it, as if he is being fed crumbs only.

Unfortunately, it also has the side effect of waking him up at night. That might be partly Morgana, but her magic feels dormant and chaotic, like she can’t settle it herself and she can’t order it to do what she wants. The other magic, well—it led him straight to this knight.

And then the knight’s eyes glow gold again, almost imperceptibly in the candle light. But Merlin knows, and he watches as Arthur brings his goblet to his lips—

“Wait,” Merlin hisses sharply into Arthur’s ear, thankful that it only takes him two steps to be by Arthur’s side.

“What are you doing?” Arthur hisses back, as Merlin unceremoniously takes the goblet from him. He sniffs at it, although any potion that the sorcerer brought must be odourless. The spell prickles at his lips, though, and when he glances towards the sorcerer, he sees the pinched expression.

Uther hasn’t seen Merlin’s insolent behaviour yet, conversing politely with one of their guests. Arthur is looking livid, though, and Merlin can’t really blame him for that, although he is doing it all for a good cause.

“I think it’s poison,” Merlin whispers, still holding the goblet. “One of the knights earlier, he was acting suspicious, and I thought I saw—but he’s been looking at you all night, and he whispered something earlier.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Arthur snaps, and now they do have everyone’s attention. “Give me my drink, and please just do your job.”

“You’ve got to believe me,” Merlin says, and takes a step back so the goblet is far away from Arthur. Somehow, Merlin’s destiny saddled him with someone who is determined to get killed.

“Why would I believe that someone poisoned my drink? You’ve been serving me all night!”

“It’s magic, my lord,” Merlin says, and watches as Uther, Arthur and Morgana all go very, very still.

“Boy,” Uther says, and fully turns towards him. “You are claiming that one of my guests is trying to kill my son. With magic. That is a very serious accusation, and unless you have proof—”

“I saw it,” Merlin protests. “It’s him.”

The sorcerer in question holds up his hands in defence, incredulous at Merlin’s accusation. 

“That is a Knight of Northumbria,” Uther shouts. “A man of noble blood. You are but a servant, boy. If you do not have proof that it is poison, you will remember your position and apologise to Sir Cathed immediately, or I’ll have you whipped!”

Neither of these options appeal to Merlin.

“How would you like me to provide this proof, my lord?” he asks, clenching the cup so that none of his other emotions leak out. 

“Just hang on a minute,” Arthur protests, standing up between Uther and Merlin. “There must be a way we can handle this without disrespecting Sir Cathed.”

“He must drink it,” Uther says calmly.

Merlin scowls. If Uther thinks he can bully Merlin around, then fine, Merlin will go along with his inane plans. “Fine, my lord. If that will convince you that I have Prince Arthur’s best interests at stake, I will drink the poison.”

“I’ll drink it,” Arthur insists, and steps towards Merlin. That, however, is not an option—Merlin isn’t having him drink it, not after all the trouble he went to. 

So he does the only thing he can do. He downs the goblet, right to the last drop.

“See?” Uther says. “The boy is fine. Sir Cathed, you have my most sincere apologies—”

Merlin chokes, and falls down.

~*~

When he wakes up, Gwen and Gaius are hugging, and he has to sit through an entire explanation of events. It’s a bit bewildering, to think that Arthur Pendragon, who was always supposed to be Merlin’s enemy, had gone to the trouble of disobeying his father in order to save Merlin, a mere servant in his eyes, but somehow—

Maybe he’s not all that surprised. Grateful, certainly, but Arthur is—

Well. Merlin is still feverish and weak after the poison leaves his system, and Gaius makes him a salty chicken broth because Merlin doesn’t think he can eat anything else. It’s nice, and it’s domestic, and it really does make him miss his mother.

He will never, ever tell her about this, though. 

Arthur comes by in the evening. His golden hair is messy and sticking up in odd places, and he is awkwardly trying to maintain the friendly ribbing that they’ve had going on for over a month now. Merlin just grins wryly.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says honestly. “You didn’t have to do that, and it was—”

“It was the right thing to do,” Arthur interrupts him, and doesn’t look him in the eye. “I am glad you are doing better.”

“Well,” Merlin says, and glances at the hot water Gaius left. “Do you want some tea?”

Arthur furrows his brows. “Tea?” he repeats.

“Hot water with herbs and spices?” Merlin says lightly. “Sometimes drunk when one is not feeling well, but also nice to wake up with in the mornings? Does any of this sound familiar, my lord?”

“I know what tea is,” Arthur says petulantly. 

“Right. So. Do you want some?”

“Best not,” Arthur says, and the odd expression lingers on his face. Merlin wants to put his hands on Arthur’s frown and turn it around, and learn Arthur’s face by his fingertips. It seems odd that Arthur should be so confused by a mere offer of hospitality, by the invitation into someone’s chambers. But he is.

And that single moment answers more questions about Arthur Pendragon than Merlin thought he had.

“Another time, then,” Merlin says, smiling, and wishes Arthur were an easier man to figure out. A less complicated one. “When we’re both feeling better. It might be nice.”

“Nice,” Arthur scoffs. “To drink tea?”

“Yes,” Merlin answers honestly. 

Arthur stares at him. Merlin looks away, content to let Arthur do whatever he thinks he needs to do. If Arthur wants to look at him, he is free to. It isn’t as if Merlin hasn’t done the same, trying to figure out how many layers of Arthur he needs to remove to get to the core of the Once and Future King.

But he might be beginning to understand. These aren’t layers he needs to unpeel—rather, this is a translation. Of a lonely prince to a prophesied king.

“You can have the day off tomorrow,” Arthur says eventually. “If you need more time to recover. Or just if—I would understand, if you would not come.”

Merlin hums. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Arthur. Bright and early.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. By the time Merlin looks back, Arthur has already disappeared.

Chapter Text

The arrival of Lancelot makes things a little trickier.

“Prince Emrys,” he says, once he catches sight of Merlin. His voice is choked, and his eyes large, and it is a good thing that no one is paying them any attention. Lancelot looks around in panic, as if concerned for Merlin’s wellbeing in the sprawling capital of Camelot.

“Lancelot,” Merlin says in delight, and pulls his friend away from the marketplace and into a darker corner. Two guards pass them by, and Merlin waits for them to turn a corner before he looks back at Lancelot.

“What are you doing here?” Lancelot hisses. “According to your father, you should be in Gawant!”

Merlin winces. “I might’ve lied. A bit.”

“Why does that not surprise me in the slightest,” Lancelot murmurs, and then takes Merlin by his shoulder, steadfast and strong. “Tell me why you are here.”

And Lancelot has always been a great friend, ever since he stumbled into Dracaneard and was offered a knighthood by Balinor. His easy and close friendship with Merlin had guaranteed him a great many hours of guarding the Prince of Dracaneard, and Merlin has always counted him as his closest friend besides Will and Freya.

Merlin had wanted more from Lancelot for a long time. Now, looking at Lancelot’s familiar face and the dark eyes he loved for a long time, he finds that the feelings have faded. It makes it easier to grin at him and pat his arm.

So Merlin tells him everything.

~*~

“How do you know each other, exactly?” Arthur asks, staring from Lancelot to Merlin. There is some slight suspicion in his voice, as if he can’t quite believe that a fine fighter like Lancelot would ever want to spend time with Merlin.

Lancelot eyes Merlin in doubt. “Well, I was on a visit to Dracaneard—”

Not a good start, but Lancelot has never been a liar. Not the way Merlin has grown to be, anyway, and he interrupts Lancelot as Arthur’s frown deepens. 

“As was I,” Merlin says. “I met Lancelot on the road, and I asked him if we could travel together. So that we wouldn’t be in trouble from bandits! You know me, rubbish with a sword. Couldn’t protect my own backside if the wind decided to blow me over.”

“That much is true,” Arthur says, but the scowl has not left his expression. “Why were you going to Dracaneard, Lancelot? If you are allied with any sorcerers—”

“I am from Nemeth, my lord,” Lancelot says, and the politeness in his tone masks any iciness that Merlin knows he feels. “We do not regard magic with as much suspicion as is done in Camelot. I went to Dracaneard, for I was offered training there, and it was given to me. Only in the blade, if you meant to ask me that.”

Arthur had been about to, Merlin sees. “And he’s a wonderfully skilled fighter,” Merlin adds. “You have to face him in battle, Arthur. He might even beat you.”

“That remains to be seen,” Arthur says neutrally, but then his pensive gaze rests upon Merlin. “And you haven’t yet told me what you were travelling to Dracaneard for, Merlin. I doubt you’ve been training with the blade, seeing your atrocious displays on the training field.”

“You just like using me as a training dummy,” Merlin says sourly.

“I do,” Arthur says. “However, if you had any combat skills whatsoever, I wouldn’t be able to. See how that works?”

“Pah,” Merlin says. “You’d order me to forget all of them just so you could pummel me into the ground.”

“That would require you to listen to any of my orders, Merlin, something you find increasingly hard to do.”

Merlin grins broadly. “Lies and slander, my lord. I am your faithful servant.”

“You’re something, that is certain,” Arthur says, and looks towards Lancelot. “Has he always been this insolent, or is it just something that he does to annoy me specifically?”

“I couldn’t say, my lord,” Lancelot says, blinking at them.

“Just keeping you on your toes,” Merlin tells Arthur. “I’m slowly trying to turn you into less of a prat. It remains to be seen if it’s working.”

Arthur looks at Merlin as if he’s gone insane, but Merlin just smiles cheekily at him. There are a great many boundaries that he can cross with Arthur, he’s found—Arthur will snipe and grapple verbally, but Merlin is not the only one who enjoys their banter.

“Absolutely incorrigible,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “If you want to avoid being thrown into the stocks today, Merlin, again— ” Lancelot makes a sort of choking noise, “—then I suppose you should get my armour for me, and I’ll have a sparring match with your friend. And you’ll tell me why you went to Dracaneard, of all places, Merlin.”

“Ealdor is near its border, my lord,” Merlin says, and hopes Arthur can’t hear how fast his heart is beating. “I just went to some of the markets for supplies. It’s not as if I went there to get trained in the blade, did I?”

“The very thought!” Arthur says, grinning impishly, and seems satisfied by the answer. He turns back to Lancelot, but Merlin’s heartbeat is still ringing in his ears, and later, he cannot recall what they talked about.

~*~

“I don’t know how you do it, Merlin,” Gwen says, shaking her head as they watch the men fight. Merlin was right in his predictions—Lancelot and Arthur are evenly matched. It’s a point of glee for him, actually, that his friend is giving the Prince of Camelot such trouble. 

“Do what?” Merlin says, and leans back against the stone wall to watch the quick movements of Arthur as he ducks out of Lancelot’s way.

“There is something about you,” she says gently, and touches his shoulder, “that makes people care for you very deeply, and very quickly. Morgana cares for you very much, and it is obvious that Lancelot regards you highly.”

“That’s not true,” Merlin says, feeling the heat creep into his neck.

She smiles. “It’s not bad, Merlin. You’re a good person, and they can sense it. Lancelot refused to let you help him with his armour.”

That has more to do with Merlin being the Prince of Dracaneard than it has with any command Merlin has over him, truthfully, but that is not something that can be said. 

“We’re friends,” he just says. “Lancelot is a noble man, and not in the habit of letting others do what he feels to be rightly his task.”

“It’s not just Lancelot, though, is it? Arthur has thawed since you came into his service. He’s a good prince, of course, that’s not—he’s well beloved by his people, but he was a bit difficult with the servants, sometimes. And now he’s got you, and he’s—kinder.”

“Oh, that’s just because he’s now throwing his boots at me,” Merlin says off-handedly, and watches as Arthur manages to get a hit in. Lancelot stumbles back but recovers quickly enough to parry Arthur’s next blow. They are equally skilled, but Arthur is beginning to get frustrated. Merlin can tell by the way he takes his sword in a two-handed grip. It might lose him the match.

Gwen’s gaze has turned towards them too, now. The fight is growing more heated, and both Lancelot and Arthur are becoming sloppy with weariness. One of them will end it soon, and Merlin thinks it will be Lancelot.

“They are very handsome, aren’t they?” she says. “If you like—that rugged-y sort of handsome, I mean. It’s not really my type, but I just mean, if one would—go for that sort of thing.”

“You can deny it all you want, Gwen,” Merlin says, laughing, “but I don’t think handsome is ever not anyone’s type.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she mumbles, but her cheeks are reddish.

“You’re right, though,” he adds easily. “They are handsome. Which one strikes your fancy more, do you think? If you had to pick?”

She swats at him. “Neither of them! And anyway, I don’t even know Lancelot, and Arthur is a prince—I don’t know, royalty is so distant. Morgana might be my closest friend, and I barely even understand her sometimes. It’s not the same for them, is it, as for us, the ordinary commoners?”

Merlin hums. “Not that distant,” he says. “You’d make a wonderful Princess, if you’d like my opinion.”

“Oh, stop it,” she says miserably.

“No, I mean it. Has Princess Elena ever visited Camelot? Wonderful girl, but she barely seems like she was born to be royalty. I don’t think she enjoys it, anyway. All I’m saying, birthright shouldn’t matter.”

Merlin quite likes Elena, actually. They met when he was twelve, and her father had asked for Balinor’s help in curing the Princess. Being possessed by a Sidhe is no small matter—Elena had improved vastly in her royal manners after the thing was banished, but she still trips on the stairs even though the Sidhe has been gone for years.

To be fair, Merlin often does the same, and he doesn’t have the excuse of being a changeling.

Gwen stares at him. “You’ve met the Princess of Gawant?” she asks.

Merlin blinks. He opens his mouth, although he’s not quite sure how to explain this, when the other spectators cheer. He turns back to see Lancelot helping up Arthur. The men stand together for a moment, heads bowed together as they swap words.

And then Lancelot has taken off his helmet, and is moving towards them. Merlin’s feelings might have changed, but his heart still catches in his throat as the light hits Lancelot’s sweaty hair, his eyes kind and focused as he moves towards them.

“That was a good fight,” he says, and Merlin grins.

“I thought you might think so,” Merlin tells him, and nods towards Gwen. “Lancelot, this is my friend, Guinevere. She thinks you fought very well.”

“Hello, Guinevere,” Lancelot says, and smiles at Gwen. 

“I think Arthur’s calling me,” Merlin says, as he sees Gwen redden. Lancelot just smiles bemusedly, but Merlin doesn’t miss the way he runs a hand through his hair, and the way his eyes soften. “I’m sure Gwen will help you find your way in the castle. Won’t you, Gwen?”

He doesn’t even wait for her to answer as he leaves them standing there, and goes to find Arthur instead.

~*~

More often than not, Morgana and Uther shout at each other when they are having a private dinner. And more often than not, Merlin watches Arthur sit through it, silent and sullen and unwilling to take sides.

Merlin has never followed him to his chambers, after. 

“I didn’t ask for you,” Arthur says sourly. Merlin can barely see him, but he recognises the stubborn tilt of Arthur’s jaw when he sits like that, barely illuminated by the one candle that is burning. Outside, the sky has bled into darkness, and Merlin should be in his bed.

He isn’t quite sure why he decided to go to Arthur. They aren’t friends, nor is Arthur likely to want anything resembling friendship from him. The prince is determined to make it through life without forming close relationships, and Merlin thinks he knows whose fault that is.

“You don’t always have to ask,” Merlin says, and leans against Arthur’s table. If he sits Arthur will surely send him away, but now Arthur can pretend that Merlin will leave soon enough. And if he lets Arthur pretend, he might take the comfort that is offered.

The lonely prince, and the prophesied king. Merlin has never seen it more keenly than now.

“I just don’t understand why he does this,” Arthur says in frustration. His face is turned towards the window, rather than Merlin, but Merlin stays still as death anyway. “He’s just—they never see eye to eye, but Morgana always has this way with words that cuts him so deeply, and I can’t help him. And he always takes it out on me.”

“It is unfair,” Merlin says quietly. “That they can’t communicate without you.”

Arthur leans forward, so that his forehead leans against the window glass. When he talks, the glass fogs up with his breath. “It didn’t use to be like this. They love each other, I know they do. But Morgana has grown so stubborn, and she keeps resisting my father. He will lose her, and yet he can’t stop himself. He hates magic more than he loves her, I think.”

And it’s why Merlin cannot blame Morgana for being so desperate in her anger. If Uther learns about her magic, Merlin can’t say for certain he will allow her to live. It’s also why he isn’t sure she knows in the first place—would she be so defensive of sorcerers if she knew she was one? Merlin can’t tell, and it’s itching at him.

Merlin is silent for a few moments, but Arthur doesn’t say another word. He also hasn’t sent Merlin away, so he takes his chance, and sits on the floor instead. If Arthur turned his head, he would see him, but he doesn’t.

“He hates magic because it cost him his wife,” Merlin says. “And he must have loved her very much, to still feel her loss so keenly after twenty years.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “He is not the only one.”

“He does love you,” Merlin murmurs. “You are his pride and joy, Arthur. Any man can see it.”

“You may be somewhat of an idiot,” Arthur says, and cracks open one eye to look at him, “but you are a surprisingly kind one, Merlin. You do understand—”

“Never breathe a word of this to anyone, or it’s to the stocks with me,” Merlin says, and smiles. “I was never here, my lord.”

“Good,” Arthur says, and helps Merlin up from the floor. It is still dark in Arthur’s chambers, and it’s quiet in the night. Arthur’s hand is calloused and warm in his, and he doesn’t quite smile, but there is something lighter in his eyes.

Merlin holds his breath until Arthur lets go of him, and makes sure not to look at him directly. 

“Maybe you should talk to Morgana,” Merlin offers, just as he has made his way over to the door. “Uther may never understand, but she has grown up with him, too. I know she loves him, no matter how much she disagrees with him. They shout too much at each other not to care, you know. It means that the situation isn’t quite lost.”

“Wonderful,” Arthur says dryly. “I am so lucky to have a father who shows his love by shouting at his ward.”

Merlin smiles tightly. “You could’ve had a father who wanted a different son,” he says, and doesn’t quite know why he does. Maybe it is the fact he can barely see Arthur’s expression in the dark—perhaps he wants to tell Arthur something that is true, for a change. 

“Merlin—” Arthur says, but then Merlin has slipped out of the door, and no one follows him in the dark.

~*~

Merlin will have to wash the grass stains out of his own trousers, but he doesn’t mind that much. It is cold outside, and he has goosebumps underneath his jacket, but the grey of the sky is calming. It reminds him of the hours before a storm comes rolling. He has summoned one, a couple of times. But he likes it better when it occurs naturally.

Lancelot sits besides him. It reminds him of the times they were younger, and Merlin feels anything but young, these days.

“I would not leave you here, alone,” Lancelot says, “But your father will grow concerned if I do not return within the fortnight, my Prince. I was never meant to be in Camelot for long.”

“Don’t pretend it’s me you’ve prolonged your visit for,” Merlin teases, and enjoys the way Lancelot flusters. He has never known Lancelot to be as captivated with anyone as he is with Gwen.

“Nevertheless. I would have preferred to stay with you, for your own protection.”

“I think Arthur might grow a bit suspicious,” Merlin says with some amusement. “A knight hanging around me all the time, glaring at him whenever someone mentions magic or Dracaneard. Or whenever he jokes about making me spend a night in the dungeon, which he does. Regularly.”

“It is not right, Merlin,” Lancelot says, upset on Merlin’s behalf. “You are a powerful sorcerer, and a prince in your own realm, and one of the bravest and kindest men I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. Being here, it is—unworthy of you.”

“It’s alright, Lance,” Merlin says softly, and lays a hand on Lancelot’s. “There are great men in the world who are never more than farmers, and who are content to be so, and there are pigs on thrones who would see the world burn before they give up their own comfort. I’m happy to be here.”

“But he does not know who you are. That you are a prince, equal to him.”

Merlin shrugs. “One day, he might know. The same day he’ll learn to wash his own socks, perhaps. I’m serious, though. I’ve always known there was a destiny to go with my name, and if this is it—if this is what I’ve been born to do, then I’m sure I can manage to be manservant to the Prince of Camelot for a bit longer.”

“Your father must know that you are here,” Lancelot says.

“Don’t tell him,” Merlin insists. “He’ll just—come storming in and start a war with Uther Pendragon, and then where would we be? Besides, I’ve still got three months before he expects me to return. It’s only until Beltane.”

Lancelot is quiet, but Merlin knows that he will do as he’s been asked. He would not normally ask this of his friend, the noblest man he knows—but Merlin likes Camelot, despite the lack of magic, and he likes Gaius and Gwen and Morgana, and he might even occasionally like being Arthur’s manservant. He might even like Arthur, at times, in a sort of complicated and convoluted way, because Arthur is anything but a straightforward man.

Merlin has never understood what makes a prince. He still doesn’t, not truly, and he has always served his people by being kind and understanding. They love him, the people of Dracaneard, but Merlin has always felt lacking.

When he watches Arthur, he thinks he finally understands what sort of man can inspire bone-deep loyalty for the first time.

~*~

“Well, Merlin?” Arthur says, and cranes his neck back to watch him. “Do you understand what salt is, or is dinner to be a tasteless affair yet again?”

Merlin snorts, even as he stirs the pot. The hunting party is relatively small, only Sir Leon and Sir Bedivere having joined them. Merlin is relatively sure that Arthur doesn’t even need his manservant on trips like these. Apparently, he never took any with him before.

“Not all of us eat grossly oversalted dinners,” Merlin says. “I prefer it when I can actually taste the meat, my lord.”

“You do like salty dishes,” Leon says, raising his eyebrows at Arthur.

“Now hang on,” Arthur protests. “That was only when we met with that Mercian nobleman—and only because his kitchen staff clearly was giving us leftovers from a week back. The salt was the only thing making that dish edible.”

“Perhaps they were trying to poison you, my lord,” Merlin says, and sniffs at the dinner. It’s only a pheasant with a few herbs, but Arthur hadn’t informed him early enough of the trip to pack anything else. Cook had been mad enough with him for taking some cheese for his dinner, last night. “They must’ve, if they spent more than a day in your company.”

Bedivere laughs loudly. “I don’t think they were. That noblewoman kept vying for your attention, sire, if you remember? Eloise, her name was.”

“Noblewoman?” Arthur says. “She was fourteen. And I think she said only one sentence that actually made sense to me. The rest of it was just gibberish, not unlike what Merlin spouts on a good day.”

“Still better than some of the other nobles that have thrown themselves at you,” Leon remarks. “Or the ones that were desperate not to be thrown at you. I think Princess Cathya of Deorham avoided you for her entire stay in Camelot, she was so embarrassed to meet you. Poor girl.”

Merlin tries his best not to snort, even as Bedivere continues. “There ought to be a Princess that will be a good match to you, my Prince. They say that Princess Mithian has grown very lovely, but her father is too fond of her to give her away yet. And Princess Elena is said to have blossomed into a fine maiden, if still a little rough around the edges.”

Arthur waves his hand. “It’s been said that Princess Elena has been promised to Prince Emrys, so I hardly doubt I’ll meet her.”

“What,” Merlin says flatly, and drops his ladle in the pan.

Arthur looks over towards him, eyebrows raised. “It’s only a rumour, of course, but apparently they’re very close. And Emrys would be—well, how old would he be? Eighteen, nineteen? King Balinor has no other family, as far as we know, so he ought to secure his bloodline.”

“Do you think the Dragonlords have other parts, too?” Bedivere says, and laughs. “They’re not entirely human, right? What if they—”

“Don’t be so crass, Bedivere,” Arthur says, and Merlin doesn’t know if he wants to hug him or slap him. Then Arthur’s lip twitches. “But they might have to brood eggs, when it comes to children. Anyway, I suppose we’ll never meet with Dracaneard, so it hardly matters.”

“If Elena is not engaged, it might make a good match, though,” Leon says. “Their kingdom is a rich one. If Dracaneard allies with them, it’ll make them dangerous.”

“Merlin, is dinner ready yet?” Arthur says impatiently, and Merlin fishes his ladle out of the dish to stir the pheasant some more, albeit a bit violently. Some grease spatters onto the ground, and he stares blankly at it.

“I think King Godwyn will accept the engagement, if Balinor has offered it,” Bedivere says, shrugging. “It will solidify their alliance, certainly. Godwyn has no other heirs, and he might like a sorcerer in his court!”

“And no one cares about what Prince Emrys and Princess Elena might want?” Merlin snaps, rising. Three knights stare at him, and Merlin flushes hotly, but he can’t back down now. “Marriage shouldn’t be a matter of convenience or alliance. A true marriage will only lead to a stronger kingdom—one in which all hearts matter equally.”

Arthur glances at him. “A fine sentiment, but not a realistic one, Merlin. You’re a commoner, so you can hardly be expected to understand. Kings and princes marry for strength—for the good of their people. That is the only love that matters.”

No, it’s not, Merlin thinks, but he sits down next to his pan. “I don’t think they’re engaged, anyway,” he mutters. “Balinor married for love. It shouldn’t be any different for his son.”

“All the more princesses for me, then,” Arthur says, but when Merlin sits down next to him for dinner later, he mutters, “There are many ways to love, and they are rarely wrong,” and Merlin thinks he understands the apology for what it is.

~*~

For all his talk of princesses and arranged marriages, Arthur has never been the type to bring up girls to his chambers. Merlin would know, since he is the one that dresses Arthur in his nightclothes, when he never lets his hands linger, and he is the one that changes Arthur’s sheets in the morning.

There are always girls looking at Arthur, but Arthur never takes heed. Merlin didn’t understand it until he started to understand Arthur, of course. Because Arthur is lonely, and a little gruff, and a bit of a prat, and he is charming but he’s also a little bit hopeless at seeing the love he deserves when it doesn’t come in the form of pleasing his father or helping his people.

The lonely prince, not yet the prophesied king. After five months of being unfalteringly at his side, Merlin understands it well, and stops to wonder at Arthur’s insistence of being independent, of being alone, because that is what Arthur thinks he must be.

But then Arthur falls hopelessly in love. And Sophia is rude, and spoiled, and honestly, Merlin didn’t think the two even liked each other when they met at the peace talks the day before.

“I’m serious, Gaius,” he insists, and turns a page in the magic book. “He didn’t really mention her before, and now it’s all he talks about! Her hair, her face, he even told me that she is the most alluring thing he’s ever smelled. Does that sound like Arthur to you?”

“Well, no,” Gaius confesses, who watches Merlin work his way through the book. “But I have hardly even seen Arthur so taken with anyone, so perhaps this is what he is like when he falls in love.”

“He becomes a completely different person?” Merlin says, and scoffs. 

“Are you saying it’s magic, Merlin?” Gaius says, incredulously. “Arthur is a young man, and Sophia is a pretty girl whose company he enjoys. I hardly think there’s any reason for thinking more of it.”

That would be the end of it, but of course, it is magic, and Merlin ends up having to save Arthur from drowning in a lake by the end of it. They talk of Avalon, and then Arthur is in the water, and Merlin kills for him—it’s not even difficult. There are no doubts in his mind, not when Arthur is drowning and he can’t see him—

It has been five months, and Merlin has to go home soon. But this is the first time that he can watch Arthur’s pale face as he sleeps, and he can’t help but run a finger over Arthur’s cheek.

A lonely prince no longer, Merlin promises himself. And he can’t even convince himself that it’s because of the destiny Kilgharrah told him of. It hardly matters, because Arthur is golden and prophesied, and Merlin would have stood by his side regardless. It is a loyalty he can’t quite explain, but one that has been earned—with Arthur’s kind guidance to a servant who he didn’t want at first, and then the fragile trust and the lack of hesitance to treat Merlin like a friend rather than a servant, in the nightly hours. 

It would have been easy for Arthur to cast a shadow. Rather, Merlin feels like he stands in his light.

Arthur doesn’t drown, and Merlin vows to protect him. Even if Arthur will never thank him for it.

~*~

“A month’s time,” Morgana repeats, and her smile is open and more eager than Merlin has seen in months. The fights with Uther must have been pressing on her the way it has on Arthur, Merlin supposes. She never talks of it, and Merlin still hasn’t figured out a way to bring up her magic subtly to see if she’s even aware of it.

“Right,” Arthur sighs, and scribbles something down. “Did you have any ideas for a birthday gift, if you are insistent on throwing so lavish a party, Morgana? I doubt you need another horse this year.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Morgana says, and smiles in a way that could cut to bone. “I would like it to remain a surprise, don’t you see! And I’m sure Merlin can help you think of something—you’ll just have him buy it for me anyway.”

“Why fetch a stick yourself when you have a dog to do it for you,” Arthur says, and gestures vaguely at Merlin. 

“Don’t talk about Merlin like that,” Morgana says sternly. “In fact, Merlin, you should get yourself something for the occasion with the money Arthur will give you for my gift. Perhaps buy a new neckerchief for yourself. Something a little warmer.”

“I don’t need one, my lady,” Merlin says. “Arthur has me running around the castle so much that it’s best if I don’t sweat too much. Doing his washing already takes up too much of my time.”

“I suppose you don’t understand the concept of personal cleanliness, Merlin,” Arthur says, but he flashes a grin at him as he does so.

“Oh, I do, my lord,” Merlin says innocently. “I understand you need to make a good impression to everyone you meet, to cover up for your personality.”

“You think you’re so clever.”

Merlin smiles. “No, I just think you’re a prat. I could help you with picking a gift for Morgana, since she obviously deserves far nicer things than you do, but you’ll have to get another dog to fetch that stick.”

Gwen looks up, blinking in recognition. “Oh, is it that time already?” she says. “You will leave just before Beltane, won’t you? I almost forgot you weren’t here to stay.”

Merlin shrugs. “I promised I would be home for Beltane, and if I don’t manage, my father might march into Camelot and declare war on Uther. I truly wouldn’t put it past him. More importantly, my mother would be sad, and I think that might be an offence punishable by death.”

Morgana looks at him, an odd expression on her face. Merlin is aware that they might be considered friends, in quite a different way from how he and Arthur might be friends, but he didn’t consider that anyone might truly miss him. But then she glances at Arthur, almost imperceptibly, and maybe Merlin does understand.

He has known Arthur for half a year, but Morgana has known him for all his life. 

“You will be dearly missed, Merlin,” Morgana says instead. “Perhaps you could return, after Beltane. I doubt Arthur would mind.”

“So I can continue to have the most horrible manservant in all of the kingdoms?” Arthur scoffs, but he doesn’t meet Merlin’s eyes. “Please. Merlin is hardly irreplaceable.”

“Right,” Merlin says, and now turns away as well. He has no idea if he sounds as unaffected as he wants to, but he suspects he’s not doing very well. “We can’t all be princes and princesses, obviously.”

“That’s not—” Arthur starts, startled.

Merlin just shakes his head. “No, no, I understand. It doesn't matter, my lord. I’ll just go and get your lunch, won’t I.”

It’s easy to slip out of Morgana’s room, the way he’s been doing for half a year now. He swallows away his grief, and leans his head against the wall for a moment. Morgana’s voice comes from the other side of the door, clipped and scolding.

“— can’t just talk to him like that, Arthur, he’s your friend, and he—”

Merlin leaves, because he really doesn’t want to hear Arthur’s denial.

~*~

Sometimes, it is easy to forget that he is the Prince of Dracaneard.

Following Arthur is the easiest thing in the world. Arthur was born to lead, and Merlin—he was born to follow, maybe, or at least to stand by his side. He feels the truth of it in his veins, and his magic whispers it, and he thinks his heartbeat might follow the rhythm of Arthur’s breathing.

And he can’t. It is not fair to his own people, to the people he loves in his own right. The people he is doing this for, or was, at least, at the start of it all.

For a moment, he considers staying in Camelot. Only Lancelot knows where he is and who he is, and Balinor will never think of finding him here. Merlin could stay by Arthur’s side, and be happy with whatever closeness Arthur will permit him. 

But he can’t. Merlin is needed in his own right—or rather, Prince Emrys is, and he isn’t sure where the distinction could be drawn. But he feels like he is Merlin right now, in his shabby trousers and his old tunic and his raggedy neckerchief. Merlin, who guards Arthur in secret and who lives in Gaius’ upstairs room, with a too-small bed and no hearth for the winter. It has become the place he has come to stop running, and the place he belongs to.

Camelot holds Merlin’s destiny, and it holds Merlin’s heart. Dracaneard holds his mother, and his people, and his magic. Both hold his birthright, both as Prince and as a sorcerer. 

If he leaves Camelot, he doesn’t think he’ll come back anytime soon. Balinor won’t let him go, and Merlin cannot tell him about Arthur and their shared fate—his father won’t accept it, won’t accept the fact that his enemy’s son is the one who will fulfil their prophecy. And Merlin won’t see Arthur for years.

Merlin is torn, but he knows what Arthur would choose. And when it comes to being a prince, he knows that Arthur is a finer example than Merlin could ever be. So he chooses what Arthur would choose.

He writes to Balinor that he will be home for Beltane, and packs his meagre belongings.

~*~

Arthur stands on the battlements, when Merlin finally finds him. It is dusk and the orange glow of the sun illuminates Arthur’s hair like a crown. He’s leaning his weight against the merlons, looking over Camelot as if he means to protect it from up here, with will alone.

“I’ve arranged for George to take over most of my tasks,” Merlin says, when he joins him. “He won’t be your official manservant, not unless you ask it of him, but he’s willing. Very willing, actually. It’s a little worrying. Maybe don’t ask him to be your manservant, is all I’m saying. He’s a bit of a bootlicker.”

“He ought to be, Merlin,” Arthur says, and doesn’t turn away from Camelot. “I am the Crown Prince, and he is a servant. Obedience is his first priority.”

“Yeah, but you’re also a dollophead,” Merlin says.

That is enough to do the trick. Arthur turns to him, incredulous. “A dollophead. And what is that, may I ask?”

“Do you want me to describe it to you in two words?”

“Sure.”

“Prince Arthur.”

Arthur laughs at that, throwing his head back as he does so. He slings an arm around Merlin, easy and comfortable, and Merlin feels like he is being kept in place. As if Arthur is unwilling to let him go. The laughter dies away, and eventually they just stand there. The orange of the sky bleeds into crimson, and soon it will be night.

“I’m sorry for not acknowledging your worth as my servant, Merlin,” Arthur says eventually. “You ought to know that I value you as my manservant. If things had been different—if you were not a servant, and I were not a prince, I think we might have been friends.”

Merlin smiles. “Maybe,” he says. “I might allow a prat to be my friend. It’s a lot of work, though, being friends with a prat, so it could only ever be the one. There’s a lot of dodging objects involved, as it turns out.”

“It’s not nearly so bad as that,” Arthur protests.

“No,” Merlin says quietly. “It’s not.”

Arthur lets go of him, at that, as if he can’t both have an admission of their friendship and the bodily contact. Merlin lets him, and leans against the rough marlons, even as it scrapes his forearms through his tunic. 

“You’ll leave for Ealdor tomorrow?” Arthur asks, suddenly more brusque.

Merlin shrugs. “Yeah. I already said goodbye to everyone, actually, so you were the last one on my list. Look, Arthur, I know this isn’t—I know you don’t want to—just. There are people here who care for you. Don’t forget that. And—don’t be a prat.”

“I’ll try,” Arthur says solemnly, but there’s an amused twist to his lips. Oh, Merlin will miss him, even if he is a toad at the best of times.

“Good,” Merlin just says, instead of all the other words on his lips. “That’s good.”

~*~

When the sun rises, Merlin takes Deore from the stalls. 

If there is a lone figure standing behind Arthur’s window, well—that is surely only Merlin’s imagination. Arthur has never woken up early enough for breakfast. Still, Merlin lifts a hand to the blurry figure.

It doesn’t wave back, and Merlin leaves Camelot as quietly as he came.

Chapter Text

PART II

Merlin arrives the day before Beltane. Dracaneard’s air is familiar, full of magic and Merlin’s people—after he has passed the magical barrier that protects their kingdom and before he reaches the citadel, they wave at him, and Merlin smiles back weakly. He’ll miss the anonymity, that’s certain.

This is his home, though, and his heart is fond as the glow of the late afternoon colours the hills of Dracaneard orange behind him when Deore trots into the main gates.

“Oh, by the dragons,” breathes Freya, when he finally enters the castle. She throws her arms around him, and he presses his nose into her dark hair. She smells like the lake, as she always does, and the familiarity does him wonders. “Merlin. You’re back, and wearing these tattered clothes!”

“Just let me have this,” Merlin murmurs, and holds her a little longer. When they break apart, she takes his chin, eyeing him with concern.

“We didn’t think you’d be gone so long,” she says kindly. “I missed you, you know. Prince Emrys.”

Merlin wants to tell her not to call him that, but it wouldn’t achieve anything. He just smiles bitterly at her, and she grins back.

“I was held up,” he says vaguely. “Besides, it’s not like you needed me for anything here.”

“Needed?” Freya repeats, affronted. “We don’t have to need you to want you to be here, Merlin. You’re one of my closest friends, and you know Will thinks the same.”

Merlin ignores the desire to hug her again, and instead settles for inspecting the entrance hall. The evening is just settling and there’s not many servants out—running into Freya was merely good luck, it turns out. 

Freya is Balinor’s ward, the way that Morgana is Uther’s. Merlin is the one who had found her, only fifteen years old and out in the forests to visit the druids. They had been scared of her, calling her cursed under their breaths—but Merlin had only seen a scared and lost girl, and had taken her home despite the druids’ warnings. He had hidden her and promised to find the solution for her curse.

It is one of the only times that Hunith had yelled at him, he remembers. Freya’s cursed form had growled, but she had recognised him. She hadn’t attacked, and Merlin had found the spell to release her. She had never left after that.

She had loved him for a time. She loves him still, of course, but the way that Merlin has grown to love Lancelot. And Merlin loves her back.

“I know,” Merlin eventually says, and takes her hand. “I just—needed to go. Look, my parents will want to know I’m back. I have to change, and I’ll need to catch up on everything that’s happened while I was gone. But we can talk after, if you want.”

She eyes him curiously. Merlin and Freya tell each other everything—there’s little sense in keeping secrets once one person has released the other from a horrible curse. 

“Go meet your parents,” is all she says, and Merlin hurries away.

~*~

He is more aware of the servants than he ever has been.

It’s almost uncomfortable to be served wine. To have a seat next to a king and a queen. Merlin has grown used to standing beside Arthur, waiting for a subtle sign that Arthur wanted to be served. It feels like this seat does not belong to him.

“We’re so glad to have you back, Merlin,” Hunith says. Merlin is vastly aware she wanted to have a dinner with only the three of them, but Balinor thinks that the return of Prince Emrys ought to be celebrated. So they’re sitting in their great hall, all their knights, their eight court sorcerers and all the nobles assembled for the return of their Crown Prince. The three of them sit at the head of the dining hall, overlooking everyone else. The hall is full of warm chatter, and at least that sounds the same everywhere.

“I’m glad to be back, Mother,” he says, and smiles warmly at her. It is nice to be back in her presence. If he had missed anyone, it had been her. “I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.”

“You must have seen plenty of Albion, my boy,” Balinor presses gently.

Merlin focuses on the food in front of him. It’s rich and spicy, and suddenly he wants nothing more than Gaius’ horrible stew. Still, he forces his fork to his lips.

“I did,” he says. “It’s very beautiful, of course. Gawant was nice, and there were plenty of druids there to take me in. Camelot was more impressive than I thought it’d be.”

Balinor eyes him, dark and heavy. “You said you were in Camelot for no more than days, in your letters.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t think it was impressive,” Merlin says. “And I like Gaius. He gave me another magic book, and he refused to take it back. It talks about some creatures that I’ve never heard of before.”

“That’s nice, Merlin,” Hunith says, and glares at Balinor before she turns back to him. “Did you meet any new creatures while you were travelling?”

Merlin shrugs. “Well, there was a Sidhe.”

Balinor coughs. A few of the noblemen closest to them watch up in surprise, and Merlin winces. “A Sidhe? You met a Sidhe?”

There is a good chance Merlin should have thought this through a bit better. Sophia had enchanted Arthur and yes, she had been a Sidhe, but that doesn’t mean that Merlin can tell his parents the true circumstances of that meeting.

“Sort of,” Merlin says, and winces into his cup of wine. “I kind of had to—kill her.”

“Merlin,” Hunith says, her eyes wide. “A Sidhe?”

“The Sidhe are powerful,” Balinor says, his full brows almost up to his hair. “And not lightly defeated! Why did you fight one in the first place?”

“She was drowning someone!” he says in defence. “I didn’t even know she was a Sidhe until I got to the lake, and she had this—this boy, and they wanted to exchange his life for something, and I can’t—well, I couldn’t let him die, could I?”

“The Sidhe are dangerous creatures,” Balinor says. “If you have angered them, there could be consequences, Emrys, you should have thought of this.”

“What, and let him die?”

“Perhaps,” Balinor says, his lips tightly pressed together. “You are Emrys, and it won’t do for the fate of Albion—”

Merlin stands up. “I’m not hungry after all,” he says. “Discussing the worth of someone’s life makes me lose my appetite, Father. And it doesn’t make you any better than Uther Pendragon, in my opinion.”

He can’t slip away in Dracaneard. The servants watch Merlin carefully as he breezes past them, and the guests in their hall fall silent. He tries not to let his anger show too plainly on his face. He feels uncomfortable and seen, in his white tunic and with the crown of spun silver on his head. 

He thinks of a golden circlet, instead, and smiles a little despite himself.

~*~

Hunith comes to find him just before he goes to bed. He’s sent away all the servants that have come to him, unwilling to be touched by anyone else. The memory of dressing Arthur is still too vivid in his mind, of being so close and so tender.

“Oh, my boy,” she says, when she opens the door and sees him sitting on the floor. She joins him, and he falls in her arms readily, unwilling to admit that he might need it, this once. “What have you done, my child?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” Merlin mutters. 

Hunith runs her fingers through Merlin’s hair. “You know your father doesn’t mean it like that, don’t you, my dearest Merlin? We think that all lives are equal, of course. It is noble of you to have helped someone in need. Even if I really don’t like the thought of you killing anyone, even in self-defence. You’re my son, and I don’t like the thought of you in danger.”

For a moment, Merlin considers telling her. He can already imagine the sympathetic creasing of her brow, the softening of her gaze. She won’t want him to return to Camelot, though. The fear of Merlin being found out would crush her as a mother. And as a queen, she cannot allow her only son to walk into her enemy’s hands.

Telling her would be a kindness to himself only. So he doesn’t.

“He still thinks that I am to face my destiny,” Merlin says. “And he still doubts that I can. I know he trusts my magic, Mother, that’s not the problem. But he doesn’t trust me to do what I must.”

“He doesn’t want you to,” Hunith corrects gently. “Neither of us wanted you to be Emrys, my child. It’s a terrible thing, to be tied to fate. We’re afraid for you.”

“But he wants me to represent magic anyway,” Merlin says bitterly. “He just—he doesn’t understand it’s all magic, Mother, it’s not just our people. It’s the trees and the caves, and it’s the libraries and books, and it’s the smith with his swords, it’s just—there’s life, and there’s magic, and it’s in all of Albion. I can’t be his heir when I’m also—this. When I’m all of magic, and not just ours.”

“You’re his son,” Hunith says.

“No,” Merlin says, and leans against her. “Just yours. I’m the prophecy he can’t quite figure out.”

Hunith holds him tightly. “You can’t say that, Merlin. He loves you.”

He decides to ignore that. Of course she will not see it the same way he does—Balinor loves him, of course, that is not in doubt, Merlin knows. Balinor loves him in the same distant way that a man might love the moon, or something equally unbound by human nature. Balinor loves Merlin the way that he loves the prophecy of Emrys, of the magical union of Albion.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t known of his fate all his life. He wonders if it would have made things easier. If it would have given him a father.

“Is Kilgharrah here?” Merlin asks tiredly. “There’s something I want to ask him, if he’s around.”

“I haven’t seen him in months. Your father can call him, if you want him to.”

Merlin sniffs. “I’ll do it myself. If our last conversation is anything to go by, Kilgharrah will want to talk to me too. Or give me more riddles to figure out.”

Hunith hums. “That boy you saved, Merlin.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t just stumble across him, Merlin. You cared about him, didn’t you, and then he was in danger? You faced a Sidhe to help? Is he—important?”

Merlin sighs, and escapes his mother’s hold. She stares at him, waiting for his answer. Her hand settles on top of his, and he smiles wryly.

“There’s nothing for you to be worried about, Mother,” he says gently. “A wish in darker nights, maybe. Nothing that anything will come of, I’m sure.”

She presses a kiss against his forehead at that, and they don’t talk any further.

~*~

Merlin loves Beltane.

Most druids prefer to stay in the forests around Dracaneard, although some have chosen to live in the citadel more permanently. During Beltane, however, all druids come to celebrate the land of magic. Balinor opens the gates to sorcerers and witches, to priests and priestesses of the Old Religion, and they dance around the fires deep into the night.

Merlin usually stays in the citadel with them, although when he was thirteen, the High Priestess Nimueh had taken him to the summoning of the ancestors at the Great Stones of Nemeton. Merlin hadn’t seen any ghosts, though, so it had been a tad disappointing. He prefers the feast in Dracaneard.

Merlin arrives late at the Feast this time, only entering the gardens when the fire has already been lit. There had been reports for him to read and letters to write, and he hadn’t wanted to hear Balinor’s speech anyway. It means that the sun has long set by the time he joins, and finds a crowd of dancers.

“Merlin!” It’s Lancelot who spots him first. The knight is not on duty tonight—he is dressed simply and his smile is broad. There is a slight flush to his face already, and Merlin thinks the cup of wine in his hand is not the first one he’s had. “It’s very good to see you.”

“Hello, Lancelot,” he says, and raises his eyebrows at the wine. “I’m a little surprised to see you drinking, but it’s good to know you’re having a good time.”

“Beltane,” Lancelot just says, and winks.

Merlin doesn’t have the time to answer before another arm is slung around his shoulders. “Emrys,” Will exclaims. “I’m a little insulted that you didn’t come to see me. I had to find out you were back via Freya. Freya! I thought I was your best friend, Princeling.”

“I ran into her,” Merlin protests. “I would’ve come to visit you, but I’ve been—”

“Yes, yes, you stormed out during dinner, it’s the talk of the castle,” Will says. “And because I know that, and because I happen to be your closest friend who you love more than anyone else in this world, I’ve got a cup of wine for you.”

Merlin grins and takes it. The ale in Camelot may be the finest in Albion, but Dracaneard clearly has them beat in wine. He takes his first sip, and the warmth of it goes straight to his toes. The sweetness lingers on his tongue, and he sighs happily. This is the first time he’s truly felt like he returned home.

“You are the best,” he says. “Sorry, Lancelot, your spot has been taken.”

“Lancelot was your best friend?” Will says, and slips his hand from Merlin’s shoulder as he reaches for the wine. “I’m taking it back, you don’t deserve this.”

Merlin laughs and holds the cup out of his reach. Lancelot watches them bemusedly, but then Will gets tired of trying to bully a powerful sorcerer and instead drags him closer to the fire. Freya joins them, as do Gilli and Edwin. 

Hunith is somewhere in the crowd, Merlin suspects, but Balinor stands on a balcony overlooking the gardens. Merlin doesn’t meet his eye, allowing Gilli to drag him back into the dance. 

There is magic in the air, and it makes Merlin feel far more drunk than he actually is—he’s sensitive to it, and in Camelot he had sometimes felt like a fish on land, gasping for its life. Here, he is drowning in it. Beltane is the season of summer and life, and it is especially powerful to people who are so connected to nature.

Will eventually disappears, dragged off by two girls. He wiggles his eyebrows at Merlin suggestively, and Merlin just waves cheerfully and raises his cup to him. Will laughs and then he’s gone, and Merlin turns to see Lancelot.

“Aren’t you going too?” he asks, and waves his cup around to where Will disappeared. The wine sloshes out, and he’s mildly aware of two other people snaking around him. The woman definitely isn’t Freya, but she runs her fingers over his arm, and that feels sort of nice. The man—Edwin, he notices—has an arm slung around Merlin’s back, and his fingers are edging close to the band of Merlin’s trousers.

“No,” Lancelot says, taking Merlin’s arm and pulling. The touches of Edwin and the other woman disappear, and Merlin feels oddly alone. He doesn’t have time to protest as Lancelot guides him further away from the fire, towards the edges of the feast. He sits Merlin down on a stone bench, and now he feels the weariness in his legs. 

Above them, the moon shines high and unreachable. Somewhere far away, Camelot will be celebrating Beltane as well.

Merlin blinks at Lancelot. “You could’ve, you know,” he says, and his eyelids are heavy. “Anyone would be lucky to—to have you, and it’s Beltane.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Lancelot says politely, and sits on his knees in front of Merlin, making them of an equal height. “I’ve sort of got my eye on someone, though, and she’s not here. And I haven’t drunk nearly as much as you.”

Merlin hums, and leans his head on Lancelot’s shoulder. “I miss him. Him and his stupid—golden hair, and his dumb shoulders. And his laugh. I miss hearing him laugh.”

“You should go to bed, Merlin,” Lancelot murmurs. “Before you do something you regret. I think Edwin might be a little too old for you, and I’m a little worried he’ll drag you off to a dark corner before I can see it.”

Merlin closes his eyes. “Could be fun,” he says.

“I’m not sure you’ll think it’s fun tomorrow. Merlin, you’ve got to remember that you’re not—you aren’t who you’ve been pretending to be, for the last half year. You are Prince Emrys, and you’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

It brings reality back, although through a dazed and hazy filter. The air is crisp around him, and the sounds of people’s singing and incantations suddenly feel far away. Merlin lifts his head to see Lancelot staring kindly at him.

“Who’s the person you miss?” he asks, his voice a bit wobbly with drink. “It’s Gwen, isn’t it? You liked Gwen.”

“Prince Emrys!” someone shouts, and Edwin comes back into view. His cup of wine has been refilled, and he grins maniacally when his eyes land on Merlin. Merlin shudders, and remembers Edwin’s thumb on the small of his back. 

“Don’t come near him,” Lancelot says sharply, but Edwin just budges him out of the way to sit in front of Merlin.

“Prince Emrys,” he says, and lays a hand on Merlin’s knee. “You should return to the fire. There is more wine, and we can—”

“No,” Merlin says, and shifts his knee away. Lancelot helps him up from the bench, and Edwin stares up at him. Merlin feels faintly sick, and the drink in his veins isn’t helping him, but Lancelot supports him as he walks away from the Beltane fire.

It’s a quiet trip to the castle. Most people are still out and celebrating—it doesn’t end until the first light of day, but Merlin doesn’t think he could be awake that long. He feels oddly tired in a way he hadn’t noticed at the fire, when Edwin and that woman had been near him. 

“You are right,” Lancelot says, when they have reached Merlin’s chambers. It’s unlike Arthur’s in Camelot, with round walls and darker, smooth stone. Magic has built this castle, and Merlin can feel the whispers against his cold skin. “It is Gwen that my affections belong to.”

Merlin smiles, and leans against his open door. “She is a kind woman,” he says. “If there’s anyone who deserves your love, it’s her.”

“I think so, too,” Lancelot says, and smiles back.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, and nudges his head towards where the Beltane feast is still raging. “I don’t think I would have wanted to wake up in Edwin’s bed, but I—well, thank you, Lancelot. I should remember that I’m a prince here. It feels like my life in Camelot was realer than the one I’ve lived here.”

“It’s your first Beltane since you have come of age, Merlin,” Lancelot says, and shrugs. “That doesn’t mean they have the right to come forward to you as Edwin did. You deserve someone you love, and he is not here.”

Merlin colours. “I doubt that’ll happen,” he mutters. “But thanks anyway, Lancelot.”

When he falls into his bed, he is alone, and that is not such a bad thing.

~*~

“You cannot,” Will says, his mouth stuffed with bread, “be serious. Please tell me you’re lying, Merlin. I might actually kill you if you’re telling the truth.”

Merlin smiles. Freya is staring at him with wide eyes, one of her hands folded over Merlin’s. 

“It wasn’t so bad,” he says. “Arthur’s—well, I won’t say that he’s nice, but he’s kind, when it comes down to it. A bit of a prat, but he won’t follow his father. He is demanding, and he expects you to work hard, but he rewards you if you do. And he doesn’t care much for the whole noble thing, anyway. He was happy to fight Lance, when he was in Camelot.”

“Okay, but I feel like you’re praising him for meeting some very basic standards,” Will says. “That doesn’t mean he’s the Once and Future King. It doesn’t mean that you are tied together by fate, Merlin, it means he might be a decent human being.”

“You like him,” Freya says, and grabs his hand tightly. “I’m right, aren’t I? You like him.”

“Like him?” Merlin sputters. “Are we eight years old? He may be the prophesied king, but he’s a cabbage-head and a prat, and I don’t know how he manages to get his socks as dirty as he does.”

Will stares at him. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Merlin, are you mad? He’s the Prince of Camelot, and you’re the Prince of Dracaneard. Even if he were to overlook the mortal enemy bit, you’d still be a Prince, and you’d still be a sorcerer. Never mind the fact that you’ve apparently been lying to him about all of these things.”

Merlin lets his head drop to the table. “I’ve just told you that my prophecy is to protect and stand by Arthur as he unites Albion, and to bring back magic to all of the kingdoms, and you’re focusing on this?”

“We already knew you were going to bring back magic, though,” Freya says kindly, and leans over to pat his hair. “It’s just the Arthur bit that is entirely new.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin insists. “I’m in Dracaneard, and he’s in Camelot. He could barely admit we were friends, and I doubt he’ll debase himself with a servant boy.”

“Unlike some people,” Will says, and grins at Merlin. 

Merlin steadfastly ignores that bit. Besides, it’s not as if he’s ever had feelings for Will, not like that. “I won’t see him again, will I?” he says quietly. “I won’t see him for years.”

“Fate is a tricky thing, Merlin,” Freya says. “And you have started on the path of destiny. There is no stopping it now. I think you’ll see him sooner than you think.”

“Is that prophecy, or just your wisdom?” Merlin asks, and looks towards his oldest friends.

Freya grins. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

~*~

There is a place in the courtyard for calling dragons. Balinor uses it sparingly, when he has need of Kilgharrah. Merlin has memories of being five years old and staring up at his father, wondering at the guttural sounds and the unnatural language. Balinor had seemed so much more, back then, and he vaguely remembers Kilgharrah.

He hadn’t been afraid, back then. He still isn’t.

Merlin doesn’t use the same space that Balinor does. It’s too public, and he means for a private conversation with Kilgharrah. There are many druids in the forest, but at Merlin’s command, they will leave him alone for a day. 

He has chosen a clearing in which he had spent many days reading as a child. There’s a creek nearby, and the sound of the water streaming calls him down. He sits in the grass and buries his fingertips in the mud. The magic of this familiar place calls to him, so close that Merlin could be lost in it if he wanted to.

He calls to the dragon, the language ripped from his throat as he shouts his requests to the sky. It is a telepathic language, in part, and Merlin stays rooted in the earth as the dirt creeps under his nails.

It doesn’t take long for Kilgharrah to come. Merlin staggers to his feet as Kilgharrah lands, and the dragon peers down at him in amusement. The powers of a Dragonlord are not yet Merlin’s, though he knows the language—Kilgharrah could have chosen to ignore his request, and Merlin takes faith from that.

“I need to ask you about the prophecy,” he says.

“I thought you might want to discuss it,” Kilgharrah says. “First, tell me, young warlock. Why have you abandoned Camelot, so early into your shared destiny with Arthur Pendragon? Surely you do not care so little for the fate of your people?”

“So little?” Merlin repeats. “I stayed as long as I could! I’m the Prince of Dracaneard, and I’ve got duties here, too!”

“I see,” Kilgharrah says sagely. “You are torn by your duties. Do not waver in what you know to be true, Merlin—to be a prince to your people, and eventually a King, you must stand by Arthur’s side. If the Once and Future King fails, then Dracaneard will burn, and magic will fade from the land. In the end, you are not the leader of a kingdom—you shall be the father of a people.”

“I don’t understand,” Merlin says. “If I wasn’t meant to lead Dracaneard, then why was I born as a Prince? If Dracaneard falls—”

“It will not fall as long as you stay true to the prophecy,” Kilgharrah assures him. “Dracaneard is a kingdom of magical refugees, young warlock. You have kept magic safe, and you will be its guardian. But magic must be spread once again, one day, and return to its rightful place. Arthur Pendragon will make peace in all the kingdoms, and one day, you will lead your people into that same peace, and there will be an union.”

Merlin stares at him. “Can you try and not speak in riddles, for once in your life?”

“No,” Kilgharrah says. “You must return to Camelot. Arthur relies upon you, and you upon him. He is your other half, and you are his. Alone, you cannot face this destiny.”

“Fine,” Merlin bites. “You know, you keep telling me what to do, but my father isn’t going to let me go, and if I leave without his consent, he’ll come after me. He’ll start a war with Uther Pendragon, and Albion will still be lost. So do you have any great ideas to deal with him, too?”

Kilgharrah hums, and some smoke comes out of his nose. “I shall deal with Balinor, I think.”

“He’ll force you to tell the truth,” Merlin points out.

“Oh, I don’t think that he will,” Kilgharrah mutters. “I have known your father since his own boyhood, Merlin, and I have often advised him on you and your destiny. He will take my word for it, even if he does not like it.”

Merlin frowns. The idea of Balinor coming to the dragon to ask about Merlin seems preposterous. Balinor always thinks that fate will fall how it must, and that it is Merlin who will shape what it means for magic to return. Merlin doesn’t know the truth of it yet.

“If you’re sure,” he says haltingly. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.”

Kilgharrah tilts his head. “I will talk to your father when the new moon arrives,” he says. “That will give you some time to put your affairs in order. But after that, you must return to Camelot. Your destiny awaits you, young Merlin.”

Chapter Text

Merlin has no time to think deeply about any of Kilgharrah’s words when he returns to the citadel. There is a delegation from Gawant to talk about the maintenance of the roads, and Hunith stares at Merlin disapprovingly when he tries to sneak out of it. 

The talk lasts for two hours, and then there is another formal dinner in which Merlin mostly ignores everyone but Freya. Merlin really needs a bath after walking through the woods, and a servant brings it up to him—Merlin thanks him deeply, embarrassed by it in a way he never used to be before he went to Camelot, and the servant stares at him in amusement until he leaves. 

The bath is nice, though, and it clears his head a bit. He warms it up again before he’s ready to leave it, and by the time he’s out of it, he still has to read through several letter correspondences with noblemen and advisors about issues long settled and still ongoing. 

He lies on his belly on the cold floor, studying a letter from Lord Adwin, one of their eight court sorcerers, when the door creaks open and Merlin cranes his neck to see his intruder. The magic already sits on his lips, but he settles the spells when it is his father who peers down at him.

“That can’t be comfortable,” says Balinor. “Emrys, you have a desk.”

Merlin sits up, but refuses to get off the floor. Balinor sighs, and sits on Merlin’s bed instead, still close to him. Merlin leans against the wall and folds his arms together, crossing his legs.

“Why are you here?” he eventually says, when Balinor just keeps staring at him.

Balinor’s lips crease into an insincere smile. “Well, truth to be told—your mother sent me. She thinks we need to talk.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think you already know what needs to be said.”

“Sure,” Merlin says, and rubs his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father, I really don’t. What needs to be said about—what, exactly? The Sidhe? Or about me walking out of the banquet hall? Beltane, maybe, I don’t know. I can’t read minds, you know.”

“You can,” Balinor says.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Merlin snaps.

Balinor frowns at him. “You used to enjoy it, you know. Being pushed to your boundaries, to find out your abilities. I remember the first time I taught you to control a fire, and you ran around the castle to light all the candles. You can’t have been more than—two, three? Your control over magic was better than your ability to run. You still loved your magic, then.”

“I still do,” Merlin says, and leans back his head. “But there are no boundaries, are there? Not for me.”

“Have you yet managed to influence time?” Balinor asks, more eager, and Merlin thinks of a woman singing, and a knife aimed at Arthur’s heart. Slowing time had been instinctive, then, when it came to saving Arthur, rather than when Balinor asked him to try. 

Perhaps he needs to be in Camelot, too, if he is to learn all he can do. 

“Yeah,” he just says, and sighs. “Father, could you go? It’s been a long day, and I wanted to sleep.”

Balinor shifts on the bed, frowning. “Perhaps you should go to the High Priestess in the morning, Emrys, and show your dedication to the Old Religion. Our people have missed you at their sides, to remind them of a better time. A time of magic.”

Merlin closes his eyes. Perhaps he can be what his father wants him to be for a few more weeks—he can be a devout follower, a religious figure. He can be a true and proper Prince, and he can be what his father thinks Emrys should be. Noble, and mysterious. He should practise talking like Kilgharrah—surely they’ll enjoy that from their prophesied sorcerer, the incarnation of magic. They don’t want a man, after all.

They want a sorcerer to bring them peace, and Balinor most of all.

“I will,” he says, and opens his eyes. “But I won’t meet any advisors in the afternoon. I’ll find someone to duel. Maybe Tauren is willing to put in some practice.”

Balinor nods slowly. “Or I will. We haven’t duelled in a long time, my boy. I would see the growth in your abilities.”

“If you think you can take it,” Merlin says, and manages to offer his father a small grin.

Balinor laughs. It feels more real than anything he has said. “I will,” he says, and pats the bed as he stands up. “I won’t make it easy on you, I hope you know.”

“That won’t make much of a difference, I think,” Merlin says.

“Maybe,” Balinor murmurs, and runs a hand through Merlin’s hair. It is only for a second, and then it is gone. Merlin can only stare uncomprehendingly as Balinor smiles one last time, before he closes the door. “Maybe.”

He tries to read through Lord Adwin’s letter, but he can’t help but think of Balinor.

~*~

The druids fall to their knees when Merlin enters their camp.

They are a nomadic people, even in the safety of Dracaneard. They do not stay just here, although this is where they are safest—Merlin knows of the druid camps near Camelot, and knows that they are all over Albion. He hasn’t had time to visit the druids in Camelot, but these people he is familiar with.

“Iseldir,” Merlin says in delight, and watches as the druid leader fluidly kneels before him. “Please, you don’t need to do that. I’ve told you before.”

“So you have, Lord Emrys,” Iseldir says, and raises his head long enough to bestow Merlin with a heavy glance. “But our faith remains absolute. We have heard of your return to Dracaneard, my lord. I knew you would come to us today, but I do not know why you have come.”

Merlin smiles. “You have heard of my return?”

The druid leader inclines his head, but Merlin catches the smile playing at Iseldir’s own lips. “Perhaps we have known it, rather than heard it, my lord. As we have known of your venture to Camelot, despite your secrecy. Do not concern yourself with our silence, my lord—your father may be the King of Dracaneard, but our loyalty is with you.”

Merlin slowly nods. “I met with the High Priestesses, before I came, to pay my respects to the Old Religion,” he says. He had, under the watchful gaze of Balinor. Morgause had watched him carefully, but she had not commented. Merlin doesn’t know what she knows of his destiny, but the High Priestesses worship the fiery and violent side of magic; the side that Merlin has never enjoyed learning about.

He has never seen eye-to-eye with Morgause or Nimueh. When he was a child, he used to hide when Balinor sent him to them for lessons, and it’s how he learned his first invisibility spells. To this day, he doesn’t think they’ve ever forgiven him for that slight.

“As you should, Emrys,” Iseldir says carefully. “The Old Religion is what created you.”

“Magic is,” Merlin counters.

“And they are not the same to you?”

Merlin watches Iseldir, but the druid does not give any inclination as to what answer he expects from him. He never has before, and Merlin doesn’t expect he ever will. “No. I’m not sure they are.”

Iseldir nods slowly, and opens his arms to welcome Merlin to their camp. He takes the offer for what it is, and the druids climb to their feet as Merlin passes them. They are reverent, but this camp has seen him often enough that they don’t stare. Merlin is grateful for the privacy even as Iseldir ushers him into his small tent. Inside, it smells strongly of herbs and magic potions, and Merlin is reminded of Gaius for a second.

“You offer questions I do not have the answer to,” Iseldir says, when they’re seated. “The Old Religion and magic are closely tied together, as they always have been. As they always will be, I expect.”

“I don’t agree with all the rituals,” Merlin slowly admits, the way he would never be able to admit to anyone else. But Iseldir has known Merlin since he was a young boy, and has always perceived more than eyes could see. “And Uther Pendragon’s relentless hatred of the Old Religion has caused the Old Religion to hate in return. Some parts of the Old Religion are pure and true, but some of it—it might cause Albion to turn away from magic, I’m afraid.”

“Your destiny is to create union,” Iseldir says. “I understand your apprehension, my lord.”

“Not just my destiny,” Merlin says, and watches Iseldir carefully.

Iseldir tilts his head, and raises his eyebrows. “No. An union cannot be made by one man alone, after all. But you already know that Arthur Pendragon is tied to you, as the Once and Future King.”

“My father does not believe the same,” Merlin says. “He thinks that I will bring magic back to Albion, and that the Once and Future King will follow after. And the High Priestesses loathe the Pendragons. My own people are divided, Iseldir. I’m not sure what I can do.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Iseldir says.

“Then what can you tell me?”

Iseldir eyes him for a moment, and Merlin sits still. The druids are the closest allies he has, but they have ideas of their own, and no two clans are the same. 

“Balinor of Dracaneard is a man who has been wronged before,” Iseldir eventually says. “Many dragons were slain by Uther Pendragon, and many Dragonlords killed. Your father was driven away from many friends, and magic was lost. You are more than a son to him—you are a saviour. But he cannot see that part of salvation comes from that which he hates more than all others.”

“I am only a saviour to him,” Merlin says, and can’t quite meet Iseldir’s eyes as he admits it. “Not a son. Not a man. And I don’t think he thinks I’m doing a particularly good job of being magic incarnate.”

“It is not the burden of the son to follow the ambitions of the father,” Iseldir says. “This is something you and Arthur Pendragon have in common. All I can tell you, Lord Emrys, is that destiny has begun. You must be heedful of all advice, and follow your heart. There are many with their own ideas of what peace will look like, but it is you who must shape it.”

“I thought that was Arthur,” says Merlin, and thinks of Kilgharrah’s words. 

“And you shape Arthur,” Iseldir says. “As Arthur shapes you.”

Merlin nods. “I’m leaving Dracaneard again soon, actually. I’ll be going back to Camelot, so I won’t see you as much. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Emrys?” Iseldir ventures. “Your father has put his hopes and dreams in you. You are the son he wanted, and you still are. But you are also the son of the earth and the sky, and perhaps he understands that better than a son that belongs to only him.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin murmurs, and stands up. “Thank you, Iseldir.”

~*~

He should have expected the audience, Merlin thinks wryly. Somehow, he keeps forgetting what he is to these people—Prince and prophecy, saviour of magic and the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the Earth. The druids revere him and the Priestess fear him, and his people love him.

And when he has a match with his father, Balinor, King of Dracaneard and the last Dragonlord of Albion—well, it draws the masses. 

Merlin would’ve preferred to be back in the shadows like he has grown used to in Camelot, but such a thing is impossible in the court of Dracaneard. He wears a dark tunic and breeches, impossibly softer than anything else he has worn in months, and the person in his mirror looks like the Prince of Dracaneard rather than like Merlin.

He knows that Balinor will approve, and so he has accepted it.

Balinor stands on the other side of the arena, dressed in more earthy colours. He carries his magic sword, the one burnished in dragon fire, Caliburn. His father’s face gives away none of his emotions, and none of his plans. They used to do this often when Merlin was growing up—to practise, Balinor had always said, although Merlin more often considered it play. Magic comes more naturally to him than breathing, and anything he tried his hand at he often mastered easily. 

Then Merlin grew up and Balinor started calling him Emrys, until the whispers of Merlin’s destinies grew bigger than Merlin himself, and could no longer be contained. Merlin does not remember the last time his father called him by his given name, and has long stopped wishing for things that will never happen.

“A match until incapacitated?” Balinor asks, and even though he is far away, his voice carries over the field.

Merlin nods once, and readies himself. Edwin Muirden calls the start, and the match begins.

Magic matches are a far cry from challenges of the melee variant. Dracaneard holds both, but Merlin has only ever studied the staff rather than the blade. He does most of his magic bare-handed, if only to give him more flexibility. Balinor does have his dragon-imbued sword, and will be more adept at channelling his magic, but Merlin has no need of it. 

There are several rules in a magic tournament: they do not go until first blood, because most spells do not allow for that sort of precision, but they go until incapacitation—either by being trapped or by being unconscious. Some spells are not allowed, mostly ones that will do lasting harm, but magic is about shaping reality, so there are few bans besides the most obvious one. It is a practical way of learning how to use magic outside of theoretical applications, and it requires agility, magical knowledge and the ability to think on your feet.

And Merlin has learnt a lot about that last one, in the last half year.

Balinor wastes no time in striking—he yells out, “Cwacian—” and the ground under Merlin’s feet starts to shake. 

Merlin almost loses his balance, but then he kneels on the ground and waits. Balinor moves, his eyes molten gold, and tips the ground with Caliburn. Merlin whispers, “Gêanhweorfan.” The ground stops rumbling, and instead, it swallows Balinor’s sword and his feet. Merlin rises up and is at Balinor’s side in seconds, where his father is struggling to remain upright.

Balinor’s eyes flash gold again, and Merlin flies through the air. He sweeps his arm, more in instinct than with conscious thought, and a root comes through the ground to catch him. The roars of the crowd are loud as thunder—or perhaps that is the magic crackling, Merlin thinks distantly, and he can’t distinguish one from the other as Balinor wrenches Caliburn free and strikes with a flash of light at Merlin.

Merlin raises his hand in defence and rolls away from the attack, the root that caught him now firmly cracking through the ground and grasping at Balinor’s feet. Merlin breathes heavily through his nose and thinks of Arthur’s carefree laughter as he pummelled Merlin to the ground with his sword—and then how he would wordlessly steer Merlin to duck right next time, so he could be ready for the next bout of attack.

Oh, Arthur. He’s been stealthily teaching Merlin how to defend himself, hasn’t he? Merlin hadn’t realised it until now.

He appreciates it, though, as the magic surges through his blood and the root rising from the earth throws Balinor to the other end of the arena. It is instinct, now, and Merlin gets to his feet and dusts off his dark trousers. A spell hums under his skin, and he can barely sense anything but the need to cast it.

Balinor gets to his feet, and whispers. Merlin can’t hear what he says, but he knows what spell his father has cast—the magic whispers it to him, and Merlin effortlessly undoes.

Nothing happens, and Balinor gazes at him, stunned. “That is not a counterspell,” Balinor yells at him. “What did you do?”

Merlin turns around his hand, palm upwards. Gold floats down to the ground and stays there, unnaturally silent. He knows what he did—the fact that he could do this is new to him. His magic is the same as it always was, but it is as if Merlin is more—as if he is more attuned to it, as if he is it.

As if he is all magic, like the druids have always said.

“Your magic is mine,” he says, and barely recognises his voice as his own. “It cannot be used against me if I demand it to be so.”

“Emrys,” Balinor says grimly, and takes two determined strides before he falters. Merlin stays where he is, uncertain of what his actions mean for the challenge—if he has learnt to control the magic use of others, if he can sense his father’s magic and take it for himself—

His head aches, and Arthur stands there, a crown upon his head, and Merlin kneels before him. A sword lies on Merlin’s shoulder, its blade sharp and true, and Arthur’s expression is unreadable. Arthur opens his mouth—

“Fight me,” Merlin cries out, and the blast he uses to push Balinor back is more emotion than anything else. Balinor is thrown back, but he is a fighter, more than Merlin has ever been—he catches himself, keeping hold of Caliburn, and raises it towards Merlin.

“There is no fight here,” Balinor breathes loudly, although Merlin can feel the magic thrumming in both of them now, in ways he has never been aware of. “If you control my magic, then I must cease the challenge. I am incapacitated.”

“If I control your magic,” Merlin says, and takes the three steps it takes to get him to Balinor’s side, “then you must find another way to beat me, mustn’t you?”

For a moment, Merlin catches his eyes. Neither of theirs glow golden—Balinor’s are darker than the night, heavy with a question that Merlin can’t answer. His abilities are unknown to even him, but this is not how he wants to win. He releases his father’s magic, and feels it uncurl in his stomach.

Balinor swipes Caliburn’s pommel at his chest, and Merlin goes down with a loud oomph. He rolls away quickly and jumps to his feet, and a dozen birds appear from behind him to surprise Balinor. Vines grow around his feet, and Merlin has to stop himself from casting more—in his blood, he can feel thunderstorms and lightning, and he remembers, no, no, this is my father.

Balinor loudly yells a spell, and Merlin is thrown back even as he reins in his magic—and reins it in too far, as he feels his shoulder hit the ground hard and snap out of place. The back of his head hits the grass none too gently, and the vines that captured his father slowly, gently, wrap themselves around his arms, as if trying to cushion him.

Merlin’s head crushes in pain, and for one moment he sees the grey sky of Dracaneard, but then he sees—Arthur’s gaze is heavy with intent, and the dew of the grass is cold to Merlin’s knees. He has his head bowed, and there is no defiance in his face. There is utter desperation, and his fingers are splashed on the ground, as if he can’t hold himself upright otherwise.

“King Emrys of Dracaneard,” Arthur says lowly. “The King who lost his kingdom.”

Merlin raises his head, and he trembles in the cold—

“No,” Merlin shouts, and then he doesn’t see Arthur but Balinor in front of him. “No. No! I won’t do it, I won’t do it!”

Balinor crouches on the ground, and presses a rough finger against Merlin’s forehead. He slumps backwards, boneless and defeated, and that can only be a relief.

Chapter Text

When Merlin wakes up, he is alone.

He sits up straight immediately, only to notice the light of early morning falling through his windows. His head aches, and he stumbles upon bruises as he softly touches the back of it. His left shoulder is even worse, and the throb of it makes Merlin want to lie back down and fall to sleep.

He is too tense to be able to, though, so he winces as he sits himself upright. The stone is cold against his feet, and someone has undressed him because his chest is bare and he is in his smallclothes. With his one good hand, Merlin grabs the nearest pair of trousers he can find and tugs them on, awkwardly trying to balance himself without his left arm.

The door falls open, just as he is trying to figure out if socks are truly worth the trouble.

“Merlin,” says Hunith, and flees forward to capture him in her arms. She is mindful of his shoulder, and her hands are warm as she captures his chin. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

It’s not just her, though. Over her shoulder, Merlin watches as Balinor enters. His father’s gaze is unreadable, and he soon breaks his look as he ushers in Alfric, their physician.

Merlin groans loudly. 

“You should not be on your feet, Prince Emrys,” Alfric scolds lightly, and Hunith forces Merlin to sit back on the bed. “You took quite the hit, and I need to take a look at your shoulder—”

“It’s fine,” Merlin insists, even though he can very clearly feel that it is not. If Gaius were here, he’d poke one of Merlin’s bruises to get his point across. Unfortunately, Alfric is too respectful of Dracaneardian royalty, and of Merlin in particular, to ever do such a thing. He glances disapprovingly, though, and Merlin sits down with a sour expression.

“What happened?” Hunith demands, folding her arms now that she can no longer hold Merlin. “We all saw what happened, we saw that Balinor’s spell didn’t work, and then you fell back—and you were crying—”

“You had a vision.”

Balinor isn’t asking, but Merlin responds anyway. “Yes. Yeah, it was sort of—after I figured out the thing with the—well.”

“How to take away someone else’s powers,” Balinor says.

“Not powers,” Merlin corrects absentmindedly, steadfastly ignoring the way that Alfric rubs a cold salve across his shoulder. “Change the spells. If it comes down to magic, I think it might—prefer to do what I say. I can convince it.”

“It’s not an external force, my lord,” Alfric interjects, his hands stilling. “Magic belongs to a person, and it cannot be redirected—”

“Apparently not,” Balinor says. “Not for Emrys, anyway.”

The pride in his voice makes Merlin want to look away. He’s a man, not a prophecy, he tells himself, and repeats it for good measure. A man, not a prophecy—a man, not a prophecy—“I still lost the match,” he says, to calm himself down.

“Yes,” Balinor says, and frowns. “That is unfortunate. You have had visions before, Emrys, in your sleep. I taught you to deal with this when you were still a child. What has changed, that you do not control them now? You should consult with the Priestesses—”

“I’m not consulting with anyone,” Merlin snaps.

“Emrys,” Balinor says sternly. “The Old Religion—”

“Has Kilgharrah come to you yet?” Merlin asks, and he doesn’t care if he is impatient or being as much of a prat as he usually accuses Arthur of being. He aches, and he doesn’t want to linger on his visions, and he wishes he were being sullen in Gaius’ care instead of Alfric’s, who has been rubbing Merlin’s injured shoulder for too long now.

Balinor blinks in surprise. “Kilgharrah? No. What does he—”

“You should speak with him,” Merlin says. “He wished to wait for the new moon, but I do not think I have that time any longer.”

“Merlin,” Hunith says gently, and the bed dips as she sits beside him. “What did you see? What’s so bad that you can’t tell us, love?”

Merlin used to crawl into Hunith and Balinor’s bed, when he first got visions. They were always so clear, and then Balinor took him to the Crystal Cave, and Merlin cried and cried and cried upon what he saw. The futures were so contradictory, and there were so many pathways, and a great many ones were truly horrible, and Merlin was only eleven years old.

Eleven years old, and so powerful that he could perceive all the possibilities of the future. Merlin had spent months terrified of doing a single wrong thing that could create new futures, new pathways, before he learnt to control the dreams. He hasn’t had visions since then, as he has tucked that particular ability well away—he makes a horrible Seer anyway, since he has never learnt to tell which vision is most likely to be the Future.

But as a child it means he’d spent months telling Hunith and Balinor of his darkest visions, in which magic died and Merlin failed, and there was no magic to return to Albion when it was finally united. Balinor always pursed his lips whenever Merlin dreamt such things, and it had taken him years to understand the source of Balinor’s dissatisfaction.

The same dissatisfaction he sees now, as Merlin refuses to rely on the Old Religion.

“I’ll need to leave again,” Merlin murmurs. “When I was gone, I found—something. That I need to protect. And if something happens to… it, I don’t think magic could ever return to Albion. It was prophesied. Kilgharrah told me, and the druids confirmed it.”

Balinor eyes Alfric at that, who swallows. “Not my clan, Sire.”

“Iseldir,” Balinor says, and looks back to Merlin.

Merlin smiles wryly.  “He won’t tell you, if you ask.”

“And this is what you saw in your vision?” Balinor asks brusquely. He still stands by the side, not close enough to touch, if Merlin wanted. The memory of his father’s hand in his hair seems overly distant all of a sudden, though it was only yesterday.

“I’m not sure what I saw in my vision,” Merlin says. “But I know that it means that I need to go.”

“You only just came back,” Hunith murmurs. 

“I know, Mum,” he murmurs, and he does feel miserable and lonely, so he rests his head in the crook of her neck and just breathes. The days where his mother could make him feel better with a single word are over now, but being near her still makes things easier. He has missed her dearly during his time in Camelot, and he’ll miss her again. “I know. But I can’t stay.”

“That is what you said last time,” Hunith says, and combs her fingers through his hair again. “Can’t you tell us what you found, Merlin? Can’t we help?”

“If it is his destiny to go, he must go,” Balinor says. “Even if he refuses to go with the knowledge of the Priestesses.”

Melinor doesn’t need to look up to know that Balinor disapproves. “If the Priestesses knew what needed to be done,” Merlin says quietly, although he knows his father will hear, “then I wouldn’t have been born, and you might have had a son rather than a prophecy, Father.”

Balinor sucks in a breath. “Emrys—”

“Merlin of Dracaneard,” Hunith says sternly, and takes hold of his shoulders—gently, but her forehead is wrinkled with disapproval. 

“It’s fine, Mother,” he says, and slips away from her grasp—and that of Alfric’s, who has been privy to too many of the royal family’s discussions to comment. His shoulder hurts, but the potion does help, and he knows that he has to wait out his headache. 

Outside, his people walk on, and Merlin can feel their magic. He loves them, and he loves their abilities and their optimism; he loves their faith, and he feels fragile at the thought that he holds their trust.

If he is leaving, it is only because it is their future that he holds in his hands. It is he that must do this—he, and Arthur.

“You must take a dragon,” Balinor says slowly, as if it’s an apology. “Ekaitza is small and strong, and she will carry you where you must go.”

There are three dragons that are under Balinor’s command, barring Kilgharrah, who has never been under anyone’s command unless he wanted to be. They are all the dragons that Balinor managed to save and bring to Dracaneard, when Uther purged Albion of magic. 

Merlin has flown Ekaitza two times, total. It seems that the third time is coming soon.

“Yes, Father,” he says. “If that is your desire.”

None of this is what any of them want. But Merlin cannot be the religious son that Balinor wants, and Balinor is not the king of the druids as long as Emrys lives and breathes. Theirs is an odd relationship, Merlin has always known, ever since it became clear that he is the first allegiance of a great many magical creatures.

He, as the Prince, and not Balinor, their King. It might have been better if Balinor approved of Merlin’s thoughts and considerations of the Old Religion. But they have conversed long enough on that topic, when Balinor still thought that Merlin could understand.

When Merlin still thought that his father could understand too.

“How long will you be gone?” Hunith asks. There is steel in her voice, but when she touches Merlin’s cheek, her fingers have never been more tender.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says honestly, and thinks of Arthur and his destiny, and the union of Albion. These are not things that will be built within half a year, especially in Uther’s lifetime. Merlin has always known he would be giving his life to this, really, but the solemn reality of it only sinks in now. “Years and years, perhaps.”

“You will come back once every year,” Balinor says sternly.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “I thought you would be pleased, Father. I am on the path that will lead to the return of magic, and I am protecting that which will ensure its return.”

“You may be Emrys,” Balinor murmurs, “But you are also a Prince of Dracaneard.”

It’s the closest he will come to calling Merlin by his given name, he knows. Balinor abruptly turns around and leaves—with an apologetic bow, Alfric follows him. Perhaps he’s afraid of what Merlin will order him to do when he’s not in the safety of his King’s presence.

Only Hunith remains, her hand still warm on Merlin’s cheek. “Oh, my boy. Things would’ve been so much easier for you if you hadn’t known of that prophecy. If all these people hadn’t insisted on you taking on that burden. You’re so young, my Merlin, so young…”

“It can’t be helped, Mum,” Merlin says quietly, and takes her hand between his own. “At least I’m prepared, right? I’ve always known that it might come to a choice between two birthrights. Father will understand that, at least.”

“You would still leave even if you didn’t have to, would you?” Hunith’s eyes are imploring, and Merlin looks down.

“Yes. I think so. I’m—I’ll miss you, Mum, and I’ll miss Freya, and Will, and Father, but I haven’t ever been as happy as I was when I was gone. And I know I shouldn’t—”

“I can’t keep you where you don’t want to be, my son,” Hunith says sternly, and finally lets go of him. A brittle smile plays on her lips, and she takes a step away. The distance seems unbridgeable, suddenly. “You’re a son of dragons and I gave you the name of a bird. If there’s anything you were meant for, it’s to fly away.”

“But I’ll come back,” Merlin says, his voice a little hoarse.

Hunith doesn’t say anything, and follows Balinor out of the door.

~*~

Merlin has barely been back in Dracaneard, and already he is planning to leave again. He should feel more miserable at the thought, but instead, it fills him with an odd sort of relief to see his small bag sitting on his bed.

Last time, Merlin had not brought much. He’d travelled the kingdoms as inconspicuously as possible, eating what he could find and sleeping where he could make a bed. Now, he has a better idea of what to expect, so he has packed two books on defensive magic and potion-making that are sure to make Gaius happy.

“Merlin!” Freya shouts, and throws herself at him as soon as she enters his room.

“What are you—let go,” Merlin sputters, but Freya has firmly embraced him, her cheek pressed against Merlin’s chest. 

“By the dragons, Merlin,” Will says, leaning against the door. “I thought people were throwing themselves at you during Beltane, but I see they’ve got nothing on Freya.”

“Shut up,” Freya says hotly, but releases her hold on Merlin, grabbing his arm instead. “Is it true? Your mother just told me you’re going to leave again, and to say my goodbyes before you leave, and I can’t believe that you’re leaving after you’ve been here for barely two weeks.”

“I think my mother counts as a reliable source,” Merlin says dryly.

“Can’t you see, Freya,” Will drawls. “He misses Arthur.”

“This isn’t about Arthur,” Merlin protests, and then amends, “It is about Arthur, but in the destiny sort of way. And anyway, he’s my friend, and I’ve got to return to him.”

“You’re our friend,” Will says.

“Sure, but you don’t have assassins after you once every two days,” Merlin says, and mutters under his breath, “Although the gods know why no one has killed you yet.”

Freya grows more silent, though. “Is it really that dangerous? Merlin, what if you get hurt?”

“I won’t,” Merlin says. “Besides, I’ve learnt about a dozen new healing spells since Gaius took it upon himself to teach me. No one ever suspects me, anyway—I’m no one important in Camelot, and so no one even looks at me twice.”

“But Arthur might,” Will says darkly. “And if he knew who you were, he wouldn’t think twice about killing you.”

“Will,” Freya snaps.

Merlin hugs Freya gently, and raises his eyebrows at Will over her shoulders. “Arthur wouldn’t kill me. I know you don’t trust him, and I know you have no reason to—but I do. He is an honourable man, I’ve seen it for myself, and he’ll be a good king. A fair king.”

Will’s answering gaze is dark, but he doesn’t say anything else. Freya holds onto Merlin tightly, like she’s afraid to let him go, and she smells of bathwater and salt. Merlin will miss him, his friends, the ones among the few who know the truth of the situation. 

He has to go alone from here on. Until the time comes when Arthur will be the prophesied king, and Merlin can tell him.

“We’ll miss you,” Freya murmurs, her breath warm in his ear.

“Oh, please,” Merlin says, and grins. “You’ll hardly notice that I’m even gone.”

~*~

It is another week until he does leave, in which Merlin’s shoulder recovers until only faded purple bruises still mar his skin. There have been no more visions, but his dreams have been dark and he could not remember them come morning. He’s not sure it’s a sign of anything, necessarily, but it makes him anxious to leave.

Balinor barely talks to him, but Hunith helps him pack and gently reminds him to send letters every week. Merlin sees Kilgharrah fly around the citadel two or three times, a distant and imposing figure in the sky, but the dragon makes no move to speak to Merlin, and Merlin doesn’t call on him.

The morning of his departure, Merlin makes his way to the dragons’ caves. They are just outside the citadel, carved out of the base out of the small mountain range that covers the eastern side of Dracanaeard. The walk takes him the better part of an hour, and he is alone—Merlin has said all his goodbyes, and implored his mother not to come.

It is still dark when he leaves, although the sun has risen by the time Merlin has made it to the caves. The rumble of the three dragons that stay there can be heard from far away, and for most people, it is enough of a warning not to come closer.

But Merlin has loved these creatures since infancy, and they love him. 

“Ekaitza,” he murmurs, and closes his eyes. The language of the dragons fills his throat, but he doesn’t utter the words that are ready on his lips. Instead, he curves his hand around the rough entrance to the caves.

“Warlock,” Naimroa says, the first dragon to notice his presence. She is the largest of the three dragons here, and the oldest. She peers down at him, her eyes glowing dark blue in the badly-lit cave. “Dragon Prince.”

Merlin has never known how he has gained the names he does, with the dragons. Kilgharrah has always called him ‘warlock’, and the other dragons may have picked up on that—then these dragons call him Dragon Prince, and sometimes Dragonchild, but rarely Emrys, and never Merlin.

The other two dragons, Ekaitza and Rathuris, turn at the mention of his name.

“There is a different smell around you, Dragon Prince,” Rathuris says, his voice rumbling. “It is a strong magic, and not entirely your own. The twists of fate are stronger than ever.”

Merlin blinks. Kilgharrah had never mentioned any of this before. “Sorry,” Merlin offers. “I did take a bath last night, if that helps.”

“Is this why you have come?” Ekaitza asks. Her green scales glint, and she crouches in front of Merlin. She is three times the size of Deore, and she will also bring him to Camelot three times faster than his horse ever could. She is still the smallest of the dragons, and the only one of them who does not breathe fire.

Merlin knows this disappoints Ekaitza greatly, but it may be for the best, considering her temper.

“Partly,” Merlin says, and lays a hand on Ekaitza’s glimmering scales. “I need you to carry me, Ekaitza. I am needed somewhere else, and I may not return for a long time. It’s part of the prophecy.”

“The threads of fate are strong,” Rathuris agrees.

“There are many choices still to be made,” Naimroa says mildly, and some smoke escapes her nostrils. “You ought to be wary, Dragon Prince. Fate will only form around your decisions, and you may think there is only one path in the forest when there are many.”

Rathuris growls, and his tail hits Naimroa’s scaly thigh. “The Dragon Prince will not be led astray.”

“It hardly matters to me,” Naimroa says, and turns. “If Kilgharrah wants to play with the Dragonchild’s fate, he should do as he so desires. But his words are not final, and Kilgharrah is no prophet.”

“He is the Great Dragon!”

“Wait,” Merlin says, because he can sense that Rathuris will have a long-winded argument in Kilgharrah’s defence, and he wants to end it before it can begin, “What do you mean, play with my fate? Kilgharrah has done nothing but inform me of my destiny, when I was in Camelot.”

“Yes,” Naimroa says, in the tone of a long-suffering mother. “It is not in the nature of men to know too much of their own destiny, Dragon Prince. In telling you, he has altered your actions already—for good or for bad, that remains to be seen. But your fate is in motion, and your heart is still true. Whether you succeed or fail, it shall make no difference to me—if humanity does not accept me, I shall burn them down and feel no remorse for it.”

Merlin sighs. “We’ve talked about this, Naimroa. We are all dependent on each other.”

“Some men deserve to be burned,” Ekaitza mutters darkly. 

“The Great Dragon only does what he must,” Rathuris insists. “If the Dragon Prince is to succeed—”

“If Kilgharrah was of that much importance,” Naimroa says, “He would be part of the prophecy, and he is not. That destiny has been around since before you and I were born, Rathuris—he should do best to remain far away from it, and let events unfold as they were written by our forebears.”

Merlin sighs. “I’ll take your advice, Naimroa,” he says wearily, and wonders if this is what Iseldir meant about being heedful of the words of others. “And I promise you, I do not follow Kilgharrah’s words mindlessly. The days where he could intimidate me are long gone.”

“He is kin,” is all Rathuris says.

“Perhaps,” Merlin murmurs, and runs his fingers over Ekaitza’s wings. “Will you carry me, Ekaitza? I am needed in Camelot, so you can’t bring me all the way, because you can’t be seen. We will be sheltered if we land in the forests, though, and it will only take me a few hours to return to the citadel from there.”

Ekaitza makes a content noise that thrums in her throat. “I could fly, Dragon Prince. Camelot does not scare me—I could fly you to Uther Pendragon’s throne room, if you so desired, and bite him in half.”

It is days like in which Merlin misses Kilgharrah and his cryptic words. At least Kilgharrah does not want to start a war with every human kingdom.

“I appreciate that,” he says, “But that’s not necessary. The forests will do, and then you’re to return to Dracaneard.”

Ekaitza grunts, displeased. “Yes, Dragon Prince.”

Merlin pats her and climbs onto her back. Ekaitza is the first dragon he had ever ridden—he had been fourteen, because Balinor refused to let him learn any earlier. He rarely has a reason to ride the dragons, and they are not stallions, so the only other times he has flown them is when they asked him.

Rathuris has asked him twice, and Naimroa never. Kilgharrah has borne him most of all—six times, including the most recent. Then again, Kilgharrah has always been closer to Balinor than the other dragons.

“Thank you,” Merlin whispers to Ekaitza, and she rumbles, content.

“Dragon Prince,” Naimroa says, her eyes fixed on him. She does not tower over him, as he is seated on Ekaitza’s back, but she is still imposing, and larger than life. She isn’t as great as Kilgharrah, but her distant manner sometimes makes her more unreliable. “You must trust yourself before you trust anyone else. If another sorcerer were to know better than you, it would not have been your birth that set the future in motion.”

“The druids have said something similar to me,” Merlin tells her, and smiles wryly. “And I think that it makes for wise advice. Thank you for your words, Naimroa. I know you don’t care much for the prophecy.”

“No,” she says. “But you are kin.”

Merlin inclines his head to her, a sign of respect. “Thank you,” he repeats, and then Ekaitza is out of patience and flies out of the cave. Merlin barely has any time to grab hold of her before they are up in the sky, with the cold wind biting his skin.

But the cold doesn’t matter when he rides a dragon. Instead, he laughs, and closes his eyes.

Ekaitza carries him to Camelot, and Merlin cannot wait to return.

~*~

It is early afternoon when Merlin sees the distant figure of Camelot through the clouds. They’ve already passed most of the forested area and quickly left the Dracaneard kingdom—through the magical barrier that protects the kingdom, and Merlin always has to shiver when he passes through it—to finally reach their destination hours later, although Ekaitza can’t bring him all the way.

The sense of homecoming is unexpected, but Merlin merely smiles at the sight. He has hastily tied his scarf around his face for warmth, but he still shivers on top of Ekaitza’s back by the time she lowers herself into the forests.

Nimbly, she lands between the trees, folding her wings to free-fall for the distance. She lands with a loud tremor, and Merlin can distantly hear some of the forest animals scattering as they sense the dragon. 

“Rabbits,” Ekaitza says in delight, as Merlin slides off her wings. “I haven’t had any in a good long while. Your father does not let us hunt enough, Dragon Prince.”

“Take it up with him,” Merlin says, and rubs his arms in an attempt to warm himself. 

“I will,” Ekaitza says, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her before now. “Rabbits, and hares, and foxes, and birds—I can smell them. I will hunt these before I go.”

“Best not, really,” Merlin says, smiling even as Ekaitza grumbles. “There’s no saying who might be wandering these woods. If they saw you, they’d try and kill you, and you know how I feel about you killing humans.”

“Yes, yes, but it’s self-defence,” Ekaitza complains. “What if I munch their bones for only two minutes?”

“Still too long, I’m afraid,” Merlin tells her.

Ekaitza makes a displeased sound. “I can be stealthy if I so please, Dragon Prince. The humans would not see me. For your sake, I would not kill them.”

“Please,” Merlin says, and rubs her scales. “You should return to Dracaneard. If they hurt you, somehow, I would never forgive myself. Will you return?”

“Yes,” Ekaitza says, and eyes him. “I trust you know the way to Camelot, Dragonchild?”

Merlin takes a step back. In the forest, Ekaitza is even more beautiful. She blends with the shrubbery seamlessly, and the shine of her scales is muted in the daylight. 

“I do,” he says. “Farewell, Ekaitza.”

“Farewell, Dragon Prince,” she says, and pushes him towards Camelot with her nose. With one last wave, Merlin disappears in the trees. He would have spent more time with Ekaitza, but he still has a few hours to walk, and the forest is cold. He needs to warm up, and walking is a sure way to do it.

The magic tugs him in the right direction, no spell necessary. Merlin could follow it blindly, but instead, he is more leisurely about it. He brushes across plants and picks some herbs that are hard to come across closer to Camelot, sure that Gaius will appreciate them. 

It is nearly time for dinner when he reaches a brook that he knows is close to Camelot. He almost decides to sit down next to it, his legs weary of the ride and then the cumbersome and long walk, when he senses something.

Merlin blinks, and rests his hand against a tree. Is there an animal in a nearby grove? He hasn’t been exactly looking out for other life forms, but that doesn’t mean—

“Merlin,” a very, very familiar voice says, and a stick prods him in the back.

Merlin turns around like a whirlwind, and Arthur’s hair is still gold, and his hands are still rough with callouses, and his smile is still crooked in that way that means he is sincere—

“Arthur,” he breathes, and Arthur drops his stick, and takes Merlin by both of his shoulders, holding him steadfast. Arthur smiles broadly, genuinely, like Merlin is an unexpected gift, and something in his chest glows.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur exclaims, and now Merlin can see the other knights behind the prince—six of them total, and Merlin recognises Sir Leon and Sir Brennis among the party.

Merlin shrugs, and tries not to smile like a madman. “No one throws socks at me in Ealdor, my lord. It severely impacted my ability to duck, and I thought it was a shame that my talent was going to waste.”

“Clearly,” Arthur says, and frowns. “You are on your way back to Camelot, then?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, and adds, “Hopefully with a steady job as manservant to a certain prat, truthfully. If the position hasn’t been filled.”

Arthur grins. “Incidentally, it hasn’t. Are you going to be as rubbish as you were before?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” Merlin says. “Are you going to be as much of a clotpole as before?”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Arthur protests.

“In spirit, it does.”

“And you’re here to stay?” 

Merlin smiles. “For the time being, yes. Unless I decide you’re too much of a prat to put up with. I might resign when that day comes.”

Arthur snorts, and then stills, examining Merlin once more. “Didn’t you bring back the horse you took from Camelot? And why were you sneaking through the forests? We’ve a perfectly good road, you know.”

“Bandits,” Merlin says, and then grimaces at his own quick response. “Yeah, erm—bandits. On the main road. Took my horse, and my gold, too. So, really, that job, that would be just perfect, you know.”

Arthur’s expression darkens. “They stole from you?”

“No, no,” Merlin says half-heartedly, starting to think it might have been a bad idea to imply the existence of certain non-existing bandits to Arthur, who takes threats to Camelot rather seriously. “They asked rather nicely. Honestly, they might not even really be called bandits.”

“We’ll track them down,” Arthur says decisively.

“It was two days ago,” Merlin tries. “They’ll be long gone, Arthur, and I promise, it’s fine. I’d rather just get to Camelot safely.”

Arthur still looks like he isn’t satisfied, but he presses his lips together, and Merlin thinks he’s won this fight. “Fine. You should have sent word ahead—someone could have protected you.”

Merlin doesn’t point out to him that it’s really unwarranted to send a guard or a knight to protect the Prince’s manservant to his way home, because Arthur has closed his fingers around Merlin’s arm, and is tugging him to a nearby camp where there’s a fire going.

Lonely prince, Merlin remembers fondly, even as Arthur forces Merlin to sit down near the warmth, and commands him to eat dinner before it’s all gone. Then the light catches through the branches of the tree, and Arthur stands in the light, and Merlin—

Arthur turns, his smile gentle—he is older, and he turns towards Merlin. In his hands, there is a wreath of yellow flowers, clumsily made, and he reverently places it on Merlin’s head, and he opens his mouth—

Merlin blinks away the vision, and watches Arthur as he laughs with Sir Leon, and can’t help but think, prophesied king.

~*~

Three hours later, the sun has set, and the party of Camelot knights has returned home.

In their midst is Merlin, who rides with the prince.

Chapter Text

PART III

“Merlin!”

Merlin deftly ducks underneath the pillow being thrown at him, watching as it skids across the floor.

“Wow,” Merlin says mildly, and turns back to watch Arthur sit up in his bed, his arm still stretched. “Someone woke up moody. What seems to be the problem, my lord? Was your pillow not fluffed up well enough?”

“You moron,” Arthur snaps, and throws his legs out of bed. “You were supposed to wake me more than an hour ago! I’ll be late for the council meeting, and I’ve got to finish the report that my father asked for—”

“No, you won’t,” Merlin says, and ducks again when Arthur throws a comb at him. 

“Yes, I will! I told you specifically, Merlin, that you were to—”

“The meeting was moved,” Merlin says in exasperation, before Arthur finds anything else to throw at him. “It won’t be until later in the evening, I swear, I just thought I’d let you sleep in!”

Arthur stares at him, eyes narrowed. “And you are certain?”

“Yes, I promise,” Merlin says, and sets down Arthur’s breakfast before he grabs the pillow and the comb from the floor. There is a special irony in being the one to clean up all the things Arthur throws at him on a daily basis. “Lady Morgana took ill in the night, and the King wanted to sit with her, and of course Gaius needed to be there, so they’ve moved the meeting.”

“Morgana’s ill?” Arthur asks, concern lacing his voice. Merlin sighs and takes Arthur’s tunic.

“Her nightmares were violent last night,” Merlin explains, and tries not to think of Morgana’s deep cries, her shrill voice yelling out, Arthur, no, and focuses instead on Arthur’s shoulders as he lets Merlin help him into the tunic, and the way his fingers brush over his muscles.

Arthur hums vaguely. “Is she feeling better now?”

“A bit feverish,” Merlin says, “but Gaius has a tincture for that. Gwen is staying by her bedside, so you know she’ll be taken care of. And I’ve spent most of the night talking her down, so she’s a little calmer.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says, and frowns at him. “You’re a good friend, you know. Even if neither Morgana nor I will ever be able to call you that—but I only mean—”

Merlin snorts. “I’m not doing it for that,” he says. “You know that, dollophead.”

“I’m sorry you were roused from your bed that early,” Arthur says.

“Well, I wasn’t really roused,” Merlin says, and smiles awkwardly. “I’ve sort of—not gone to bed at all. No, you see, I was up helping Cook clean the kitchen, because two of the girls have the red fever that’s going around, so they were short on hands, and I still needed to mend the trousers that you ripped on that hunt four days ago, and then Gaius needed my help with making a potion. And I suppose I could’ve gone once Morgana was feeling a bit better, but she couldn’t sleep, and I felt bad for her—”

“Only you, Merlin,” Arthur says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You’ve worked too hard. If I give you the day off, will you sleep?”

“So throwing the pillow at me, that was really metaphorical?”

“No, you moron, I don’t throw things at you metaphorically,” Arthur says, and ruffles Merlin’s hair. He does that often, Merlin finds, now that he has been back in Arthur’s service for almost a year. His regard for Arthur has grown, and in turn, Arthur comes to him for advice more easily and more often—and for these casual touches.

“Anyway, I really can’t take the day off,” Merlin says, and shuffles. “Gaius ran out of yarrow when he was treating Morgana, and he can’t go and get it because it’s too far into the forest, and I didn’t get to finish your trousers before we had to go and help Morgana—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I won’t have you falling over, and I want you at that meeting tonight. My father refuses to tell me what it’s about, and that really can’t mean anything I would like it to mean.”

It’s not something they talk about, really, the way that Merlin gives his opinions after the council meetings that Arthur attends. It’s mostly Merlin rambling about the opinions of whatever Lord or Sir has decided to be annoyingly conservative that day, and he hadn’t even been aware that Arthur was listening those first few times.

Maybe all that Arthur has missed, all this time, is someone who will talk to him honestly. Merlin wouldn’t be surprised—Uther gains respect through terror, and people expect the same of Arthur. He has always been taught there is no one he should trust in his inner circle, and that everyone has ulterior motives.

And Merlin is no stranger to council meetings—every kingdom seems to have these old men sitting around tables, squabbling about their rights. In Dracaneard, it is power and magic; in Camelot, it is power and money.

“I’ll be there,” Merlin promises.

“I need you to be there without spilling wine,” Arthur says. “Don’t you remember that time—”

“That was hardly my fault—”

“Sir Arevar glowered at you for two whole months—”

“He pushed me!” Merlin exclaims.

“Merlin.”

Merlin throws up his hands. “Fine, yes, alright, I’ll go to sleep. Nevermind that Gaius will put me to work as soon as I set foot in—”

“Sleep here, then,” Arthur says absently, and gestures back towards his own unmade bed as he pops a sausage in his mouth. “No one’ll bother you here, and it’s got to be a far cry better than that sad little bed you call your own.”

“What?” Merlin says.

Arthur looks at him, brow creased in annoyance. “It’s not as if I’m using it currently, Merlin,” he says curtly. “And you’ll have to change the sheets regardless, and it’ll be far more practical for us both when you’re close on hand. Perhaps, God permitting, you’ll actually be on time for once.”

Merlin sputters. “But it’s your bed. It’s not—”

“It’s not what?”

“It’s not proper, Arthur.”

“As if you’ve a care in the world for what is proper,” Arthur says. “Didn’t you barge into my room the other day when I was in the bath, yelling about needing to sharpen my sword and stealing half my clothes for laundry? You made me walk through the castle half-naked!”

Merlin winces. He did do that, albeit not for the reasons Arthur thinks. It had involved a half-mad knight from Essetir who’d thrown a potion on Arthur’s sword that would cause an injury to the one who wielded it, and Merlin had needed to fix it before Arthur was to fight in the oncoming tournament.

There have been so, so many attempts on Arthur’s life. Merlin is a little surprised the prince has made it this long without Merlin.

“Well,” Merlin says, and clears his throat. “I was just trying to be a good servant. And you could just have stayed in your bath, I wasn’t just going to leave you there—”

“You were gone for two hours!”

“Maybe I was running a bit late—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, his face terse. “Get into the bed and sleep, and afterwards, we can discuss your chores and how shoddy you’ve been with them. But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re wobbling on your feet, and I’ve never seen you so pale.”

“Fine,” Merlin says hotly, and only takes off his boots and neckerchief before he gets into Arthur’s bed. It smells like him, and some warmth still lingers. Merlin ducks into it, and Arthur is right, it is far better than the bed Gaius has given him. 

It has been a long night, and Merlin’s eyes flutter closed of their own volition. He drifts away almost immediately, and if he thinks he hears shuffling by the bedside right before—well, surely that’s only the start of a dream.

~*~

Merlin feels oddly awkward, as he stands in the shadows of the room. There are a few other servants at the council meeting, all of them several years older than Merlin and shooting him haughty looks every now and then. It’s not a usual meeting, though—there are only a few knights and advisors, as well as Gaius.

“In this room,” Uther begins oddly solemnly, the only one standing, “are only the noblemen I trust the most. Advisors and knights, you have all shown your loyalty to Camelot ten times over, and it is you upon whom I must rely in the darkest of hours.”

Merlin stills, holding onto his jug of wine carefully. Of course, Uther hasn’t accounted for the four servants in the room in his speech, and Merlin isn’t as annoyed as he ought to be. He has learnt to be overlooked and underappreciated, since he came to this court.

One day, it’ll be different, he thinks, and glances at the back of Arthur’s golden head.

“Darkest of hours, Sire?” Sir Leon asks, when Uther falls silent.

“The threat of magic, Sir Leon,” Uther says. “Mercia is forming an alliance with Dracaneard. I have heard it is tentative, still, but it might yet become more. King Bayard has a daughter that he might yet wed to Prince Emrys, and if that happens, Mercia will certainly become our enemy.”

Merlin pushes himself further into the shadows, against the cold walls of the castle. For over a year, he has mostly successfully diverted all conversations about Dracaneard that he has been involved in. Mostly, Uther seems to ignore the only kingdom in which magic still abounds, so there hasn’t been much of a reason to even bring up Dracaneard.

Until now, it appears.

“Wasn’t Emrys already engaged?” Sir Bedivere asks, frowning.

“We only have mere speculation about the Prince of Dracaneard,” Uther says, “and it aggravates me. None of our spies get even close to their court—Balinor has a keen eye and the aid of magic against our people. We know nearly nothing of his heir. The boy is all grown up now, and a powerful sorcerer by all accounts. Beyond that, we know nothing of his own motivations, and his intentions towards Camelot.”

“You might be exaggerating, my lord,” Gaius says. “Prince Emrys might not have any intentions towards Camelot. Balinor’s ties with the druids run deep, and they are a peaceful people.”

“I cannot afford to be that naive, Gaius,” Uther says coldly. “I almost killed Balinor, once, and I would have, had it not been for that dragon of his. If I had, Dracaneard would be nothing but dust now, and his boy would never have been born. Magic would be purged from these lands, as it ought to be. Emrys must know this, and he will know that I do not plan on accepting this alliance. Mercia has long been our ally, but if Bayard has chosen to ally himself with Balinor, we have no choice but to sever our ties.”

“War,” Arthur repeats, and Merlin doesn’t need to see his face to know what expression Arthur is wearing. “You mean to go to war with Mercia.”

“Before this alliance goes any further, yes,” Uther says. “Dracaneard will not use their precious resources to save an ally before the treaty is ratified. Bayard has many men, and Dracaneard is only a small kingdom.”

“One with magic, though,” Arthur points out. “Father, even one dragon could decimate a great number of men, and I’m pretty sure that Balinor has more than one. Waging war is a great risk for something we aren’t even sure about—”

“I know the risks, Arthur,” Uther snaps, and inhales, composing himself admirably. “I am planning to give Bayard another chance to prove his loyalty to Camelot. I will ask him to break off his alliance with Dracaneard and pledge himself to us, instead. You will marry his daughter, Arthur, if that is what is necessary.”

“Why would he turn towards Dracaneard?” Leon asks, suddenly. “Bayard is Camelot’s friend, and it’s a hard-won peace, Sire. I can’t imagine he wouldn’t turn to Balinor unless he had a need for—magic, in some way.”

Uther nods slowly. “This is what I am planning to find out, too,” he says. “I already sent an invitation to Bayard. When he comes, we will need to figure out what he hopes to gain from Dracaneard, and make sure their alliance doesn’t come to pass. I will not have Emrys become Bayard’s son-in-law and inherit Mercia.”

Merlin isn’t really all that fond of thinking about being King of Dracaneard, whenever his father presents him as the Crown Prince, and the idea of adding Mercia to the equation has his stomach rolling uncomfortably. 

There is the collective murmur of “Yes, Sire,”s before the council meeting ends, and Merlin flees to Arthur’s chambers as soon as he is free.

~*~

“Has your father gone absolutely mad,” Merlin yells, and feels a vindictive surge of pleasure as Arthur startles from his desk. “War with Mercia? War? They haven’t done anything, and now you’re just going along with this mad plan of Uther, to, what—go to war? Destroy both Mercia and Dracaneard in one fell swoop? As if he can!”

“Calm yourself, Merlin,” Arthur says, and scowls. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

Merlin doubts that, very much so. “Then why are you—”

“My father is afraid of Dracaneard,” Arthur says, and Merlin stops in place. “He won’t admit it as such, but he knows we cannot defeat magic. And he is right—Prince Emrys is twenty now, is he not? Or almost?”

Merlin’s twentieth birthday had come and gone two weeks before, but he swallows that bit of information. “Why would you assume that Emrys is planning on an attack—”

“He might not be,” Arthur says patiently, “but my father is right. There is a lot of history between our families, let alone our kingdoms, and we cannot afford to take the risk. If Dracaneard attacks, a lot of people would die.”

“You must always assume the worst, mustn’t you?” Merlin snaps. 

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says wearily. “I have to, if I’m to keep my people safe.”

Merlin loses his anger at the cold exhaustion in Arthur’s voice, and takes a seat next to him. Arthur watches him, silently and questioningly, but doesn’t tell him to leave. Merlin lets out a deep exhale, and leans against the desk.

Arthur doesn’t know Dracaneard. He doesn’t know Merlin, or his father. Merlin can’t really blame him for doing what he deems to be right, and for now, it doesn’t even need to be war. Merlin isn’t sure what to think of his father’s possible alliance with Mercia, and even less what to think of the most recent rumours of his own betrothal, but all of that can wait. 

“Arthur?” he murmurs.

“Yes, Merlin?”

“If I were a prince,” Merlin says, and rubs his forehead. “If I were a prince, I think I’d like to be one like you.”

Arthur snorts, but it’s a private sort of humour. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, Merlin. You take these things too personally. Don’t concern yourself—I’ll try and make sure it doesn’t come to war, even if our alliance with Bayard falls through.”

“And you’d marry his daughter, if that’s what is needed?” Merlin asks. His heart pounds loudly in his chest, and he fears he might be giving himself away, even though his voice remains steady.

Arthur looks at him, surprisingly kind. “Princes don’t get to follow their own hearts.”

“I wish you would,” Merlin murmurs, and takes Arthur’s hand. He can’t explain why he does so—it’s oddly intimate, and Merlin has taught himself to never take more of Arthur than Arthur is willing to give. He doesn’t instigate the touches of their daily lives, and he always makes sure not to trace the muscles of Arthur’s back when he dresses him.

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly. His lips are parted halfway, and Merlin has to look away before he does something foolhardy.

“Sorry,” he mutters instead, and draws back his hand. “If you would—if you ever were to meet with Dracaneard, and sign a peace treaty? You needn’t be allies, but the danger of war would be averted, wouldn’t it?”

“My father would never accept it,” Arthur says, and smiles wryly. “Perhaps, when I am king—and if Prince Emrys is as peaceful as I hope he’ll be—perhaps then, there can be peace.”

Merlin’s heart is full with hope, even as the possibility of war looms over their heads. “Perhaps,” he echoes, and thinks, there will be peace.

~*~

It isn’t that he means to wander the halls this late. Arthur had given him a cup of wine, though, and the alcohol made Merlin dizzy, and Arthur had laughed at him and forced him to stay a little longer as the effects lessened.

Which means that it’s already night by the time Merlin sets off for his own chambers, the buzz of alcohol slightly affecting him still, and he passes the Lady Morgana’s chambers.

It is quiet in the castle, at this time of night, and all the servants have gone off to bed already. Merlin should go to sleep, but he doesn’t feel tired despite how heavy his legs feel, and he has to lean against the walls for a second to try and stop his legs from tingling.

That is when he hears the muffled sobs coming from Morgana’s chambers.

The proper thing to do would be pretend he has never heard a thing and pass it, go to his own bed and never bring it up, Merlin knows. But he has sat up with Morgana for the better part of the night before, and Morgana is his friend. The wine that is still in his veins makes him stand before her door, and then he knocks.

“Who is that?” Morgana snaps from the other side. 

“Erm,” Merlin says, and winces. “It’s Merlin, my lady.”

The door flies open. Morgana is only dressed in her night clothes, and her dark hair flows down to her shoulders. She is beautiful, of course, and Merlin steadfastly ignores the state of her undress as he focuses on the tear tracks on her cheeks instead.

“Merlin,” she whispers, and drags him into her room before he can protest, closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Merlin blinks. There is a plant in one of the corners of Morgana’s room—he has admired it before, its tall green leaves and its rich soil. Now, the leaves are burnt and a puddle of water surrounds the pot on the floor.

“What happened?” he asks, concerned. 

Morgana is a Seer, and now it becomes very clear she is not aware of this. Merlin has talked about it often with Gaius, who maintains that she should not be told if she doesn’t know. Of course, Merlin always disagrees, because not knowing might be more dangerous for her, in the end—but Gaius is wise, and he knows her best, so Merlin has ignored his own instincts and followed Gaius’ advice so far. Besides, he still thought she might’ve been a good actress, and telling her he knows would put himself in danger.

But if she accidentally set the plant on fire—

“Nothing,” Morgana says hastily, following his eyes. “Merlin, it’s nothing, it was just—”

It is the wine that made him say it, Merlin decides later. Arthur is entirely to blame for the way that Merlin blurts out, “You set it on fire, didn’t you? With magic.”

Morgana falls down on the floor, her hands concealing her face. She trembles, and the sobs come out entirely unwillingly, and Merlin drops to the floor to embrace her. Morgana falls into his arms easily, her nose pressed to Merlin’s neck. Her hair tickles his nose, but she cries into his tunic, and Merlin sits there wordlessly as Morgana loses herself.

“I don’t know what to do,” Morgana says, her voice rough. “Merlin, I don’t—I can’t, I’m not magic, I promise you, I never studied—you have to believe me, Merlin, I don’t want Uther to lock me away—”

“You can’t believe I’d do that,” Merlin says, and tightens his hold. “Morgana, I’m your friend. And you’re not the only one who disagrees with Uther’s views, you know. Magic isn’t evil, and neither are you. Some people are born with it, and you can’t control it until you learn to accept it.”

“He’ll kill me,” Morgana says, like it’s a simple fact.

“No,” Merlin says quickly, though he can’t quench the doubt in his chest. “He loves you, Morgana. Uther loves you, even if you’ve got magic.”

“Then he’ll send me away,” Morgana says, her voice hard, and pushes away from Merlin’s arms to lock eyes with him. “And I can’t—Merlin, I can’t leave Camelot. I’ve seen things, I’ve dreamt—what if they need me? I don’t have another home.”

“Morgana,” Merlin says, catching her arms. “Listen to me. Listen to me very carefully, okay? You’re going to have to hide it. You’ll have to learn to control this so that no one will ever figure out what the source of your dreams are, and so you don’t set fire to innocent plants.”

“I can’t control it,” Morgana says angrily. “Uther would never allow me a tutor—”

“Please,” Merlin says, and lets go of her. “You have to hide it.”

Morgana regards him for a long moment. Merlin enjoys her company, likes her fierce personality and the righteousness of her character, but he can never quite tell what she’s thinking. 

“Uther will find out,” Morgana says, in a broken voice. “And I can’t leave to find anyone to help me. I can’t—Arthur will need me. I’ve seen it. There will come a moment in which Arthur loses everything, and he will turn to me. I can’t leave.”

Merlin isn’t quite sure how two children under Uther’s guardianship grew up with such hearts, with such loyalty to each other. It seems impossible to imagine, but maybe it is the only thing they had. 

Morgana will not leave, and Gaius will not help her, Merlin knows. Gaius might not even be able to help her, when it comes to that. Merlin’s hands are still on Morgana’s cool skin, and when he focuses, he can feel the sharp prickle of magic that is demanding to be let out, and it itches even to sense it. She is strong, and she is headstrong, and Merlin wants nothing more than to send her to the druids.

But the druids in Camelot are scarce, and Uther would destroy all of them if they even found Morgana with them. Morgana’s disappearance would hurt Arthur, and there would be no way to explain it. If there is to be peace between the druids and Camelot, she can’t be found there.

Merlin sighs. “Uther won’t find out,” he says.

“You know nothing of that,” Morgana hisses, and works herself free of his grasp. “He is always suspicious of magic, and he will notice. He’ll burn me himself—”

Merlin raises his hand, palm upwards, so that it is in between their faces, and murmurs, “ Fȳr.” A small flame flickers to life in his hand, licking Merlin’s fingers, and Morgana’s face goes blank.

“You know magic,” Morgana murmurs, and scrambles upright. “Merlin, you know—”

Merlin gets to his feet too, dispelling the flame. “I can never promise you it’ll be easy, Morgana. I can’t promise you that people won’t be suspicious, that it won’t kill you to hide yourself away. You will feel different, and no one will know. There are secrets you will be forced to keep, and they won’t always be your own. But you were born with a gift, and it is something that must be nurtured. And you believe that you can’t hide from Uther—I’ll be your promise that you can hide.”

Morgana stares at him. “You’ll help me?”

“The way I see it,” Merlin says lightly, “You’re one of the only people who would help me if I ever got caught. Do you know how often I’ve had to rescue Arthur?”

She doesn’t smile back, but her face relaxes slightly. She is still pale, reeling from the shock, and Merlin has no idea if he has done the right thing or not. But he remembers Iseldir’s words, and Naimroa’s—he has to trust himself, and he trusts himself with this. 

“Why did you come to Camelot?” she asks, her voice steady. “If Uther is—”

“I came because I was intrigued,” Merlin answers. “I stayed for Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Morgana murmurs, and shakes her head, as if to rid herself of whatever thoughts she was thinking. “You’ve been helping him, then. With your magic. And now you’ll help me to learn how to control it?”

“I promise,” Merlin says. 

Morgana embraces him, long and hard, and doesn’t let go for a long time.

Chapter Text

“What are you writing?” 

Merlin almost falls off his bed, only to see Arthur staring at him with a faint smirk on his face. He isn’t wearing his armour, for once, but a white tunic that is cut low enough to show his chest, and Merlin has to force his eyes to meet Arthur’s.

“None of your business,” he says brusquely. “What’re you doing here, Arthur? I thought you didn’t need me until dinner—”

“I don’t,” Arthur says, “but my father received word from Bayard. They will be here in two days, and I thought—well, I think I’ll fancy a hunt tomorrow, before they arrive.”

“Fine,” Merlin says, frowning. “I’ll make sure the horses are prepared. What knights are coming along? Because I’m—”

“No knights. Just us.”

Arthur’s head is tilted slightly, and Merlin only now notices how tightly he is gripping Merlin’s door. 

“Right,” Merlin says, his mouth a bit dry. “But you always complain about my company on hunts, and the other knights are always vying for your favour—”

“Have you ever considered, Merlin,” Arthur says, a little terse, “that I don’t actually mind your company, and that I might prefer you to a dozen knights trying to ride next to me so they can try and butter me up with a thousand compliments and a promise that the first blood of the hunt will be mine, regardless of whether I’m actually a capable enough hunter that I don’t need their promises?”

Merlin frowns. He has never gone on hunts, but he does know the annoyances of people contending for his friendship. He always thought Arthur was closer to his knights, though, even if he couldn’t call any of them his friends.

“Well, I’m not killing a deer,” Merlin says. “So you have no competition from me.”

“I never thought I would,” Arthur says. “The only reason you’re not as abominable with the bow as you are with the sword is that it’s impossible to cut yourself on a bow, and yet I wouldn’t be surprised if you actually managed.”

“I’ve a great many talents you know nothing of,” Merlin says.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Arthur tells him, and wavers in the entrance. “So. You’ll come with me tomorrow?”

Merlin shifts on his bed. “Yes, of course. I didn’t think it was a question.”

“Well, it was,” Arthur says, a little waspishly, and Merlin wonders what he did wrong. It’s not as if Arthur normally asks. “I’m not ordering you on this, Merlin, if you’ve no desire to come—”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, exasperated. “It’s fine. It’ll be nice to be out of the citadel for a bit, before King Bayard comes. I don’t mind.”

“Right,” Arthur says, and nods to himself. “Alright. Tomorrow at first light, then. And—no, actually, I really do want to know. Who are you writing, Merlin, and why are you trying to hide the letter from me? Do you have a secret sweetheart I ought to know about?”

Arthur looks oddly pensive at that, and Merlin snorts. “God, no. It’s my parents, Arthur. I write to them every few weeks, just to let them know how I’m doing.”

“You’ve not told me a lot about your family,” Arthur says. “It must be—hard. To see them so little.”

Merlin swallows. “It can be,” he admits. “I try not to think about it so much.”

It’s silent, for a few heavy moments. Merlin writes letters full of lies for his parents, and it makes him feel even more distant than he did before he came to Camelot. His mother has no idea what her son is doing, and his father… Balinor would be livid. 

He feels so torn, all of the time.

“You should tell me about them tomorrow,” Arthur decides, and Merlin tries not to startle too badly. “Tell me of life in Ealdor, and your parents. I would love to hear.”

“Alright,” Merlin says quietly. It will only amount to more lying, but that is the situation he is in. 

Arthur smiles—sincerely and briefly, and disappears.

~*~

Morgana comes to find him just as he is readying the horses. He spares a thought for Deore, who is still in the stables of Dracaneard, but Elly is just as kind a horse, if more than a little slower. Llamrei is as stubborn as always, of course, but plied easily with an apple from Merlin’s hand.

Horse and owner can be so alike, Merlin thinks to himself, but he’ll never tell Arthur.

“Merlin,” Morgana says, and Merlin whirls around. She is smiling, a little crooked.

“Good morning, my lady,” Merlin says. “Can I help you?”

“No, no, sorry, I just wanted to tell you,” she says, and fumbles a bit. “No dreams last night. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

It’s not really a sign of anything, but Morgana seems so relieved that Merlin can’t help but nod. “I’m glad,” he offers. “So you had a good night’s sleep, then?”

“For the first time in weeks,” she says, and squeezes his arm. “I’m so relieved, Merlin, so glad to have someone to confide in. I might have gone mad, by myself—”

“I understand,” Merlin says wryly. “I don’t think it’s wise to start your training when Bayard is here, but I promise, we’ll begin right after. And it’ll give me some time to think about where to start. You’re a Seer, and that’s never been my strongest suit—it’ll take me—”

“You’ve had visions?” she asks, her voice suddenly a whisper.

Merlin shrugs. “Still do,” he admits. “Not as often as you, though, so it was easier to contain. Also because I already practised other arts, so I could rely on—”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, suddenly appearing between the two of them. His hair hasn’t been combed quite right, a few strands standing upright. Combined with the commanding look he aims at Morgana, it’s a little ridiculous, and Merlin snickers.

“Arthur,” Morgana says pleasantly. “I just came to wish you a good trip.”

Arthur glares. “And yet I found you bothering my poor manservant.”

“Oh, Merlin adores me,” Morgana says offhandedly. “If anyone’s bothering him, it’s you. If Merlin were a girl, I’d have him be my handmaid so he wouldn’t be continuously annoyed by you.”

“But he’s not a girl,” Arthur says.

“I’m really not,” Merlin reiterates, and sort of glares at Morgana. It’s hard to maintain it when she smirks knowingly at him. 

“Go back inside, Morgana,” Arthur says, and pushes himself in between them to take Llamrei’s reins from Merlin. It has the unfortunate consequence of Merlin being pressed against him, for a moment, and feeling Arthur’s fingers brush over his own.

It’s really quite ridiculous how beautiful Arthur is, Merlin thinks mournfully to himself. The Once and Future King couldn’t have been a kind man with the face of a troll, could he?

“I’ll see you later, Merlin,” Morgana throws over her back as she leaves.

“He won’t!” Arthur yells after her, and Merlin blinks.

“It really depends on your definition of later,” he offers, when Arthur turns back and glares at him. “I will see her, although not today, probably, unless you want to come back really early—”

“I don’t,” Arthur says, and his glare turns into a frown, which isn’t much better. “Do you?”

“I didn’t know I had a say in the matter,” Merlin says.

“That’s right, Merlin,” Arthur says, and pats his back. “You don’t, actually. Now, no more loitering. Are you ready?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, and Merlin smiles wryly at his back. “Always,” he murmurs.

~*~

They make camp when the sun has already set and when Merlin has been complaining about his backside for at least three hours. Arthur never rides his men this hard during a trip, and Merlin doesn’t see why he should suffer for the lack of knights.

Arthur doesn’t respond to Merlin’s wispish complaints, and just smirks at him.

The camp comes as a relief, for that reason. Merlin feels stiff and uncomfortable all over, and doesn’t relish the thought of riding back to Camelot tomorrow. It won’t take them long to return, but it’ll be a pain to even get back onto Elly, sweet though she may be.

“Make the fire,” Arthur says abruptly. “I’ll pitch a small tent.”

“Such luxury,” Merlin drawls. They normally don’t take the tents, and Merlin hasn’t figured out yet if it’s because Arthur prefers to sleep outside or if he thinks it unfair to his men. It might be a bit of both, but he’s never had the courage to ask.

Arthur just looks at him pointedly and Merlin makes a show of gathering wood and creating the fire. He whispers, “Brennan,” and the fire starts licking the wood a little too eagerly for kindling this damp. It’s not as if Arthur will check, Merlin decides, and leaves the fire as it is.

“You never got around to telling me of your parents,” Arthur points out, on his knees in the ground as he sets up the tent. Merlin takes the rabbits Arthur captured, and starts to skin them carefully—a skill he only learnt under Arthur’s tutelage. He remembers Arthur’s careful explanations during those first few hunts and the laughter of Arthur’s knights as Merlin fumbled.

Never Arthur, though. Arthur never laughed at him for that.

“There’s not much I can tell you,” Merlin says, and at least it’s not actually a lie, although for other reasons than he is implying. “My father met my mum when he was travelling. Fell in love instantly, he says, and never stopped to look back. They were married within the year and had me.”

“No siblings?” Arthur asks.

“No,” Merlin says, and falls silent. He’s always wondered why that is—he’s heard the whispers of his birth, the prophetic storm and the gold in his eyes, and he wonders if the prophesied Emrys couldn’t have had a brother or sister to share his burdens with. He has Freya, but it’s not the same.

He wonders if his father would have wanted another child. A son who follows the Old Religion more ardently, and who would not hesitate at the thought of raising his hand against the king who killed so many of their people. A man who wouldn’t turn away from the High Priestesses and would wordlessly accept the conflation of magic and religion, and would be ready to act on it. A more ruthless prince.

Perhaps he and Arthur aren’t so different, after all.

“I always wanted a brother,” Arthur says. “I grew up with Morgana, and believe me, she had no problems picking up a sword, but it would have been different. I always wanted a little brother to follow me around and play knights.”

“I can’t imagine Morgana would have followed you around,” Merlin teases. “She probably wanted to be queen, and she’d behead anyone who would dare to go against her.”

“Oh, she wanted to be king,” Arthur says darkly, and then frowns, looking towards Merlin. “You’ve grown rather close to her lately, haven’t you? The way she was talking to you this morning—”

“I’ve spent a couple of nights in her chambers,” Merlin says, and his cheeks go warm as he hears his own words. “I mean, with the nightmares—I’ve sat up with her, is all, while Gaius was brewing some potions. She’s a kind person. A little terrifying, but kind. I wouldn’t say we’re close.”

“So you’re friends?” Arthur says, and sits down on the ground as he finishes with the tent. 

“I didn’t think I was allowed to be friends with nobility,” Merlin says, and shrugs minutely, aware of the half-skinned rabbit in his hands. “We’ve talked a bit. She was up early and wanted to thank me for talking to her after she had some of her nightmares. I’m just glad to help, Arthur, truly. I would do the same for you.”

Arthur still frowns, and Merlin wonders what he said wrong. He likes to think he has learnt to read Arthur well, but now he can’t quite make out what Arthur is thinking.

“You’re not in love with her?”

The knife slips. “Ow,” Merlin says petulantly, and raises his hand. The cut in his thumb isn’t too deep, but he is still bleeding over the rabbit, and his injury could easily get infected. Mostly, it’s in an annoying spot, and it hurts.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and takes his hand. 

“What are you even asking that for?” Merlin hisses, even as Arthur turns his hand to assess the damage. “Give that—which one of us is the physician’s apprentice here, Arthur? Grab me my bag, I might have some salves left—”

Arthur grabs Merlin’s bag, rummaging through it. “No salves,” Arthur says. “A couple of herbs, though—”

“I need pennywort,” Merlin murmurs, and unties his neckerchief clumsily with one hand. “Burdock, if we have it. Chamomile, maybe, but I think—”

“Do any of these work?” Arthur says, and holds up several herbs.

Merlin sighs. “The left one—no, your left, not mine. You’ll have to crush it, actually, ground it into a paste. You can use some water, but make sure it’s not too liquid-y—oh, did you bring wine? Or ale?”

“It’s not really the time for drinking, Merlin,” Arthur snaps.

“I need you to pour some on my cut,” Merlin says. “I was cutting a rabbit with that knife, and my wound will get infected if we don’t get some wine or ale in the injury. Do you want me to lose my hand, Arthur? All because you had these ridiculous thoughts that I would fancy Morgana? Morgana, of all people?”

“It’s not that ridiculous,” Arthur says, but he’s dutifully grounding the burdock and adding only a tiny bit of water to the cup. “She’s a beautiful woman, and she is very capable and kind.”

“Now it sounds like you want me to be in love with her,” Merlin mutters.

“No,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth, “I’m saying I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.”

“What does it matter?” Merlin demands, throwing his good hand up in the air. “Aren’t you constantly reminding me that I’m a lowborn peasant, and no one destined for great things or born for a purpose? Aren’t you convinced that I’m just a lowly servant? What does it matter, even if I were in love with someone in the royal household? It would never come to anything, would it? Are you telling me I wouldn’t be wasting my time?”

Arthur stares at him for a long moment, and Merlin lets his hand fall, covering his slow-bleeding injury again. Arthur clears his throat, and slowly stirs the ground herb again.

“There’s something about you,” Arthur says. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not—you’re not like that. You’ve never been like that, really. A lowly servant.”

“Believe it or not, Arthur,” Merlin says, ignoring the bile in his throat. “I actually am your servant. It doesn’t matter where someone has been born, sometimes. Your destiny may be to be a great king, but it—in the end, it doesn’t matter. Anyone could be a great man, regardless of destiny, or prophecy, or—it shouldn’t matter.”

“I agree,” Arthur says, and frowns. “But it does, most of the time. And you’re just—when we met, and you were so candid to me, so rude, and you still are so honest. I didn’t know that I needed you to be until you became my friend, and you just don’t seem to care about royalty, and nobles, and knights. Sometimes it’s like you don’t even notice.”

“I’m not used to treating anyone differently for the way they were born,” Merlin says.

“You’re not hearing what I’m saying,” Arthur insists.

“Then say it clearly before I bleed out and die in the forest, you utter clotpole.”

“When you came back,” Arthur says, and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “When you came back, a year ago, and we found you in the forest, wandering all by yourself—I was so convinced I’d lost you, that you left for home for good. But you came back. What was that for?”

“That isn’t telling me anything,” Merlin says.

“You came back for me, didn’t you?” Arthur’s gaze is heavy with intent, and he only takes the cup with the ground herbs off the fire before he leans in closer to Merlin. “I’ve been wondering why you did, and I thought—you mentioned your father only once, and I thought—but you love your parents, and you miss your home, and you still stay here with me.”

For prophecy , Merlin wants to tell him, but even saying so would still be a lie. Slowly, feeling awfully heavy in his skin, he nods.

“Arthur—”

Arthur doesn’t kiss him, like Merlin thought he might. Instead, Arthur folds his arms around Merlin and presses him close, careful of Merlin’s bleeding hand. He smells like the forest and like sweat, and Merlin leans against Arthur’s broad chest.

“I would have you by my side,” Arthur murmurs, his breath hot against Merlin’s ears. “In any way that I could have you. But I cannot give up my duty to Camelot for you, Merlin. If we don’t make peace, so many people will die, and so—I will have to marry Bayard’s daughter, if it comes to that. But I needed to know.”

“It won’t help,” Merlin whispers, and closes his eyes. “And there’s—too much between us, Arthur, too much that I can’t—”

“Not so much, right now,” Arthur points out. “If it weren’t for the marriage—”

“I still couldn’t,” Merlin tells him, and hopes that he won’t have to explain why. It was easier when he didn’t know of Arthur’s feelings, when he had been in the dark. “It’s not—you’re meant for greater things. And there are things—that you don’t know, yet. Things I haven’t told you.”

Arthur’s hum reverberates against Merlin’s cheek. “Tell me, then.”

“One day,” Merlin says. “I’ll tell you one day. When you won’t feel this way.”

“I’ve never felt this way. I’m not sure it’s something I can stop, Merlin.”

Merlin slumps. “I can resign.”

“Don’t you dare,” Arthur says. “When I’m married, I’ll need your friendship and support more than ever. If you’re leaving me—”

“I’d never leave you,” Merlin says truthfully. “Well, it’s Beltane again in a couple of weeks. I’ll need to go home for that, honestly, but then I’ll be back.”

Arthur swallows. “I could come with you. I could meet your parents, and I’d—”

“By the gods, no,” Merlin says in horror. Suddenly, he imagines the Beltane in Dracaneard with Arthur Pendragon attending, and the bloodshed that would follow. “My parents might actually kill you if you stepped a foot in our home, Arthur, that’s not even a joke—”

“Are they that upset that I stole away their son?” Arthur murmurs, and rests his lips on Merlin’s hair.

“Besides, you’re needed at Beltane in Camelot,” Merlin says firmly. “It’s a feast of beginnings, and if you have a new bride—”

“Please, Merlin,” Arthur interrupts him. “One Beltane, I want you in Camelot. Just—I’ve never seen you participate in any feast. I’ve wanted to watch you, but you’re always so reserved for someone who cares so little about propriety, and you never get drunk on ale or wine. Beltane is a feast for beginnings, and perhaps one time, we could slip away—”

There are a lot of things Beltane is known for. Merlin vaguely remembers the hands on him last year, the murmurs in his ear, and it’s not something Merlin has ever paid much attention to. He has seen the couples sleeping in the grass the morning after, half-naked, and men and women with their limbs tangled together. He has never truly thought too deeply about joining such activities on Beltane, knowing that it has very little to do with the heart. He wants to, now, though, with Arthur whispering promises in his ear.

But Merlin knows what Arthur doesn’t, and he has never wanted to tell him more.

“No, Arthur,” Merlin says, and pushes him away. There is blood on Arthur’s tunic from Merlin’s injury, and he turns away so he can apply the crushed herbs that have long since cooled. “You’ll be a married man, and you won’t do that. You’re a knight, and a prince, and you won’t spare a second thought for me once I’m gone, and that’ll be that.”

“You said I need to follow my heart,” Arthur says accusingly.

Merlin’s heart throbs painfully, and he can’t look at Arthur. “We can’t always do that. That’s what you told me.”

“Let me take care of that cut for you.”

Arthur’s touch is achingly soft, as he turns Merlin’s palm upwards. Gently, Arthur takes Merlin’s neckerchief from where it lies on the ground, abandoned, and spreads it out over his knee. Then he takes the half-paste and smears it out over the cut. Merlin bites his lip so he won’t hiss, but it’s a near thing anyway.

“It’s not that deep,” he says, when Arthur ties the neckerchief around his hand. “I doubt it’ll turn into a battle scar.”

“Good,” Arthur says tightly, and runs a finger over the neckerchief to Merlin’s wrist.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, half in protest and half in something else. His heart is high in his throat, his nerves tense with both Arthur’s admission to his feelings and the concern about being caught, about being found out and losing Arthur’s trust, about this lie that he keeps having to tell—

“This is harmless,” Arthur says, and runs his finger up to the crook of Merlin’s elbow. “I’m not a married man, and you’re not an innocent maiden. Tonight can be—”

“Nothing,” Merlin says. “I just told you. Tonight can’t be anything.”

Arthur hums. “I didn’t know you were in the habit of keeping secrets from me, Merlin.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Merlin tells him, and takes Arthur’s hand. “But there’s no mystery in giving it all up now, is there? Come on, Arthur. I can’t do this with you for one night—that’s not for me, and that’s not you either. You can finish dinner, and I’ll make some more of that salve for myself for the ride back tomorrow.”

The leaves rustle around them, as if in answer. Arthur shifts on the ground, grabbing the half-skinned rabbits. Merlin can read his face, though—the hesitation, the reeling loss. It’s nothing he doesn’t feel himself.

Lonely prince, he remembers, and feels his heart break a little bit for Arthur, who has never been able to come out and say what he means to say to anyone—and who has done that for Merlin, today.

“We can,” Arthur starts, and his eyes flit towards the tent as he stumbles over his words. “You can—we can share the tent. Not for—just for sleeping. I would just like to share it to sleep beside you.”

“Yes,” Merlin breathes, and swallows. “Arthur, you know—you’ve got to know, that this is—I’m sorry. I would do a great many things for you, more than you could possibly know. And if the situation were any different—I’d be honoured. I am honoured. But I can’t do this.”

“I understand,” Arthur says, although Merlin knows that he doesn’t. But this is Arthur slipping back in the mask, and that is where he needs to be if they are to come through this unscathed, with their friendship intact. That is all Merlin can ask for.

So he doesn’t say anything, and if they sleep shoulder-to-shoulder, that night, no one but them will ever know.

~*~

Bayard comes, and he brings with him Princess Astrid, who wouldn’t necessarily be beautiful if not for the expensive dresses and intricate hairstyles. Her shockingly dark eyes are the prettiest thing about her, but Merlin doesn’t know if it’s jealousy that makes him think that.

Arthur is chivalrous as always, of course, and kisses her hand upon meeting her. Merlin burns at the sight of it.

He isn’t involved with a lot of events that occur when Bayard is there. Merlin isn’t required to serve wine during dinner, and he isn’t sure if that’s because Uther wants more respectable and older servants there, or if Arthur made sure Merlin doesn’t need to witness him wooing Astrid.

Merlin isn’t sure it works, anyway, and mostly feels alone. Gaius is required at these dinners, so Merlin sits by himself, because of course Gwen can still serve Morgana, and he doesn’t have many other friends. He misses Freya and Will with a shocking intensity, and the idea of the upcoming Beltane suddenly comes with relief instead of dread.

Of course he is still Arthur’s manservant, and is required to look at Arthur’s personal needs when they are not being attended by anyone else. Which, unfortunately, means serving wine personally to Arthur and Astrid, four days after Astrid’s arrival and three days before Merlin is set to leave for Dracaneard again.

“The quality of wine is excellent,” Astrid remarks. Her hair is long and blond, and rather plain in comparison to her dresses—Merlin sourly thinks to himself that she and Arthur would have very fair-haired children, tiny little blond Pendragons to inherit Albion.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, as if he personally has anything to do with it. He has not looked at Merlin once since summoning him, and Merlin feels close to strangling him. The cut on his thumb aches as he grips the wine jug too tightly, and he bites his lower lip. Arthur continues, “I think it comes from the more southern regions—we import it from other kingdoms. I’ve been told that Camelot lies too far north for growing grapes.”

“Mercia has similar issues,” Astrid says, twirling the wine. “My mother has always been something of a wine connoisseur, and I’m afraid I’ve taken up the hobby. My father has wines imported from all kingdoms, as Mercia can’t make its own. She often jokes she should have married a southern lord, or perhaps King Balinor.”

Arthur tenses imperceptibly. Merlin shifts to his side and fills up his goblet, and shuffles back to the shadows. 

“Is that the true purpose for your father’s alliance with Dracaneard, then?” Arthur asks more leisurely than he really should have. “The wine? They aren’t any further south than Camelot is—I doubt they are much more capable of growing grapes.”

“The sorcerers have their ways,” Astrid says, her lips tilting as she regards Arthur coolly. “They can turn summer into winter and winter into summer. You’ll forgive my casual mention of magic, my lord—I spent a week with Queen Hunith last summer, and I’ve seen many uses of magic during my stay. If I would have had my way, my father would never have come all this way to Camelot.”

Merlin shifts uncomfortably, both at the mention of his mother and the honest bite of Astrid’s words. He is glad she has learnt to accept magic—but Arthur won’t be so easily convinced. Perhaps she would be a good ally if Arthur is to unite Albion and bring back magic, then; she won’t abide by Uther’s laws.

“You would have preferred Prince Emrys, then,” Arthur says.

Astrid laughs. “Emrys? I’ve heard many things said about him, but I haven’t met him. It seems that he was last in Dracaneard for Beltane, and not since.”

Arthur frowns. “What for? A prince’s place is by his king’s side, naturally.”

“Not Emrys,” Astrid says. “His people clearly love him dearly, and they say he is destined for great things. Things outside of Dracaneard, apparently, but I’ve not heard much about it except for that.”

“We’ve not received word about Emrys since his birth,” Arthur says, sipping his wine. “My father is concerned that will destroy the kingdoms with his magic, when he assumes the throne. Dracaneard is a kingdom of refugees—retaliation might come.”

Princess Astrid is too noble to shrug, but she does raise an eyebrow minutely. “I sincerely doubt that, my lord. Emrys might be shrouded in mystery, but I’ve spent several days in the company of Balinor’s ward, and she seems to be a close friend of his. She told me that he is the kindest person she knows—a prince burdened by his own powers, and unwilling to use it except in defence of those he loves.”

Oh, Freya. Merlin wants to bury his face in his hands, but he’s forced to stand there and listen to the gossip. He is just glad that he doesn’t take too clearly after either his father or mother—Astrid might be in favour of an alliance with Dracaneard, but she could give him away by accident if she recognised him.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin steps forward, trying to stop himself from trembling. “More wine for the princess, please.”

“Yes, m’lord,” he mutters, and pours more wine in her goblet. 

“I would see peace between the kingdoms,” Astrid says. “Picking a fight with Dracaneard will not solve anything, Prince Arthur. I hope your father will come to realise this.”

“He will never trust magic,” Arthur says plainly.

“And you will?”

A moment of silence. Merlin focuses intently on his jug. It’s almost empty—maybe he can pretend to run down to the kitchen for more wine, or perhaps—

“I have not seen magic do any of the things you describe, Princess,” Arthur says quietly. “I have seen it try to murder and maim. I think it’s dangerous that any man can have this power, regardless of intention and control. I think it’s my responsibility to guard Camelot from any evil influences, and I think that I can’t control magic.”

“Which is why an alliance with Dracaneard would be a blessing,” Astrid says. “But men prefer to think with their swords, and do not trust in that which they do not understand. Please excuse me, Prince Arthur. I think I will retire for the night.”

“Of course,” Arthur mutters, and gracefully helps her up. Astrid disappears, and Merlin still holds onto the cold jug. If he sets it down, he thinks his hands will start trembling.

Arthur watches him, when he has closed the door. Merlin inhales deeply, and clutches at his jug as if it’s his lifeline. 

“She’s nice,” Merlin blurts out, when Arthur opens his mouth. “I mean, she’s a little outspoken, but so is Morgana, and that’s not a bad thing. You should marry someone who tells you what they think, I mean. Someone who isn’t too blinded by you or other people to give you their opinion. She’ll be good for you.”

“If she talks like that in front of my father, I’ll be a widower after two days,” Arthur says bluntly, and pinches his nose. “I’ve got you to tell me the truth, Merlin. I don’t need a wife.”

“I might not be here forever,” Merlin says.

For so long, he has not considered the long-term consequences of what he is doing here, but he can’t help but think about it now. Revealing to Arthur his magic, and his status, and answering the relentless questions—but Arthur is not a patient man. He will see it as a betrayal. And he’ll never trust Merlin again.

Merlin wonders if this is destiny, too, and feels weighed down by the thought of it.

“You’re not allowed to leave,” Arthur snaps, but the anger seems to leave him immediately. He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not—Merlin, you’re not thinking about leaving, are you? Not over this.”

“My place is by your side,” Merlin says, and sags down on a chair. “But this is—it’s complicated, Arthur.”

“Princes often take consorts,” Arthur says, a hopeful edge to his voice. “It can’t be for a while, but it’s—”

“Absolutely not,” Merlin says.

Arthur’s face smoothes out, and Merlin hates to see it—Arthur closing himself off, refusing to give up anything he doesn’t want Merlin to know. “Fine. You can have it your way, Merlin, since you so clearly refuse to consider anything else. I won’t need your services tonight. In fact, you have leave to go back to Ealdor a few days early.”

“Don’t act like an arse,” Merlin bites. “You think I’m enjoying this?

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Arthur says. “I’m trying to give us some hope for the future—”

“There isn’t any,” Merlin tells him, and hates the certainty in his own voice. 

“I can’t accept that.”

Arthur stares at him, his palms spread on the table as he leans forward. His shirt is unlaced enough for Merlin to be able to stare at Arthur’s chest, and with only two steps, he could touch him, and he could have him—

But Arthur was right, all those times he told Merlin that princes can’t do whatever they like. He was right, when he said that love does not guide a prince’s choices, except when it is love for their people. And Arthur doesn’t know the whole truth—how can Merlin keep his secret if he were to share Arthur’s bed? It would mean leaving.

None of this is anything he can explain to Arthur, so Merlin swallows and looks down.

“You’ll have to,” he says. “Arthur, you are—”

There is a lake, and Arthur’s crown shines golden in the sunlight. Age has etched his face, but Merlin will always love him, loves him beyond age and beauty, and Arthur takes his hand as he steps into the water.

Merlin’s feet are cold, and the magic shines brightly. He speaks, but the words are garbled and inexplicable—the lake answers him, as does Arthur, as the waves move away from them, and Merlin thinks he might drown, but it doesn’t feel oppressive or unnatural—

“Merlin!”

Merlin gasps. The tiles of Arthur’s room are cold, and his shoulder hurts from falling down on it. His eyes are tightly shut, lest Arthur sees the gold seep into his irises, but he can hear Arthur’s frantic voice, calling for him, and he can’t respond in time as he loses himself to the vision.

Arthur walks into the water, and the lake glitters silver and gold, and Merlin dives—

~*~

Gaius’ disapproving frown is even worse than Alfric’s mother-henning. 

“He didn’t see, did he?” Merlin asks, and rubs his aching shoulder. His cot is even more uncomfortable with the bruising, but Gaius hands over a foul-smelling bottle. Fortunately, Merlin doesn’t have to drink it, and he spreads it carefully over his bare skin.

“Your eyes were pressed close for the entire vision,” Gaius says. “However, that does not mean that the prince is not highly suspicious of your health. I told him you fainted because of a lack of sleep the past few nights, and general anxiety. You are not to work until you leave for Beltane, under Arthur’s orders.”

“Great,” Merlin murmurs, and cleans his hand on his pants. “Now Arthur thinks I’m an overworked anxious mess of a manservant.”

“You are,” Gaius points out. “When you’re in Camelot, at least.”

Merlin is anxious, although not for the reasons Gaius is thinking of. The revelations of Arthur’s feelings cause him to feel a constant mix of joy and guilt, and it’s hard to stop thinking of it when he sees Arthur every day. The lies are exhausting, and Merlin doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

He doesn’t want to keep it up, at any rate. Perhaps it’s a good thing that Beltane is so close—in Dracaneard, he won’t have to hide so much.

“Did he say anything else?” Merlin asks wearily, grabbing his tunic. 

Gaius shakes his head. “He seemed concerned for you, mostly. Merlin, perhaps you should leave for Beltane sooner rather than later. I’m sure your parents must miss you, and Arthur might benefit from some—distance.”

His words are so careful that Merlin winces. “That obvious?”

“You’ve been under my roof for a year and a half now, Merlin,” Gaius murmurs, and lays a hand on top of Merlin’s head. “Your mother is my younger sister, and you have her heart. You are more like her than you know. And I’ve seen Arthur grow up into the fine young man he is now—if any two men could be like sons to me, it is you two.”

“Gaius,” Merlin says, and stands up to embrace him. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not sure what you can do, Merlin,” Gaius says. “Perhaps it is best to let matters of the heart lie, for a time, when you return to Dracaneard.”

Merlin lets his head rest against Gaius’ shoulder and exhales. It is sound advice, and Merlin would love to be able to take it. To stop thinking of Arthur and his impending marriage, and be glad that a sensible woman like Astrid, who has shown her support of magic, will be by Arthur’s side for when he becomes king. 

It’s not nearly that easy.

“I’ll leave for Dracaneard in two days,” he says, his words muffled by Gaius’ tunic. 

Perhaps it’ll be exactly what he needs.

~*~

“ Fȳr.”

“Focus a bit more on the image of it,” Merlin says, and repositions the candle in front of Morgana. “It’s a bit hard to explain, but if you just—imagine it being on fire, and you sort of see it, then it’ll come to you. And then with practice, you’ll hardly even have to imagine it.”

Morgana blows her hair out of the way. “I thought I was born with this gift. Why does it not come to me more easily?”

“You have the power,” Merlin says. “But not the accuracy. Uther wants everyone to believe that magic is learnt, and he’s wrong—but that doesn’t mean learning is not involved. Not everyone with the potential to learn magic chooses to learn it, and some people who barely show any affiliation for it learn to be rather skilled sorcerers despite a lack of natural tendency. Of course, not everyone can, but there’s really a lot of learning involved.”

“When did you learn?” Morgana asks. “You’re from Essetir, aren’t you? Magic is hardly legal under King Cenred.”

“Magic manifested in me very early,” Merlin explains. “I had to learn. And my father’s from Dracaneard.”

It’s not technically a lie, and Morgana brightens at the piece of new information. “Why did he leave?”

“So many questions,” Merlin says, but offers her a tiny smile. “If only you showed such focus when practising your spells, my lady. Try to practise when I’m away, but make sure you lock the door before you do. I’ve got the benefit of people having to go through Gaius when they enter, but still—it’s been a near thing, sometimes. Arthur just barges in.”

“It’s what he does,” Morgana says, waving it away. “Don’t think I’m not noticing the misdirection, Merlin, but I’ll let it slide for now. Besides, Arthur mentioned that you fainted last night. Are you sure you should be leaving if you’re feeling ill? I know Beltane is hardly the time for recovering, but the journey—”

“I’m not ill.” Merlin meets Morgana’s eyes and murmurs, “ Fȳr,” and the candle flickers to life. Morgana frowns at him, and with a wordless incantation, Merlin kills the flame. He doesn’t need the words, necessarily, but it’s sometimes easier to guide the magic that way. And Morgana should learn to do it this way, before she learns anything else.

“Tell me,” Morgana says, and takes Merlin’s hand.

Merlin breathes out deeply. “I’ve been having visions,” he says. “They started a year ago, right after Beltane. I’ve been—trying to be better at controlling them, but they feel more like you said yours feel. They didn’t use to be that way—I’ve never been a good Seer, I’ve told you that. I don’t know why they’re starting to push through.”

“They demand to be seen.” 

Merlin shrugs. “I suppose. I haven’t had many while back in Camelot, but yesterday I slipped. Arthur didn’t realise that it was a vision, but it never should’ve happened.”

“What did you see?” Morgana asks eagerly.

“Arthur,” Merlin says. “I always see Arthur.”

Morgana pinches his hand for a moment, her expression sympathetic. Then she hugs Merlin over the slightly-smoking candle, and Merlin presses his nose in her dark hair. It would have been easier if he loved her, maybe, like Arthur once thought. She understands better than Arthur ever might, even if he could learn to accept who Merlin is.

That is, unfortunately, not how his heart works. 

“I don’t think he’ll marry her,” Morgana offers. “It’s Arthur. Uther might threaten with it, but Arthur’s marriage is too important to throw away on Bayard, no matter if Uther fears he’ll lose his loyalty. There are more important allies that need to be secured.”

“Not because Arthur is his son, and deserves to marry for love?” Merlin jokes, but it rings hollow even as he says it.

Morgana’s hug tightens, and she doesn’t say anything. That is enough of an answer, as these things go.

Chapter Text

Lancelot meets him half a day before the border of Dracaneard, right outside the defensive magical barrier his father and one of their court sorcerers maintain for their safety. It’s only there to keep out anyone who doesn’t mean well, and Merlin always feels a bit off whenever they travel through it, like the magic is reaching out to him. Last time, he’d ridden out on Ekaitza; this time, he rides in with a horse from Camelot.

Merlin had left Camelot in a hurry, taking his meagre belongings and borrowing one of Arthur’s mares. She’s a little old but she is steady, and Merlin names her Apple, because she can’t seem to get enough of the treat, and he doesn’t know her actual name. 

He’d spoken to Arthur only once, and had watched him smile at Astrid six separate times. Merlin’s heart aches and the prophecy weighs heavily on his shoulder, and he’d fled Camelot as soon as he could. Arthur hadn’t watched him go, or if he had, Merlin wasn’t aware.

He likes to think that Arthur didn’t watch him go, if only because it’ll make it easier to be angry with him instead of miserable.

“I thought I might catch you on your way back,” Lancelot says, and Merlin is far too relieved to have a friend who knows him to tease Lance about the length of his hair.

They ride back together, and Merlin tells him about Gwen. Lancelot smiles at the mention of her in Merlin’s stories and he feels like a horrible friend, because the melancholic edge to Lancelot’s expression distracts him from his own sense of loss at the thought of Arthur and his bride-to-be.

But Lancelot doesn’t tell him to stop, so there might be some consolation in love beyond reach, Merlin thinks. If only he knew how to find it.

~*~

The greeting is more official, this time. Hunith and Balinor stand at the steps to their castle, and Hunith runs forward to capture him in her arms. Merlin breathes in his mother’s familiar smell and nods at his father over her shoulder. Balinor eyes him seriously. The grey in his beard is splotchy, and there’s more of it than there used to be.

“There’s much we need to tell you,” Hunith says, taking Merlin’s face in between her hands.

“Right,” Merlin says, and smiles wryly. “It’s Beltane in two days. Do you want to do it before or afterwards?”

“I think we ought to discuss it before then,” Balinor says. 

Beltane is a feast that is celebrated in all of Albion, but no one takes it more seriously than the people of Dracaneard. It is a feast of magic, after all, even if no one else treats it like that anymore. Merlin has rarely heard his father so serious mere days before Beltane.

“Right,” he says, and blinks. “What’s wrong? What do we need to talk about?”

“Come inside, Emrys,” Balinor says, and Hunith disentangles herself from Merlin with a regretful expression on her face. It is that, more than anything, that makes Merlin frown. He doesn’t have time to comment before Balinor turns on his heels.

To his surprise, Balinor doesn’t go towards the throne room, where serious matters would normally be discussed. Instead, they move straight towards the royals’ wing, past Merlin’s own chambers and into his parents’. He hasn’t been here in a long time, even before he left Dracanaerd on a semi-permanent basis, but stepping through the door is like stepping back in time. The desk at which Merlin learnt to read sits against the window, the light falling over several unanswered letters and half-written speeches. Hunith closes the door behind them, but it is Balinor who takes several of the letters.

“You’ve been gone from Dracaneard for nearly two years,” Balinor says suddenly. “It’s time in which you have grown from a boy into a man. The kingdoms know that you are not a child anymore, Emrys, and that you are my heir. And there are those who want alliances that are more than paper.”

Merlin feels as if he’s rooted to the spot. “Marriage,” he says. The irony of leaving Arthur with a prospective wedding only to tumble into his own isn’t lost on him, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. “You can’t mean to force me to marry anyone. I’m not—”

“Oh, Merlin,” Hunith says, and takes his hands. “We wouldn’t dare to ask you to bind yourself to someone you don’t like.”

“King Bayard wanted a treaty with us,” Balinor says. “He and his daughter spent some time here last year. Bayard is torn between old loyalty to Uther Pendragon, however, and the knowledge that our magic is strong, and will only grow stronger. If we were to—”

“No,” Merlin says. “I met Princess Astrid. But no.”

Hunith frowns at him. “Where did you meet her? I thought you were—”

“Princess Elena has also been offered,” Balinor says, and grimaces. “Emrys. I know that this is not what you wanted to think of, but the political situation—”

“I don’t care,” Merlin says. “No. No. You married for love—why can’t I be given the same choice? I don’t want a wife, and I don’t want a wedding, and I don’t want any of the princesses who have been offered who don’t love me, and who I don’t love, and who I will never love. You told me that a kingdom is stronger for marrying someone that you loved. Were you lying?”

“No,” Balinor says, and frowns. “But our situations are very different. And you already like Elena, Emrys. Who is not to say that you will grow to love her?”

“I’m not marrying,” Merlin bites. “Not now. Not ever, if you cared to know. I don’t care what you have been offered for my hand—”

“You are still a prince of Dracaneard,” Balinor starts.

“I love someone else,” Merlin says, and straightens his shoulders. Balinor and Hunith stare at him, varying degrees of surprise in their expressions. It has barely been an hour since Merlin returned to Dracaneard, and the reminders of Arthur are already unbearable.

“Who?” Balinor asks, tersely.

“It doesn’t matter.” Merlin shrugs. “He’s not magical, and he’s not from Dracaneard, and he doesn’t even know who I am. But it’s done. I’m his, in every way that matters, and I don’t expect that it’ll ever be any different. I don’t particularly care, either. But I’ll never marry, not for love or for political gain. You can write back to all the kings and lords you’ve received offers from—it’s not happening. I refuse.”

“The boy you saved,” Hunith says. “Is he—”

“Yes,” Merlin says, and looks away. “If you don’t mind, I want to go and see Freya. I’ve had a long year, and I’ve missed her.”

“Of course,” Hunith says, so agonisingly tender that Merlin wants to run away. Perhaps he simply can’t not talk about Arthur, even if his parents should never know who it is that holds Merlin’s affections. Perhaps he’s so ready to burst that everything will come out if he’s not careful—his lies, his betrayal, the bleakness in his personal life that will come with letting Arthur know the truth.

“Emrys—” Balinor says, but Hunith cuts him off with a sharp look. Merlin manages a meagre smile in her direction, and flees.

~*~

Beltane comes, and it brings a storm.

The wind is strong enough to almost put out their fires several times, but Merlin steps in and enchants them to hold until morning. It’s a use of his magic that comes lightly and hardly drains him, but Merlin knows that Balinor might think it’s too superficial for the Prince of Dracaneard. Merlin doesn’t care. He hasn’t spoken to his father since his return, and he doesn’t particularly want to.

Arthur might be married by now, he reflects, as he watches the rain rage over the bonfire, and finishes his third cup of wine. Around him, everyone dances in the rain, their hands poured above their heads to catch the raindrops. Merlin shivers in his clothes, but he doesn’t want to go back yet. If he sleeps, he will dream of Camelot.

“You shouldn’t be alone for Beltane,” Lancelot says, appearing from nowhere. His hair is drenched, and now that it’s grown out, it leaks into his eyes. Merlin snorts at the sight of him and sweeps Lancelot’s damp curls out of his eyes.

“Neither should you,” Merlin says easily. “You could go to Camelot, you know. They don’t know you’re a knight of Dracaneard. You could sweep Gwen off her feet.”

“I couldn’t,” Lancelot says gravely. “I couldn’t keep the truth from her, if she asked.”

Merlin looks away. “You mean you couldn’t lie for as long as I have.”

“I didn’t—” Lancelot blanches, and grabs Merlin’s arm. “My lord, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s fine,” Merlin says, and gently pats Lance’s arm. His skin is cold with the rain, and once upon a time, Merlin might have used their friendship to come closer. He just feels cold now, though, and Lancelot’s words have cut into him. “I know he won’t forgive me, if I told him. I’m trying to accept that before the time comes that he’ll learn who I am. But Gwen might come with you, if you asked.”

“Have you told her who you are?” Lancelot asks gently.

“No. I can’t—I couldn’t tell her, Lance.”

Lancelot nods slowly. “Then how could I?”

Merlin exhales. “Right. Of course.”

Lancelot is too good for him, he decides. Merlin has fallen in love, and he has lied and deceived his way close to him. Lancelot has decided that he would rather leave his love to find someone else rather than betray his king and his prince, and Merlin’s heart aches for him.

“I’m retiring now,” Lance says, and nudges his shoulder against Merlin. “Beltane isn’t the same in this sort of weather.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Merlin murmurs, and reaches his fingers to touch the droplets dripping down his cheeks. “I think it adds a certain allure to the entire thing. It’s fitting.”

“If you like.” Lancelot smiles. “Don’t stay up too late, Merlin. Find Freya or Will to take you back if you need to. There’s no need to be alone for Beltane.”

Merlin hums noncommittally and watches as Lancelot takes his leave from several other knights before he moves away from the bonfire. It’s still early and the bonfire is still busy, especially with the rain falling and thunder booming in the distance. Merlin is pretty sure that Freya and Will already have other plans for tonight—if he wasn’t completely mistaken, he thinks he saw Freya pull Will along, only an hour after Merlin joined the festivities.

He can’t begrudge them their time together, but he distantly wonders if it’s a new development or if he has simply missed it in his time away. He’ll tease them tomorrow, but for tonight, he is out of friends and out of wine.

He moves before he’s really aware of having moved. There are several faces that he recognises, and they all smile at him as he passes. The wine has loosened their tongues and faces, and some cheerfully raise their cups to him as he passes. He grins in return, but none of them are what he is looking for.

He isn’t entirely sure what he is looking for until he finds him.

Edwin is training to be a court sorcerer, and Merlin trained with him when he was younger. He easily has ten years on Merlin, but he is charming, dry-witted and tall, and exceedingly good with his potions. He is chatting with a man that Merlin doesn’t recognise—but upon Merlin’s arrival, Edwin’s interest in his companion shifts entirely towards his prince.

“My lord,” Edwin says, his eyebrows rising. “It’s always such a joy to see you during Beltane, especially when you’re not surrounded by knights.”

Merlin tilts his head. “I recall that you asked me to return to the bonfire with you, last time,” he says.

Edwin’s lips twitch. “Yes, I did, my lord. And I offered you more wine. Are either of these things something you want to take me up on, this year?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, and barely notices Edwin’s earlier companion disappearing in the crowd. Edwin takes two steps, three steps, and Merlin is forced back if he doesn’t want to fall. Merlin is lanky, but Edwin is taller than he is, and he cups Merlin’s face carefully.

“Do you first want the wine, or the company?” Edwin asks carefully, and there’s something softer to his voice, something gentle, something that Merlin doesn’t want. He wants to stop thinking, and he wants to not be alone on Beltane.

Arthur won’t be alone. Merlin should be able to have this.

“The company,” he says, and Edwin kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

~*~

His head pounds when he wakes up in the morning, and Merlin can hear his own heartbeat oddly loudly, and someone’s bare legs are entangled with his own. He has never fallen asleep with someone else—barring that time he shared a tent with Arthur, which he does not think about—and the sensation is odd. The sunlight falls across the bed, and Merlin turns to blink at it. 

Edwin shifts, and then his lips graze Merlin’s shoulder. He moves up almost carefully, and Merlin shivers against him. Edwin’s skin is warm and his hands ghost over Merlin’s bare back, pulling them closer together. Merlin’s nose is pressed to Edwin’s neck, and the sensation of being touched so kindly is almost enough to drown out his headache and his lingering guilt. Edwin runs down his hand to Merlin’s thigh, and Merlin shifts closer—

The door is thrown open, and Merlin sits up immediately.

“Youcan’tjustbargeinhere,” he blurts out, and he’d have laughed at the look on Balinor’s face if he hadn’t been so mortified by his own state of undress and Edwin’s company. 

“Out,” Balinor says, and he turns to face the other side of Merlin’s chambers. “By the dragons, I’ll give you ten seconds, and then you’ll be out of my son’s room.”

“Yes, my lord,” Edwin says, far calmer than he ought to be in the circumstances, and slips out of Merlin’s bed to get dressed in what must be a record time. Merlin thinks his trousers aren’t on the right way, but he is hardly planning on calling him out for it. He takes the ten seconds to slip into his own pants, but once Edwin is gone Balinor whirls back to face him.

“What,” Balinor says, “in the world—he has twelve years on you! Merlin of Dracaneard, if you tell me that you—”

“Please do not finish that sentence,” Merlin says, and hastily picks his tunic off the ground. “I don’t think it’d be good for either of us.”

Balinor stares at him. Merlin stares back, even as Balinor shakes his head. “That was—what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” Merlin says, a little tersely, “that it was Beltane, and that I could have the privacy of my room to do whatever I liked with whomever I liked. And I’m—did you call me Merlin?”

“It’s your name,” Balinor says, crossing his arms.

“You never call me Merlin.” Merlin frowns at him. “I think you’ve been calling me Emrys since I was five. When the druids pledged their loyalty and I kept mispronouncing their names.”

Balinor stares at him long and hard. “Please tell me you didn’t spend Beltane with Edwin.”

“I told you,” Merlin says, and quickly starts rummaging in his wardrobe for new clothes, mostly because he doesn’t want to look at Balinor. “Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“I thought you were in love. You gave us a whole speech—”

“He’s a man who is currently engaged to a woman,” Merlin says, a little snappishly. “Perhaps married, by now, if things worked out for him. Can we stop talking about it, please? You haven’t bothered to call me by my name in fifteen years, and that you’ve chosen this moment to start acting affronted on my behalf—”

“I’m your father,” Balinor says, a little peeved.

“Yes,” Merlin says, and picks a green tunic. He almost throws it haphazardly over his unmade bed, but then remembers that he should avoid attention to the bed at all costs, and slings it over a chair instead. “It means that this is very awkward for both of us. Why did you come?”

“Your mother said I should apologise,” Balinor starts, and frowns as he watches Merlin. “For… the marriage proposals. I should not have pushed you into that. And she is right. It is not fair that I was allowed to marry a woman that I loved, and that you—cannot. And it occurs to me now that it is beyond unfair to know that my son loves someone, and will not be with—him.”

Merlin hums. “It’s part of the prophecy, I think,” he says. “So you should be glad.” 

Kilgharrah had mentioned that Arthur was his other half—Merlin can only assume that this was part of that, although he hadn’t realised it at first. Merlin cannot fulfil his destiny unless Arthur does, and he was made for him. And Arthur being who he is, how could Merlin not be so entangled into him that he can hardly remember where he begins and ends?

“How could I be glad,” Balinor murmurs, and he looks so lost that Merlin doesn’t know what to do. “Merlin. Merlin. How could I wish to see you suffer, even knowing what it’s for? Is that truly what you think of me?”

Merlin shivers and holds onto the chair. Tears prickle at his eyes, suddenly, and then Balinor is there, engulfing him in his arms. Merlin cannot remember the last time his father hugged him so tightly. Balinor’s chin rests on Merlin’s head, and Merlin feels like he is eleven years old again and too old for the nightmares of the Crystal Cave.

“Father,” Merlin croaks, and buries his face in Balinor’s chest.

“Merlin,” Balinor repeats, and holds him.

~*~

Kilgharrah finds Merlin in the clearing in the forest.

“Young warlock,” he says, and lands right in front of Merlin and his book. He’s being careful not to let the grass stain the pages, but if Gaius saw him, he would have chewed him out nonetheless. Merlin sits up as the dragon lies down in front of him, his eyes peering at Merlin curiously.

“Why are you here,” Merlin says flatly. “Are you here to tell me to return to Camelot again? Because I will, you know I will, you’ve been telling me about my destiny and my future and I would really like to have a couple of days off. The gods know Arthur won’t let me have them.”

“Once upon a time, you welcomed my presence,” Kilgharrah harrumphs, but he doesn’t seem very offended. Merlin isn’t sure Kilgharrah can take anything to heart.

“Tell me one thing,” Merlin says, and sits up. “Why tell me about my destiny in the first place? Why steer me towards Arthur, knowing that I would’ve ended up there anyway? Why hurry all of this along when there’s nothing I can do now?”

Kilgharrah blinks at him. “Because you are his protector, and he will be yours. Because you are two sides of the same coin. Your magic calls out for him, even now.”

“It makes it more complicated,” Merlin says, and throws up his hands. “Naimroa thinks you meddle too much, you know.”

“Naimroa knows nothing of prophecy,” Kilgharrah grumbles. 

“No one seems to know everything. Everyone is giving me half-answers, and I’m not sure who I can even trust. I’m lying to my parents, and to Arthur, and now Morgana knows about my magic but not my heritage—”

“You’ve told the witch?”

Kilgharrah sits up, smoke coming from his nostrils. Merlin waves it away, scrunching his nose. “Well, yes. How did you know she has magic? Kilgharrah, she was scared, and she couldn’t control it. I only did what I needed to help her.”

“There are burdens that your shoulders must carry,” Kilgharrah says, “that your heart may not be able to hold. You should never have told the witch.”

“I did, and I’m not going back on it,” Merlin snaps. 

“She has a role to play in the world to come, and there are secrets that she does not yet know. If she masters her powers and turns against the Once and Future King—”

“She loves him,” Merlin says fiercely. “She’ll protect him when I cannot. Don’t you see, Kilgharrah? Don’t you see that keeping secrets will only create our own enemies? If I didn’t tell Morgana to protect myself, I would have betrayed her. I’m betraying Arthur even when I say I protect him. I’m betraying my own parents, the Dragonlord that you call your kin. And I’m doing it because you told me of a destiny I shouldn’t have known about.”

“You have always known of your future,” Kilgharrah argues, rising to his full height. Merlin is no longer afraid of him—is no longer intimidated by the Great Dragon, by the advice that he doesn’t explain, the prophecy that Kilgharrah seems to know more about than even the goddesses.

“You are setting me up to fail,” Merlin says. “Tell yourself what you must. You are seeding destruction and war, and I won’t let you use me for it.”

“I’ll tell your father where you’ve been, boy,” Kilgharrah says.

“Tell him,” Merlin returns viciously. “Tell him, and tell him what you told me, and see how deep the dungeon is where he’ll put you.”

Kilgharrah roars, a dangerous and terrible sound in the otherwise quiet forest. Dozens of birds rustle the leaves of the trees as they flee at the sound of the dragon, but Merlin does not move an inch. Kilgharrah towers over him, his scales glittering in the sunlight as he bares his teeth.

“One day you will see where your defiance will bring you,” Kilgharrah says. “Albion burnt to the ground, your people dead, and Arthur slain. This has all been written. You need me.”

Merlin considers him for a moment—one last time, if only to honour the wisdom Kilgharrah has given him in the past. Once upon a time, Merlin had thought him a friend and an ally. If Kilgharrah had been his only source of advice, Merlin might not have known better.

But he is the Prince of Dracaneard, and he does not stand alone.

“Talk to me of prophecy again,” Merlin says, “and you will be banished from this land.”

Kilgharrah’s gaze is heavy on him. Merlin tilts his chin, ignoring the heavy smoke still pouring from Kilgharrah’s nostrils. The threat is not an empty one—Merlin might not be king or Dragonlord, but he is the son of one. He is Emrys, and Balinor will listen to him, be it out of love or out of duty.

Not even Kilgharrah’s bond with the Dragonlord can trump a father’s bond with his son.

“Let us hope you are stronger than I think you are,” is all Kilgharrah says, and he flies back into the air. 

Merlin watches him go, even as the dot in the sky grows so small that he can’t see it anymore. Slowly, the birds return to the trees, and forest mice run past Merlin’s feet to return to their homes. The forest returns to its peaceful state, and Merlin feels like an equilibrium has been reached.

He resumes reading.

~*~

Merlin has spent so much time away from Dracaneard that staying for a full month is odd. He spends his time mostly with Freya and Will—who are, as it turns out, not actually together, but they say it so adamantly that Merlin isn’t sure about the truth of it—and Lancelot, who teaches him some rudimentary defence skills with a sword for if Arthur takes him hunting again and Merlin can’t use his magic.

Balinor doesn’t bring up the marriage proposals again and he doesn’t speak a word about Merlin’s activities during Beltane, and Merlin’s pretty sure that Hunith hasn’t been told. It’s not as if it matters—Merlin picked Edwin for a reason, and it’s because Edwin will definitely not be pressing for a more permanent arrangement with Merlin. As things are, they duel three times in that month; Edwin offers to warm his bed once more, Merlin politely declines, and that’s that. 

Balinor seems to have decided to ignore Edwin’s existence for the time being, and Merlin would be amused if it hadn’t made him mostly horribly embarrassed. 

The morning of Merlin’s departure his mother kisses him on the forehead. “Make sure you send us your letters,” she says, and runs her hand over his hair. “They’re the best part of my month, you know. If you want to, you can tell us about your boy.”

“He’ll be married when I see him again,” Merlin says, and tries for a wry smile. “I’m not sure I’ll want to linger on it.”

Hunith runs her thumb over his cheekbone, and steps back. “You never know, my dearest Merlin.”

“Emrys,” Balinor says, and inclines his head. “We will see you in the new year’s Beltane.”

Merlin smiles. “I will see you for Beltane, father,” he returns. Things with Balinor have been… odd, but not uncomfortable. Merlin refusing to marry seems to have put things in perspective for Balinor, and Merlin isn’t sure why this is what did the trick, but he doesn’t question it.

“Merlin!” Freya says, hurrying down the stairs. She flies into his arms, her nose cold against Merlin’s cheek. “I thought I missed you.”

“I thought you used to be a morning person,” Merlin says, and presses her against him for a moment longer. “I’ll miss you, Freya.”

“I wish you could stay for longer,” she says, and smiles mournfully as she pulls back. 

“Well,” Merlin says, and smiles. “One day, maybe.”

He takes Apple from his own stables, intent on returning her to her rightful owner. His parents wave him farewell as Merlin leaves the capital again, and a sense of peace settles over him as he spots Rathuris and Ekaitza flying in the distance. 

Merlin has spent just over a month in Dracaneard, but now he is ready to return home.

~*~

“Merlin!” 

Morgana’s embrace comes so unexpectedly that Merlin falls back against the wall. She only tightens her hold, though, and Merlin awkwardly pats her on the arm. “Hi, Morgana.”

“We’ve missed you,” Morgana exclaims, and finally lets go of him. She smiles and leans in, whispering, “I’ve managed that fire spell, finally. I’m pretty good at it now.”

“That’s good,” Merlin manages.

Her smile turns a bit more wicked, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “You didn’t stay away for this long for last Beltane. Arthur was positively sulking, poor boy. He made three servants cry while you were gone.”

“That sounds like Arthur,” Merlin says dryly. “Speaking of—?”

“Oh,” Morgana says. “He’s at practice, I think. I barely follow the knights’ schedule, but Arthur has thrown himself back into it since Beltane. Probably to avoid Uther grumbling at him, if you were to ask me.”

“Why is Uther mad at him?” Merlin asks.

“Princess Astrid,” Morgana says, and frowns when Merlin just stares at her. “The broken engagement? Arthur didn’t tell you that he was going to turn her down?”

“He did what?”

Morgana grabs Merlin’s sleeve and pulls him into a corner of the castle. “He gave a speech right in front of the court—something about marrying for love, and that our allies should know that Camelot is noble enough to be true to their allies without a need for marriage. Bayard accepted it and retreated from his talks with Dracaneard, by all accounts, but Uther was scolding Arthur the entire week for it. I thought he’d have told you.”

“Why would he tell me,” Merlin mutters, a little prickly. “I’m just his servant, aren’t I.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Morgana says, and presses a finger to her red lips. “A noblewoman doesn’t hear about a prince’s kiss and tell.”

Merlin tugs his sleeve free from her grip. “If you don’t mind—I’ll need to drop my things off at Gaius’, and then I’ll go and find Arthur. I’m sure his laundry needs doing.”

“You’ll come to my room tonight?” Morgana asks.

Merlin smiles. Even if he doesn’t like Morgana’s implications about his relationship to Arthur, he can’t help but enjoy her presence. “I brought you a book, actually. I’ll come when Arthur’s retired for the night.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she says, and with a last pat on his arm, walks away as if they weren’t discussing anything more important than the weather.

~*~

Arthur is indeed on the training fields. 

Merlin sits down on the grass to watch the knights, enjoying the warmth of the summer sun on his face. Soon enough, he’ll be drowning in menial work again—he doesn’t mind, and he’d actually been a bit antsy to work with his hands again in Dracaneard, but the short break is welcome.

And watching a sweaty Arthur dancing around with a sword is something of beauty, truth be told.

Gwen crouches down next to him, a basket full of laundry sitting on her hips. Merlin swings around, tackling her down as he goes in for a hug. Gwen laughs and falls down, laundry the right side up, fortunately.

“You’re a terror, Merlin,” she says, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Welcome back!”

“You don’t get to call me a terror,” Merlin says, and fumbles in his pockets. “You just wait until you see what I have for you.”

“You brought me a gift?” Gwen asks, her eyebrows raised in scepticism. Merlin scoffs and pats his other pocket. He knows he put it somewhere safe—finally, he finds himself patting the creaking paper and reaches for it triumphantly. A thick letter sits in his hand, and he hands it over with some flourish.

“Someone’s been thinking of you,” he says, as Gwen tentatively accepts the letter and opens it. “I convinced him to write to you. Now, you’re under no obligation to answer—”

“Oh,” Gwen says quietly, as she skims through the contents. “That’s—that’s so sweet, Merlin.”

He eagerly leans forward. “What do you think? I know you actually haven’t seen Lancelot in a long time, but I know he was very smitten with you—”

“No, no,” Gwen says, and clumsily gets to her feet. “That’s very sweet, Merlin. I did like him, when I met him. I’m not sure—well, it’s been some time, as you said.”

Merlin jumps up to give her the basket of laundry. “I know,” he says, and shrugs. “Nothing has to come of it. But I thought that you might have a chance sometime in the future. Lancelot is slow to lose his affections once they’ve been won. Just read that on your own time, and if you want to send something back—I might be able to get something to him. If you wanted.”

He sends his parents letters monthly, so he might as well send something to Lancelot. It’s not a difficult bit of magic, and he owes it to his friends, even if Merlin’s secrets stand in the way of Lancelot’s dedication. 

“Merlin!”

Merlin turns around just to see the light catch Arthur’s hair, and the Prince of Camelot strides towards him, his hand cast over his eyes to see them in the sun. His sword is hanging loosely in his hold, and Merlin thinks Arthur turned away mid-parry, judging by Leon’s stunned expression as Arthur just walks away.

“Hello, my lord,” Merlin says, a faint smile tugging at his own lips despite Arthur’s ridiculous behaviour. “Please try not to blunt your sword too much. I’d like not to stay up too late on my first night back to sharpen it.”

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely,” Arthur snipes, but he’s smiling, too. “When did you get back?”

“I should go,” Gwen says awkwardly. “Thank you for the letter, Merlin.”

She hurries away, and Merlin watches her go. “What letter?” Arthur asks. 

“Oh, it’s from Lancelot,” Merlin says, and leans in conspiratorially. “He’s sweet on her, still. I saw him when I was travelling home, so he asked me if I could give her a letter.”

Arthur frowns at him. “He’s from Nemeth, isn’t he? That’s in the opposite direction of Ealdor. How can you have seen him?”

“He doesn’t live in Nemeth,” Merlin says, but switches topics quickly. Arthur might be a bit oblivious to some things, but Merlin isn’t keen on talking about who is from where. It’ll get complicated very fast. “Anyway, Morgana told me that you succeeded in remaining a bachelor. So, Astrid’s not the future Queen of Camelot, I take it?”

Arthur’s eyes are really very blue in the sunlight, and Merlin hadn’t realised how close their faces are. Still, he can’t make himself lean back, and sets himself to investigating the faint freckles on Arthur’s face. He’s slightly tanned, so he must have spent a lot of time outside.

“She is not the future Queen of Camelot,” Arthur says in a low voice. “I wasn’t planning on taking a Queen, if you must know.”

Merlin swallows heavily. “You’re twenty-three,” he says. “You can’t know that yet.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what I do and do not know, Merlin,” Arthur says. “Your friend has seen Gwen a grand total of, what? Five times? And he’s sending her letters over a year after the fact.”

“A kingdom doesn't depend on Lancelot’s choices,” Merlin snaps. 

“You are making this unnecessarily difficult,” Arthur says, and leans back. “I’ll prove it to you, if I must. I don’t care how many years it may take me to convince you. I can wait you out, Merlin of Ealdor.”

“I’m not holding you to this madness,” Merlin says, and his traitorous heart beats very hard in his chest.

Arthur grins, broad and devilish, and ruffles Merlin’s hair. “You can’t talk to your prince that way, Merlin. Now, you should go and clean my chambers. Oh, and run along to the stables to feed Llamrei—we’ve got a new stable boy, and he hasn’t the faintest how to treat her. Then you can clean my armour and sharpen my sword. I’ll make sure to make it extra blunt for you—I know how you enjoy your work as my manservant.”

“Worst job in the world,” Merlin says, and ducks out of the way of Arthur’s swing at him. “Fine, fine. God, how did you even survive without me?”

“Worst manservant in the world,” Arthur says easily.

“This isn’t doing anything to convince me!” Merlin says, taking two steps backwards to get out of Arthur’s reach.

Arthur throws his head back in laughter, and Merlin escapes with all his body parts intact. When he looks back over his shoulder, Arthur is still staring at him, lazily smiling. When he catches Merlin’s gaze, he just raises his eyebrows for a moment and turns back to the practise field.

Merlin can’t help but smile the entire day.

Chapter Text

PART IV

“Stay for Beltane.”

Merlin sighs and folds Arthur’s tunic. He doesn’t like folding clothes—it’s a matter of folding the right way and making it look all proper and nice when sitting in a closet, and he always starts doing it too fast and messes up, and then Arthur’s clothes look like they’ve been folded by a goblin, or at least, that’s what Gwen says. She doesn’t have to fold Morgana’s dresses, because apparently dresses don’t need to be folded, but she’s far better at it than Merlin and he thinks it’s somewhat unfair.

“Beltane is still a month away,” he says.

Arthur lies on his bed. He isn’t even wearing any trousers, and Merlin is steadfastly refusing to look at him. Arthur rolls around so he’s on his back and lets his head fall back against the side of the bed to stare at Merlin folding his clothes. 

Merlin’s feelings haven’t faded in the year he’s spent with Arthur. Of course they haven’t—Arthur is the Once and Future King, and Merlin is destined to be by his side, and he thinks he’d want to be there even if there was no such prophecy. Arthur is a good man, and Merlin sees it more now than ever.

Arthur hasn’t stopped in his relentless efforts to convince Merlin to be with him. He thinks most of the knights have picked up on it, and Morgana ribs Merlin about it at least five times during each lesson he gives her. It’s not just the comments—it’s the fact that Arthur is so earnestly meaningful about some of it, too. He offers Merlin better clothes and more time off and he invites Merlin to eat with him, and he always does it so sincerely.

It only serves to make him feel more guilty.

“You always leave for Beltane,” Arthur says. “You’ve been in my service for almost three years now. Is it so bad that I want you to be here for once? You can go to your parents after Beltane, if that’s what it’s about. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Merlin hums, and frowns at Arthur’s blue tunic. It isn’t folded properly and he picks it up to try again. “I told them I’d be home for Beltane. It’s important to them, you know.”

“It’s important to me,” Arthur says.

“I’m just your servant.”

“Would you stop that?” Arthur says in exasperation, and rolls around on his bed again so his face is the right side up. “To both the folding and the—servant thing. You’d think that a year’s worth of invitations into my bed would have taught you to know better.”

“You’d think a year’s worth of refusals would’ve got through your thick head,” Merlin shoots back, and purposefully refolds another of Arthur’s tunics just to make a point. “Anyway, you still throw things at me.”

“Only when you have enough time to duck,” Arthur says.

“You hit me with your gauntlet only yesterday!”

“It’s not my fault when you don’t actually duck.”

Merlin snorts. “I’m not doing this to make it a challenge for you, Arthur,” he says. “You’re to be a king—a great king, and I know it. You need a queen who will help you grow, and who will stand by your people. You are destined for more than you know.”

“You always sound like you believe that,” Arthur says, and raises himself from his bed. “Isn’t it enough that you give me advice, let alone prattling on a thousand times a day as well? God forbid, I’m actually listening to you.”

“Because I’m very wise,” Merlin says, “but unfortunately also the wrong gender to be your queen.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Arthur tells him. “You’re also the wrong standing, but—”

“—If you make a joke about peasants again, Arthur, I swear—”

“—I’m only saying, Merlin, that none of that matters to me. Do you understand? I want you to be here for Beltane, because I’d like to spend one Beltane with you. It doesn’t matter to me if nothing happens—I know that you think we shouldn’t, and I’m respecting that. I think you’re being a proper idiot, but I just want to spend time with you. Beltane is one of the only feasts that nobles and servants can mingle more freely, and I just—want. That.”

Merlin stops folding. Arthur is looking at him, still, his lips twisted downwards and his fists balled into the blanket. Merlin sighs and comes to sit down next to him.

“It wouldn’t end well, Arthur,” he says quietly, and runs a hand through Arthur’s tangled hair. “You’ll understand, one day.”

“It might not,” Arthur says. “But that has never been a reason to not do something. I know you’re a brave man, Merlin—I joke about it, I know, but you are. I can’t understand why you don’t—why you wouldn’t—”

“I’m not brave,” Merlin murmurs. “There’s a lot of things that frighten me.”

“Stay for Beltane,” Arthur repeats. “I’m ordering you as your prince.”

“I’m not from Camelot, you can’t order me.”

“Oh? Where have you been living these past few years, if I may ask you?”

“That’s not fair. Gaius doesn’t order me around, and it’s his room, technically.”

“In my castle.”

“In your father’s castle,” Merlin corrects. “I don’t see Uther here to command me to stay for Beltane.”

Arthur grumbles and sits up. “I can make Morgana do it. She’s intimidating and she’s also your friend, and I know she’s with me on this. I bet you can’t say no to Morgana.”

“I can say no to Morgana,” Merlin lies.

“No, you can’t,” Arthur says, and shifts on his bed again so he lies firmly against Merlin. Merlin sighs in defeat, but doesn’t untangle his fingers from Arthur’s hair. “She’ll pout at you, and you always cave when she does it. I’ve been trying to learn how she does it, but you never listen to me.”

“I always listen to you,” Merlin says, and pulls at one of Arthur’s locks. “You just don’t have anything interesting to say, you giant clotpole.”

Arthur doesn’t grumble at that though, his cheek pressed against Merlin’s thigh as he looks up. “Stay for Beltane, Merlin.”

“I can’t,” Merlin says, and pushes at Arthur’s face to free himself. “Come on. Your father’ll kill you if you’re not ready for dinner, again, and he always glowers at me like it’s personally my fault that you refuse to get dressed. It’s scary.”

Arthur groans. “Alright, alright, Merlin. As long as you’re not trying to convince me to try on those horrible scarves again.”

“They’re comfortable,” Merlin protests. He always regrets not being able to wear them while in Dracaneard—if King Balinor and Prince Arthur had to agree on one thing, it’s that nobility shouldn’t wear scarves. 

“They’re ugly,” Arthur says. “And you should be in the stocks for wearing them.”

“I run cold,” Merlin says, and throws a tunic at Arthur’s face. “Wear that. And put on some trousers, my lord. As much as I like to stare at your legs, I’m afraid your father will think it’s highly improper.”

“God, don’t put that image in my head,” Arthur complains, and rolls off the bed.

Merlin just grins.

~*~

Gaius’ potions smell, sometimes. It’s only natural, considering what they are made from and their various uses. Merlin has grown used to the odd odours at every time of the day, and the way it tends to stick to his clothes when he’s helping out Gaius. Sometimes he only realises he’s smelling particularly strongly when Arthur turns his nose up at Merlin’s appearance.

So mostly, Merlin doesn’t mind. But it’s a little different when a whole batch of freshly-made potions have fallen on the ground, the mixed smells horrible enough to leave Merlin coughing even in the relative safety of his own room.

“We have to do something about the smell, Gaius,” he complains, throwing open his own door in the middle of his letter-writing. One of Gwen’s letters to Lancelot is already sitting on his little desk, and he’d wanted to send both letters off before he leaves to serve Arthur his dinner.

“If you know a spell, my boy, you are welcome to use it,” Gaius says, standing beside the widely-opened window. “If not, you should stop complaining and help me clean up the potions. If they’re gone, the smell will go with them. Eventually.”

“Great,” Merlin mutters, and scratches his head as he watches the glass. “Do I need to do it now, or—”

“You were complaining about the stench,” Gaius says strictly. “And if I remember correctly, you were the one that insisted the vials were perfectly safe where they were—”

“I didn’t tip them over!” Merlin says, and lifts a finger. The glass shards rise into the air.

Gaius clicks his tongue loudly. “Anyone could walk in, Merlin.”

Merlin sighs, and the glass shards drop as his spell vanishes. There might be a spell to get rid of smells, but Merlin has never bothered to learn it, and the sickening odour is distracting him. Gaius has his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised expectantly, and Merlin drops to his knees.

He’ll send the letters tomorrow, he reflects sourly. He’s agreed to meet with Morgana again tonight, and try to work out more of her visions—her control is getting better, and the visions seem more meaningful, if not entirely eventful. And then he’ll have to be up early tomorrow to finish cleaning Arthur’s armour, so he won’t have much time to sleep. And Gwen asked his help for some of the early preparations for Beltane tomorrow, so he’ll have to go over to her—

It’s going to be a busy week. Merlin picks up the largest pieces of glass and carefully tosses them out, and then grabs the broom. Gaius scrunches his nose, and moves to open another window.

~*~

Morgana frowns as she moves her hands. The candle that she was warming herself with flickers as if in response to her magic, and Merlin holds his breath so as not to break her concentration.

Her eyes flicker gold, and she inhales deeply.

There are several ways to receive visions. Some people use crystals or seeing stones, and Merlin has always preferred still water, like most of the druids use. Morgana, however, responds best to the warmth of fire on her skin. Merlin isn’t sure what that says about her.

The candle flickers out, and Morgana straightens her back.

“That was annoying,” she says, her lips pursed as she waves a hand over the candle to relight it. “I thought I had something interesting, but then it just—disappeared. I saw this golden-brown dragon in flight, and there was a figure on his back.”

Merlin’s heart drops. “Was he doing anything? Did you see him well?”

“No, it was too dark,” Morgana says. She shifts on her chair, staring thoughtfully at the flame before her. “I just saw the dragon, and the figure. Then it shifted to Gaius, for some reason—is there a problem with your chambers?”

“Why?” Merlin asks. His mind is still on the first part of Morgana’s vision—Kilgharrah. And with him, a man. There is no way to say if she saw Balinor, or Merlin, or someone else entirely, although the most likely candidate would be Merlin’s father. But why would she see Kilgharrah in flight with Balinor—why would that vision have been gifted to her?

Morgana frowns. “You probably shouldn’t go back. I think that something was broken that could be dangerous to your health. A potion that will make you ill.”

“We did break some vials,” Merlin says wryly. “I should warn Gaius, then. We’ve been trying to get rid of the smell, but it hasn’t gone very smoothly. I’ve tried to use one or two spells, but it lingers.”

“I’m sure Gwen will take in Gaius for the night. I think she’s still around—the sleeping draughts, you know.”

They work far better now that Morgana has learnt to control her visions and let them out during the day, but she is still bothered in her sleep sometimes. Merlin helps her by magically enhancing the potions, but even those tinctures won’t stop a vision from being shown if it needs to be shown. It’s a part of learning magic that she will have to learn to live with.

“I’ll ask her when I leave,” Merlin murmurs, and gets to his feet. He has an early morning ahead of him, and Morgana has seen all she will see for today. Merlin only hopes he won’t stay up too late, concerned about her vision of Kilgharrah.

“And what about you?” Morgana presses, her lips tilted. “Arthur’s antechambers, perhaps? I’d offer you my lodgings, but people will talk. And Arthur’s jealousy towards anyone who holds your attention is getting a little tiresome, if no less amusing.”

“Arthur’s not jealous,” Merlin says. “And he’s already gone to bed—I won’t disturb him. I’ll go with Gwen, too, I’ll just sleep on the floor.”

Morgana crosses her arms. “She hardly has the space for that, Merlin, where will she sleep? You know Arthur won’t begrudge you your rest—he’ll be missing you, come Beltane, so he’ll enjoy your presence all the more for it. I know Arthur’s very stubborn, but I had hoped you might have more good sense.”

“I think Gwen stole all of the good sense,” Merlin says, and sighs. “Fine. I’ll warn Gaius, ask Gwen if he can stay with her for the night, and then tomorrow, after I’ve helped her with the preparations, I’ll try and see if I can get that awful smell out of our chambers, before I have to bring breakfast to Arthur—”

“Busy day,” Morgana says, and raises her eyebrows towards the door. “Make sure you don’t stay up too late, will you?”

“Witch,” Merlin says, but he presses a kiss to her forehead before he dashes out of the door.

~*~

He goes by his and Gaius’ chambers, only to find Gaius mopping the floor in an unsuccessful attempt to get the smell out. Merlin sends him to Gwen, and Gaius goes relatively easy, which only goes to show how the smell is affecting him.

The stench seems only to have gotten worse over the course of the day, so Merlin locks the door behind him and resigns himself to getting up very early to figure out how to best clean it. 

Arthur’s voice is faint when Merlin knocks on the door. 

“Oh,” Arthur says, staring at him blankly. “I thought—well, that’s the first time you’ve knocked since I met you, Merlin. Is this your way of telling me you’ve finally picked up some manners?”

“Not from you,” Merlin says easily, and ignores Arthur’s beautiful tousle of hair and the low cut of his tunic. He’s used to admiring Arthur, both from a distance and up close, and the desire never really goes away, but he’s above that. Still, Arthur bathed in candle light, ready for bed, will never cease to be one of Merlin’s favourite sights of the day. There’s a certain gentleness to his face that he rarely shows outside of his own chambers.

“I resent that,” Arthur says, and rises from his table. “I did tell you that you’re dismissed for the day, didn’t I?”

“I can’t sleep in my own room tonight,” Merlin blurts out, and blinks when Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I just mean—a couple of potions fell this morning, and Gaius’ chambers smell terrible, and I’m pretty sure there are a couple of poisons in the mix—”

For a moment, Merlin imagines being in Dracaneard, and a servant of his own coming in to ask for a place to sleep. His own chambers aren’t quite as luxurious as Arthur’s, and he doesn’t have an antechamber connected to them, and Merlin never had a servant assigned solely to him. He’s not even sure what he would say, but Arthur opens his mouth—

“Just crawl in.”

Merlin stares at him. “I meant the antechamber, Arthur. You know, the room for your servant that I’ve never used, the one with a bed—”

“A horrible one,” Arthur dismisses, and grabs Merlin’s arm to drag him to his own bed. “And besides, it hasn’t been made. Do you really want to go back downstairs and find linens to make the bed? A bed that’s so tiny that you can barely roll over and that will make your back feel like someone has been kicking you? Is that truly what you want, Merlin?” 

“Yes,” Merlin lies, and Arthur sits him down on his bed. His soft, comfortable bed, that’s about just as alluring as Arthur is. Merlin remembers sleeping in this bed, over a year ago—it’s the best sleep he’s ever had in Camelot.

He loves Gaius, but his spare mattress is terrible, and Merlin has never been able to ask him for another.

“You’re such a horrible liar,” Arthur says. “You know I don’t mind. Did you bring any clothes for bed? Never mind that, just borrow some of mine. They might be a bit big for you, but they’ll do the trick. I do assume you can clothe yourself, Merlin. Or do you want me to help you?”

Arthur’s grin isn’t malicious at all, but Merlin feels a little put off anyway. He rises again from the bed, and thinks of protesting yet again, but he’s weary and he has to be up early. Arthur’s bed is broad enough that Merlin can sleep in it without touching Arthur at all, so he’ll just—scoot over all the way to the side or something.

“It’s fine,” he says, and defensively pulls his tunic off over his head. He neatly folds it and lays on at the foot of the bed, and turns around to see Arthur staring at him. Merlin’s lips twitch, both amused at Arthur’s ogling and a little embarrassed. Arthur mutters something incomprehensible and turns around, giving Merlin some much-needed privacy.

When he’s shucked off his trousers and changed into a set of Arthur’s sleeping garments—that are too broad for him, and a little on the short side, besides—Merlin quickly slides into Arthur’s bed. Arthur is still standing by the window, looking outside with an intent expression on his face, until he hears the covers crease and turns to face the bed.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and falls silent.

“Just—don’t say anything,” Merlin says, and smiles weakly. “Kick me if I steal the blanket. I haven’t shared a bed with anyone in a long time, and I’ve no idea if I’m a horrible bed-mate.”

Arthur nods solemnly, and it’s oddly intimate when he pulls off his own tunic and slides into bed. They’re on opposite sides, but Merlin thinks that he can still feel the heat coming from Arthur’s side, and tries to lie very still. He has no idea how he is going to sleep like this.

“I haven’t shared my bed with anyone in a long time, either,” Arthur finally confesses in the thick of the silence. “Just with you, that one time. In the forest. I didn’t think you’d let me have another night.”

Merlin is silent for a moment. “And before that? Before me, I mean. I mean, you must’ve—”

“No. Never.”

“Right,” Merlin says, and clears his throat. It’s far louder than he intends for it to be. “Well. I suppose it’s not for lack of interest in you.”

“Are you calling me charming, Merlin?” He can hear the smirk in Arthur’s voice, but then Arthur continues, in a softer tone. “There’s never been a lack of interest, I think, but I never had reason to be sure that it was for—me. And my father has always been very strict about the possible existence of bastards—”

“No such chance of that with a man,” Merlin tells him.

“No, no. You’re right. I just didn’t—I haven’t—there’s only really been you. Seriously, I mean. There were a few guards, but generally, the fighting men—oh, I can see you smiling, Merlin, we’re not all blind as bats in the night. Yes, your appalling lack of muscle is appealing to some people apparently, including me.”

“We can’t all be knights,” Merlin says. “For what it’s worth, Arthur, I think it’s endearing. That you’re waiting for someone you can trust.”

Arthur hums. “And you?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Oh, so there’s something to talk about?”

Merlin sighs. Arthur’s toe presses into Merlin’s calf, startlingly cold, and Merlin pushes back with his foot. “Come on. You don’t actually want to know.”

“I do, actually. And I’m your prince, so tell me.”

“Well,” Merlin says, and winces. “Do you remember that I was really mad at you, last Beltane, and I thought you were going to marry someone else, and you were being a right prick as usual, and I left to go home for the feast—”

“No,” Arthur says, and suddenly, he’s lying on top of Merlin, warm and heavy and closer than he’s ever been. “Who?”

“No one you know,” Merlin says, and wonders what in the world drove him to this honesty. He can feel Arthur’s breath on his skin, and he’s both afraid of welcoming Arthur’s closeness and driving him away. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Arthur murmurs, and rests his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck. “All this time, and sometimes I feel like I barely know you—”

“What are you doing?” Merlin forces out, and Arthur leans up. Merlin can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, and his thigh against Merlin’s own, and for a moment, the world stands absolutely still.

Arthur kisses him, and Merlin kisses back, reaching up to entangle his fingers in Arthur’s messy hair, and he twists them over so he’s on top of his lonely prince, his golden king. Arthur’s own hands settle on Merlin’s hips as he presses them closer together, his eyes closed even as Merlin’s are open to take in every detail.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, but Arthur moves one hand to stroke Merlin’s cheek, the callouses rough against Merlin’s skin. “Arthur, please—”

“Whatever you want,” Arthur says, and, “Merlin,” and Merlin kisses him again, relentlessly, and knows that he’ll regret everything about this night for the rest of his life. But he won’t regret Arthur, or seeing the faint glint in Arthur’s eyes, and the warm hitch of Arthur’s breath in his ears.

There is one thing that even Merlin is powerless against, and it’s always been Arthur.

Chapter Text

Merlin slips out of bed very early.

If anyone were to ask Arthur, he would probably say that Merlin is the noisiest and clumsiest manservant to ever exist. But Merlin has been serving Arthur for several years now, and he’s not nearly as incapable as Arthur likes to complain, despite the severe lack of training he’s had.

So he leaves Arthur asleep, naked under the covers of bed, and slips out when the sun has barely risen. Some other servants are awake already and nod at him as he makes his way through the halls. If any of them are wondering why he’s coming from the direction of Arthur’s rooms rather than Gaius’—well, no one seems to be thinking about it, Merlin tells himself.

Gaius’ chambers still stink as much as they did the day before, and Merlin promptly closes the door again to gather himself for a minute. 

“Oh, Merlin!”

Merlin scrambles upright, and Gwen frowns at him uncertainly, hoisting up her laundry on her hip. Merlin straightens his back, and hopes that Gwen won’t ask any questions about Merlin’s sleeping arrangements of the night.

“Hi, Gwen,” he says lamely, and gestures to the door behind him. “Just thought I’d be up early to fix Gaius’ chambers before he comes back. What are you doing up already?”

“Oh, more preparations for Beltane,” Gwen says dismissively, and eyes him. “Would you be able to help out with some of that, if you’re not too busy running errands for Arthur and Gaius? Not that I don’t think that that won’t keep you busy, it’s just—you’re leaving for your home in two days, aren’t you? And it’s just that we could really use your help—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Merlin hurries to say. “I’ll have to fix Gaius’ chambers first, of course, and who knows how long that’ll take—and Arthur will need his breakfast in two hours, but I don’t think he’ll have much for me to do after that—”

“You’re such a good friend,” Gwen says, and kisses his cheek. “Oh, Morgana mentioned something about needing your help. I don’t think it was very urgent, but maybe you can check up on her after I’ve brought her breakfast?”

Merlin wants to sigh, but Morgana is his friend, and so he keeps it in. “I’ll try, but if I haven’t managed to sort this out yet—”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Gwen says, trying to go for a cheerful tone and failing by a mile. She smiles in consolation, and Merlin smiles back. “A servant’s lot in life, isn’t it? Well, I’ve to drop this off, but I’ll see you later today. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” Merlin says dryly, and opens the door to Gaius’ door. Gwen makes a face at him and hurries away—Merlin watches her go, trying to get used to the stench before he gets in. What did Morgana see in her vision? Poisonous gas? Well, some of the plants that Gaius uses are toxic, and there’s no saying what the combination might have done. The smell hasn’t dissipated overnight, unfortunately, and Merlin straps up his sleeves and tries to hold his breath.

He steps into the room.

The first thing he does is open the windows. It’ll get rid of the lingering stench in the air, even if Merlin will need to air out Gaius’ sheets and all of their spare blankets. There are still some glass shards on the floor that he missed last time.

Merlin swallows and starts with sweeping the shards together. The potions are dried and there is a stain on the floor. It’s hard to see, but it’s still there, and Merlin wonders if he’ll be able to get it out.

“Bescréadian,” he whispers, and the stain lightens. He sighs, and drops to his knees. He takes some of the glass shards, but he misjudges one of them, and he draws his hand back sharply as he cuts himself.

“This is going to be a wonderful day, I can tell,” Merlin says to himself, and stares at the open window. The sky is slowly colouring a cool blue, and the birds are chirping outside. Merlin sits on the cold floor, his palm bleeding a dark red. It stings, and he murmurs, “Gehælan.” The cut doesn’t disappear, and Merlin grabs the sharp glass up again and puts it on Gaius’ desk.

“Gehælan,” he repeats, but the magic doesn’t surge up. In frustration, Merlin drops back to the floor to pick up the other glass that he missed last time. Truly, there’s no improving upon this day.

The first thing he needs is some bandages.

~*~

“Last Beltane wasn’t as joyous of an occasion as hoped,” Uther says, eyeing Arthur meaningfully, “But that only means that this year’s celebrations will be the merrier for it. I thought of adding a tournament, of sorts, a little joust for the Knights. It could be before we start the bonfire.”

“It’ll be near dark,” Arthur says. “Not the best condition for a fighting contest, Father. If not for the safety of the knights, then for the amusement of the people who will be watching.”

“The morning before, then,” Uther decides, and holds up his cup. “More water, boy.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Merlin murmurs, and carefully steps beside Uther’s chair to fill his cup, the pitcher steady in his hands. He’d hoped to talk to Arthur during breakfast, but Uther had already been there, intent on sharing this meal with his son before starting the day.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, and frowns at him. “What did you do to your hand? It wasn’t bandaged before, was it?”

“Cleaning accident, my lord,” Merlin says.

“Aren’t you always telling me how clumsy your manservant is, Arthur?” Uther says, and waves Merlin back. “There’s no accounting for his skills, but his loyalty to you is to be commended, of course. Are you serving us during Beltane, boy?”

“I’m going to my parents for Beltane, my lord,” Merlin says, and focuses on the wall opposite him. His cut is itching, and he feels a bit warm. Maybe it’s from all the hurrying he’s had to do—Gaius’ chambers are nearly done, although the stench still lingers a bit, but he hadn’t managed to get everything done before he’d had to go to the kitchens to get breakfast for Arthur, and then he’d had to go back to get more for Uther—

“Still?” Arthur asks, and sits straighter when Uther looks at him. Merlin blinks at him, and Arthur clears his throat. “It’s just—I thought…”

Oh, Arthur. 

“I’m very sorry, my lord, if I’ve given the impression that I changed my mind,” Merlin says, and tries to hold onto the pitcher of water. “My parents are expecting me for Beltane, but I’ll be right back in your service after.”

“We’ll find someone to replace him,” Uther says, and Merlin already gone from his mind, he continues, “The more immediate issue is to host this tournament. Perhaps the festivities can start right after, with first a feast in the castle—”

~*~

He’s barely left Arthur’s chambers when Arthur crashes into him, heedless of what it looks like. Merlin pushes him off immediately, almost falling over from Arthur’s weight, and leans against the wall.

“Why are you not staying?” Arthur demands hotly. “Are you truly so careless with your affections? For a year, I’ve given you time, and I realise last night might have been nothing more than a simple tumble for you—”

“You can’t think that,” Merlin snaps. “We were caught up in the moment, Arthur. I don’t regret it, but you should forget it. Nothing good will come of it.”

Arthur looks as if Merlin has slapped him, his cheeks red with—anger? Embarrassment? Merlin can usually tell, but he’s not certain which it is. “Forget it? That is your sage counsel, oh Merlin, greatest of advisors? You know what, you’re only a lowborn servant, and you should rejoice that you’re even in this position—”

“You prat,” Merlin says, his voice low.

“No,” Arthur says, and rubs his face. “I didn’t mean that.”

“For a year, I’ve been rejecting you,” Merlin says. “I have my reasons, Arthur, even if they’re not clear to you. But one day, you will be a great king, and it’s my hope that you’ll understand then. Even if you’ll never forgive me for it—”

“Just stay,” Arthur interrupts, and takes his hands—his bandaged one with extra care, and Merlin wants to melt into him. “You’ve your reasons—I know that, I understand, but just tell me. You know that you can trust me, don’t you, Merlin? Whatever it is, I promise that you’ll have a place by my side. If that’s what you want.”

“More than anything,” Merlin says, and takes a step back, so his hands fall out of Arthur’s. “But you cannot make that promise. And I would never keep you to it.”

“What can be so bad?” Arthur presses, and it’s the same Arthur that has mindlessly pursued Merlin for a year, the same Arthur that will see Albion united. He is stubborn, and single-minded, and he believes, and Merlin’s heart aches for him. Arthur should never be betrayed like this, but he will be.

“Arthur—”

“No, just tell me. No more lies. What could be so bad that I would send you away, Merlin, what in the world—”

“Merlin!”

Morgana strides towards them, a smile on her face that tells Merlin that she has clearly overheard that last bit and is coming towards his rescue. Gwen isn’t with her, presumably busy with the preparations for Beltane. Maybe Merlin can tell Arthur and Morgana that he really needs to leave a day early, just to avoid them for an extra day.

“Morgana,” Arthur says coolly, and takes a step back. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“Is it now?” she says cheerfully, and turns towards Merlin. “Gwen told you that I wanted to see you, didn’t she, Merlin? It’s actually somewhat urgent, so if you could come along right now—”

“You don’t need Merlin,” Arthur says incredulously. “I was talking to him—”

Morgana takes hold of Merlin’s arm. “That’s why he looked so incredibly uncomfortable, then. In fact, I do need Merlin, so I’ll just be stealing him from you for a moment, Arthur. Never fear, I’ll send him back soon enough.”

“What do you need him for?” Arthur says, throwing up his hands. “Don’t you have Gwen?”

“It’s a secret,” Morgana says, smiling sweetly, and whisks Merlin along with her. The world swings back and forth, and the sudden dizziness makes Merlin want to throw up. He doesn’t look back, because if Arthur is staring at him, he’s not sure what he would do. 

“Erm,” Merlin says, and swallows heavily. He’s still warm, and his hand still throbs uncomfortably. “Thank you, I think.”

“Maybe you should tell him,” Morgana says, and raises a delicate eyebrow at Merlin at his glance. “What? You’ve said it yourself, Arthur is no Uther. I’ve thought about it myself, you know. He wouldn’t betray us. And you clearly love him—he’ll forgive you for it. Eventually.”

It’s very like Morgana, Merlin thinks, to assume that she knows all the secrets. She knows about Merlin’s magic, so she figures that’s all there is to know, despite the fact that Merlin still barely answers any questions she asks him of Merlin’s own education in magic. She is quick and smart, but these nobles in Camelot—they all assume they know everything, and that what they know is best.

Is he that way? Are his parents? Merlin has followed prophecies and dragons and druids, and never once has he wondered if this is the way things must be. He likes to think that royalty and servants are equal, and yet the figures most notable in these prophecies are two princes from two kingdoms that have only ever been at war.

“Maybe,” he says, and massages his forehead for a moment. His legs feel heavy, and Morgana stops to turn back to him.

“Merlin?” she asks, and when she lays her hand on his arm, she’s cool to the touch. Merlin’s head pounds, and he tries to blink it away, but that doesn’t help at all. “Merlin? Are you okay?”

Gold shines in front of his eyes, and Merlin sags down. He vaguely hears Morgana’s shocked cry, and his knees hurt from the blunt impact with the floor. His hand feels like it’s on fire, and his eyes burn—

“The dragons,” he gasps, and he can’t even make out his own words; he only knows they need to be said, that he needs to utter them. “The dragons are coming, the dragons, the dragons—father, my father—Arthur—”

He blinks, and everything remains gold. If he’s still babbling, he can’t quite tell. He hears voices, but he doesn’t think his own is among them.

It’s not unconsciousness that follows, but he must have faded in and out of this world anyway, because Merlin realises he’s on a cot, and that there’s an odd smell.

“I need to—” he says, but his throat aches, and he ends up coughing. “Arthur, I need—”

“Try not to talk too much,” Gaius says, and appears in Merlin’s sight with a cool cloth. Merlin blinks as it’s placed on his forehead. It drips down his skin uncomfortably, and he twitches. “No, don’t talk. That cut on your hand—from the potion vials?”

“Glass,” Merlin says, and frowns. “I need—Gaius, Dracanaerd—”

“Hush, Merlin,” Gaius murmurs, and runs a hand through Merlin’s hair. “If you cut yourself on the vials from the potions, I think you’ve poisoned yourself. I’m not quite sure what it is that’s done this to you, but I’ll figure it out. I promise you, Merlin, we’ll figure it out.”

“No magic,” he murmurs. “Beltane—I need—my father, please—Arthur—”

“I’m here,” Arthur says, and kisses his cheek.

Merlin closes his eyes.

~*~

There is a light that shines above him. It glitters gold and silver, and Merlin tries to reach for it several times. Hands gently force down his arms, and Merlin cries out against it, because he can see it—he needs to reach for it. It is half-vision, half-normal sight, and he feels the magic pulse in him and ebb away with turns. He fears the loss of it, but the glitter is familiar, and he needs it.

He has no idea how long this goes on. He fades in and out, and sometimes he hears voices and sometimes he doesn’t. He is vaguely aware of Arthur’s calloused hands on his face and in his hair, and he thinks Gaius pats him clean a few times. Through it all, Merlin gasps for breath and tries to speak, and never knows if he has succeeded.

And the light remains above him. Glittering, like a dragon’s scale in the sunlight, and as far away as one in flight. 

When his arms have been forced down and Merlin can’t move, he just stares at it. The people holding him are too warm and too cold by turns, but if he doesn’t move, they let him go sooner. If it is a vision, it is something that must be seen—if it is magic, it is something Merlin must regain. If it is anything at all, it is beautiful, and Merlin can’t tear his gaze away.

Sometimes, the voices continue for a long time, and Merlin will be able to focus on both the light and the sound, if he strains himself. He prefers the soft murmurings of Arthur—for surely it is Arthur, the gravelly voice that speaks so softly to him. Merlin isn’t in the mind to understand what he says, but it sounds comforting and the touches are featherlight, as if Arthur isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to stroke him.

Not everything about it is pleasant. When the light fades and the magic disappears, the pain pulls at Merlin, and he feels as if he is on fire. He might scream, or he might not, because there isn’t always a presence to comfort him, and the dark is darker even than the night, which has at least the comfort of moonlight. For Merlin, the dark is pitch black and empty, and it sets him aflame, and all he can think is, it’s not my time, it’s not my time.

It is only when the light comes back that Merlin can find rest, or something like rest, and reaches for what he will never have.

~*~

He doesn’t wake as much as he realises that he is awake.

There is a sluggishness to his limbs when he tries to move, and he finds that he is weighed down by two blankets. He frowns, and tries to pull them away. It is nearly Beltane—there is no need for a single blanket at night, let alone two. 

“Don’t move, my boy,” Gaius says, and quickly sits down by Merlin’s side. His hand on Merlin’s brow is cool, and Merlin distantly remembers that someone did this before. His memories are muddy and distant, and he can’t recall how he came here.

“Gaius?” he rasps, and coughs.

“Water,” Gaius calls over his shoulder. “He needs water. Merlin, how are you feeling?”

“Like someone hit me with a brick,” Merlin says, and fidgets until Gaius helps him sit up in bed. The blankets slide off, and Merlin’s bare chest is hit with a cool blast of air. “Did someone hit me with a brick?”

“You were poisoned,” Arthur says, and sits down on the edge of Merlin’s bed. He offers him a glass of water. Merlin blinks at his appearance, and then takes the glass. 

“Right,” he says slowly. He can’t imagine who would poison him—his role as Arthur’s protector is as secret as it’s ever been, and no one knows he is the Prince of Dracaneard. “And how—”

“It’s nothing as sinister as that,” Gaius says strictly. “You cut yourself with the glass of one of the broken vials. Incidentally, that vial contained bloodburn, a highly deadly poison. I had to work day and night to create the antidote, and your life was in severe danger by then. You’re lucky to have made it out alive, my dear boy.”

Merlin stares at him in horror as he slowly remembers. The vial that broke, and the cut on his hand. His healing spell hadn't worked—maybe because he hadn't realised what to heal, and now he's here. “I’m never cleaning your vials again, Gaius.”

“You were pretty out of it,” Arthur says, awkwardly. “Morgana was with you when you fainted, and you kept on saying nonsensical things. She called for me, and I carried you here, while Morgana went to get Gaius. You kept drifting in and out, but you were clearly out of your mind.”

“I feel fine now,” Merlin murmurs, and takes in Arthur’s haggard appearance. He isn’t untidy, because certainly someone else has taken over as a temporary servant for him, but his eyes are a shade darker than usual, and his hair stands up as if he’s run a hand through it many times.

“Well, I’m glad,” Gaius says. “Drink that, and we’ll see about getting some food in you later. You thrashed quite a lot, and I’m afraid it might have stolen a lot of your strength.”

“Wait,” Merlin says, and stares at Arthur. “What about Beltane? Can I still—”

“Merlin, Beltane was four days ago,” Arthur says, and takes his hand. He lowers his voice and says, “When I asked you to stay, this wasn’t what I meant, you know.”

The joke doesn’t even register. Merlin stares at Gaius, and takes in the pensive stare and the tightness of his expression. If Merlin has missed Beltane in Dracaneard, his father will be highly concerned. And while those who know Merlin’s secrets are all people he trusts to keep them, Kilgharrah might have no choice in obeying a Dragonlord’s questions.

And the letters. He never sent the letters. They’re still in his room. All in all, his parents haven’t heard from him in over a month, and he has missed Beltane.

“I need to get up,” he says, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Arthur grabs his arm immediately, and Merlin uses his hold to try and stand up. His legs protest, and it takes both Arthur and Gaius to catch him.

“Merlin—Merlin,” Arthur says. “I know your parents are worried, but surely they will understand, when you explain? Perhaps they will come to Camelot to seek you out, but if they ask for you, they’ll be sent to me, and I can—”

“You don’t understand,” Merlin says, and tries to force himself up again. “Arthur, please, you have to listen.”

“Merlin, calm down,” Gaius tries. “Surely it can be left for a day or two. When you’ve regained some of your strength—”

“I never sent out the other letters. My father—he’s going to be livid, Gaius, not just with me—I’ve to send out that letter, now. ”

Arthur holds him back. “Look, Merlin, you’re still ill. You’ve been through an ordeal, and you haven’t fully recovered yet. If your father will come here, and he’ll be mad at you for missing Beltane for some inane reason, I can protect you. He won’t touch you.”

The irony of it isn’t lost on him. The idea of Arthur facing Balinor, however, makes Merlin sick to his stomach. Arthur is an excellent swordsman and strategist, but he has no protection against magic. Merlin is his protection against magic. And if Balinor comes, he will come with dragons.

He thinks of Morgana’s vision, and pales.

“Gaius, please,” he begs. “It cannot wait a day or two—it must be now. And Arthur, if you’ve ever valued me, you’ll help me get up. I need a carrier pigeon for the letter, and I need—I need Morgana.”

Arthur frowns. “All the carrier pigeons are with Master Fyrthorpe,” he says. “That’s in the Lower Town. We don’t keep them in the castle, because of the—excretion. In your state, it’ll take you an hour to even get there. Merlin, please—”

“I’ll get Morgana,” Gaius says darkly. “Finish the water, at least.”

Merlin gulps it down, and to his credit, Arthur doesn’t protest as he helps up Merlin. He still feels weak, but fear is a great motivator, and he can lean on Arthur. If Morgana saw a figure on a dragon—Balinor?—then surely it must happen, but a pigeon might be able to reach Balinor before he comes to Camelot. Merlin can’t send it to him with magic if he has no idea where his father is.

Not that the letter he wrote will be of any use now. He’ll need to pen something different, but he’ll do that when they get to Master Fyrthorpe. 

And hope that Kilgharrah has not told Balinor any of Merlin’s secrets.

~*~

Being abed for a week hasn’t done anything for Merlin’s constitution.

He is already wheezing by the time they’ve made it to the first staircase. Arthur holds onto him tightly and glances at him worriedly, but he seems to have taken Merlin’s concern to heart, because he doesn’t try to derail him anymore. 

Maybe he is hoping that Merlin will agree to go back to bed once he’s sent his letter. Maybe he secretly suspects Merlin of being a madman. Merlin doesn’t have the time to think about it.

Morgana meets them at the castle entrance, moving faster than Merlin can. She frowns at him as he enters her line of vision. It’s mid-afternoon and she glows in the sun. She still wears a dress meant for court, but it’s not as if she’ll be the one to slow them down.

“Merlin,” she says, and glares darkly at Arthur. “You need to return to bed. Gaius told me what you said—”

“Can’t,” Merlin wheezes. 

“Why is it so important that you write to your parents?” Morgana demands, and she’s even less likely to let this go than Arthur. “Even if they’re concerned, they can hardly fault you for taking some time to recuperate before you tell them what’s happened to you.”

“I’ve no plans to tell them what has happened to me,” Merlin says grimly, after having taken a moment to get his breathing back in order. “Never mind. Look, my father’s—I know this will  be hard for you to understand, but my father doesn’t know I’m in Camelot, alright? He wouldn’t want me to be here.”

“Wait,” Arthur says, and stops. Merlin half-falls against him, in his attempt to get moving. “Why not? What have you been telling him?”

“Uther wronged him once,” Merlin says. He doesn’t want to give out even the vague half-truths, but there is no way that the combination of Arthur and Morgana will be pleased with Merlin’s silence. Not after he’s pressing them about this so hard. “He forbade me to come here, but I did, and I—I wanted to stay. So I never told him, but there are some people that do know, and if he’s afraid that I’m in danger, he might press them to tell him, and I’ll—I can’t have him come here, alright? I can’t.”

Arthur is walking again, although it’s still only the leisurely pace that Merlin can keep up with. Morgana watches him, though, her eyes dark. Merlin can see her connecting what she knows to come up with the answer. A partially accurate answer, at least.

“It still doesn’t make sense,” Arthur says. “Your father might not want you here, but you’ve a right to be here as much as anyone else. And what would he do, even if he came? He certainly can’t make you come home.”

Merlin struggles to walk, especially when the streets become less well-maintained and narrower. Arthur easily takes more of his weight, almost effortlessly, and Merlin forces his legs to move forward.

“Merlin,” Morgana says, and tilts her head at him. “Is your father—well. You understand.”

“Yes,” Merlin murmurs, and Arthur looks between them.

“What?” he says. “Is your father what, Merlin?”

The secrets come tumbling down. Merlin watches the sky surreptitiously, concerned that he might spot a shadow in the blue. Nothing has appeared yet, but haste hurries his steps until all Merlin can do is try and not stumble. The worry that today is his last day of keeping secrets haunts him, only emboldened by Arthur’s tight hold on him.

“My father is a sorcerer, Arthur,” he says, and now it’s Arthur who stumbles.

“No,” Arthur says, and stares at him, stricken. “But that is—magic is forbidden. If your father—”

“My father loves me,” Merlin says. “If he knows that I’m in Camelot, and he hasn’t heard from me in a month, and I missed Beltane, he might come here. I don’t know what he’ll do, Arthur. I really don’t.”

“So that is why you are afraid of your father,” Arthur says, almost as if he is realising something more meaningful in whatever he thinks he knows about who Merlin’s father is. “If he is a sorcerer, then of course you’ve had to flee your home—”

“Arthur,” Morgana hisses.

“Am I wrong? Merlin almost fell out of his sickbed to get a letter to his father, for God’s sake—look at him, Morgana—”

“None of this is the point,” Merlin says. During Morgana and Arthur’s argument, he used a tiny spell to give himself some more energy. It’ll wear off within a couple of hours, and he’ll sorely regret its use then, but he doesn’t think he’s ever needed it more. He’s still leaning on Arthur, though, mostly to indulge himself.

“Just because someone knows magic doesn’t mean that they’re evil,” Morgana argues, ignoring Merlin. “Uther wants you to believe that magic corrupts someone’s soul, but that’s not true. Some people are born with it, and to judge someone on an ability that they’ve had since birth—”

“Wait,” Arthur says, and cranes up his neck. Merlin follows his gaze. Two shadows mar the perfect blue of the sky. They are still a distance away, but quickly growing nearer, the flapping of their wings is clearly visible. “Are those—”

“Dragons,” Morgana says in alarm. She looks at Merlin, her eyes wide. Her demeanour is always large as life, but now she seems like a fearful child, as she grasps Arthur’s arm.

Merlin just looks at the familiar figures and feels his heart sink. Kilgharrah and Naimroa, less than half an hour away, by the sight of it—and upon Kilgharrah must be Balinor. There’s no telling what he’ll do, but Merlin hopes that his father will have the good sense not to burn down Camelot.

“Of all times,” Arthur groans, and pushes Merlin and Morgana back towards the castle. “We need to go back. I’m sorry, Merlin, but your father will have to wait. I know my father has been stirring up trouble with Dracaneard, ever since he’s heard of Bayard’s possible alliance with Balinor, but I didn’t think Balinor would—well, come on, we have to hurry!”

Merlin, with great effort, releases himself from Arthur’s grip. Arthur looks back at him, clearly refraining himself from sprinting back to his Knights to defeat the dragons that are so close to Camelot now. 

“Just go,” Merlin says. “Morgana will help me get back. Your father needs you.”

He’s not sure that it’s the right decision to make, but they don’t have long before Balinor arrives, and he’ll certainly be going after Uther. Arthur is largely innocent of Uther’s wrongdoings, and neither King nor Prince will know what Balinor means if he’s asking for his son. Merlin has to hope that Balinor will choose peace until the end.

Arthur hesitates for a moment, looking between Merlin and the castle. Then he comes to a decision, and kisses Merlin on the lips. It’s only for a second, and unexpected—still, Merlin kisses back fiercely.

It’s a farewell, even if Arthur doesn’t know it yet.

“Don’t come into the castle until it’s safe,” Arthur says, and to Morgana, “Make sure that the both of you have a safe hiding space. We’ll try to kill the dragons and retreat to the castle if they’ve brought sorcerers, but I need both of you to be safe, even if we fail.”

“Go, Arthur,” Morgana says, and Arthur runs back the way they came.

“Morgana,” Merlin says, and grabs her arm. “Give me a second. We need to hurry back, too, before Balinor finds Uther and Arthur.”

“How do you know it’s Balinor?” Morgana asks, and looks back to the dragons. “I know he’s the Dragonlord, but coming here—it means war. I thought Dracaneard was peaceful, you’ve told me they were—”

“I told you we needed to hurry before my father came,” Merlin says wryly. Arthur might be betrayed twice over, but Morgana is sturdier than him, in some ways. She already knows bits and pieces of Merlin’s true background—the magic and Dracaneard, if not about his status.

She goes rigid as she understands Merlin’s implication, all the colour draining from her face. She grabs him, and Merlin stumbles. He has some energy now, due to his spell, but his legs are still sluggish and tired. 

“You cannot be,” she whispers, her fingernails digging into his arm. “Merlin—”

“We don’t have time to talk about it,” Merlin says, and tries to tug her forward. “Arthur’s going to be protecting Uther, and I can’t believe that Balinor will release the dragons on Camelot, but I’ve no idea what he might do to Uther. We need to figure out a way to resolve this peacefully.”

“We trusted you,” Morgana snaps, breaking her arm free from Merlin’s grip and taking two steps back. “You are Prince Emrys? You’ve been lying to us all this time?”

“How could I ever have told the truth?” 

“You shouldn’t have come to begin with! And now Arthur’s—”

“Listen to me,” Merlin says, and holds up his hand as a sign of surrender. “My first priority is Arthur, okay? I will protect him, no matter what it takes. We need to get back to the castle so we can make sure nothing happens, but I need your help, Morgana. You saw the figure on the dragon—I think that means you must be there, too. You are part of this, just as much as any of us.”

She glares at him. “Do you love Arthur?”

“Yes,” Merlin says easily. “Although I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t feel the same after this night’s through. I have a feeling it won’t end easily. Can you run?”

“I—yes, I think so. Can you?”

“I’ll have to. Come on, let’s go.”

In the sky, two dragons fly over the walls of Camelot, and the shouts begin in earnest.

Chapter Text

Most people are running away from the castle. Even the guards are coming along with the crowd—either because they want to stay with the citizens or are too afraid of dragons, Merlin can’t say, and he doesn’t have the time to care. He has slipped his hand in Morgana’s, ducking his head as they run against the quickly-thinning crowd. 

At least there will be no one to stop them. No one to block them until they reach Arthur—and Balinor.

Above Merlin’s head, Naimroa and Kilgharrah are nearing the castle too. Merlin tries to find the psychic link to the dragons that his heritage as the next Dragonlord grants him, but his father’s hold on them must be too strong, because Merlin can’t contact them. It’s the only thing that might have prevented a confrontation with Uther.

As it is, Naimroa and Kilgharrah perch on the walls of the castle comfortably, like two birds finding a roosting spot. They are out of reach of any swordsman, but Merlin swallows at the sight of the flaming arrows raining down at them. Naimroa swats at them, but Kilgharrah endures it as if he hasn’t even noticed. If Merlin peers, he can see several dark figures climb off their backs.

It seems that his father hasn’t come alone. 

The benefit to living in Camelot is that Merlin has grown perceptive of any magic being used. On a day-to-day basis, he sometimes feels some incantations from the town—some people still using magic in quiet defiance, but never enough to get noticed. The stronger spells are noticeable at once in a place where magic is so quiet, like Morgana’s. Merlin has taught himself to be blind to most of it, but the surge of magic is so sudden that his knees almost buckle.

A flash of light comes from the tower where Naimroa and Kilgharrah are seated, and Merlin pushes himself harder.

“What are you doing!” A guard—one of the last remaining ones—grabs Morgana roughly, and her hand slips from Merlin’s. Merlin recognises him, but doesn’t know his name.

“Let me go,” Morgana insists.

“It’s not safe!” the guard yells, and eyes Merlin darkly. Merlin is well-known in the castle, and the guard is clearly considering if it falls under his duties to bring the prince’s manservant to safety as well as the King’s ward. 

The decision is clear when the guard pushes at Morgana and turns away from Merlin entirely. “Slæp,” Merlin whispers, and the guard falls down at Morgana’s feet. He snores loudly, and Merlin winces at the sound.

“You didn’t teach me that one,” she says, stepping over his body.

“I didn’t think you’d really need it,” Merlin says.

“Excuses, excuses,” Morgana says, and eyes him. “I just realised. If you’re Emrys, that means you’re the most powerful sorcerer alive. That’s said of you, isn’t it? Or is that all just exaggerated rumour?”

“It’s complicated,” Merlin says. “But in essence, it’s true.”

“Then what have you been doing, teaching me cantrips and mastering my Sight?” Morgana exclaims. “You could’ve taught me to do so much more!”

“I’m not actually a teacher,” Merlin says. “And you have to start somewhere. Where do you think Uther will be? They must’ve seen Kilgharrah and Naimroa coming in time, so where would Uther go?”

“Where could he go?” Morgana scoffs, but at Merlin’s look, she continues. “The throne room, probably. It has only one entrance to defend and it fits enough fighting men. Moreover, it’s Uther. He’d be making a statement.”

Merlin doesn’t answer, and they enter the castle. No one is there to greet them—all the Knights will be with Uther and Arthur, Merlin guesses, and anyone else will have fled by now. The guards will be either finding the citizens a safe place or making place to attack the dragons, but at least they’re not here, and it makes it easy for them to run across the castle.

From above them, Merlin can hear a dragon’s roar. Concern for Kilgharrah and Naimroa crosses his mind for a moment, but he pushes it away. The throne room isn’t far away, and he can hear clamouring and men yelling. Merlin speeds up, leaving Morgana behind him to struggle with her dress, and throws open the doors to the throne room with a burst of magic.

Time stops, for a second, and not because of a spell of Merlin’s.

The first thing Merlin sees is his father, uninjured but for a scratch on his cheek, and his hand raised towards Uther. Uther’s look is one of defiance, and he holds his sword towards Balinor. Balinor’s spell must be doing something to stop him, but Merlin doesn’t take the time to unravel it.

Uther’s knights—Leon, Bedivere, Brennis, several others Merlin recognises—are all on the ground, forced to their knees and choking. And it is Arthur who sits with them, his hands on his throat as if trying to force himself to breathe. Merlin stills at the sight of him, and banishes his father’s spell without even a thought. Arthur wheezes, but he climbs to his feet as soon as the spell is gone.

It’s enough to break Balinor’s attention, and he turns to see Merlin in the entrance.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts. “Go! Go!”

“Emrys,” Balinor says, and takes a wavering step towards him—Uther and Arthur forgotten, even if his spell over Uther still holds. “Emrys, my Emrys—Merlin, you’re safe, my Merlin, my son—”

Merlin lets out a sob. He hasn’t seen his father in a year, and in the past three years, barely any time at all. And this—here he is, ready to go to war for Merlin, clearly torn at the thought of Merlin’s loss, and Merlin’s heart constricts. The thought of facing what is coming is too overwhelming, and his chest is heavy with heartbreak. He misses Dracaneard and his parents and his friends, and he grieves for his loss of Arthur.

Because Arthur is staring at him, and Merlin isn’t sure if he can face this.

“Father,” he says, and he meets Balinor in the middle to embrace him. His father’s rough beard scrapes against his forehead when he kisses him there and Merlin breathes in deeply, inhaling the smell of dragons and rain, before gently pushing him away.

Uther is still suspended in the air, his sword still raised. Arthur stands, holding his own sword loosely. The knights all look to their prince and Merlin swallows heavily.

“Arthur,” he says, and raises his hands. “Please. Lay down your weapons. There’s no need for a fight.”

“Emrys—” Balinor starts.

“You never should have come,” Merlin says. “I know you’re here out of concern, but this is—none of this is necessary. If you’d just had patience, we could’ve had peace. When Arthur is king—”

“Release my father,” Arthur says, his voice thick. “Merlin—”

“Arthur, let me explain—I know you don’t understand—”

“I don’t know what this is, and I have no idea who you are, Merlin, but I will not listen to anything you say until my father is no longer under your enchantment.” Arthur barely shakes as he says it, but Merlin can see the warped sense of loss on his face, and notices the way Arthur has curled a tight fist around the handle of his sword.

“Uther is my enemy, and has taken Prince Emrys of Dracaneard,” Balinor says, voice cold. “I shall do no such thing.”

“I was here voluntarily,” Merlin says in exasperation, and doesn’t look at Arthur.

He turns towards Uther and wordlessly releases his father’s spell. Balinor shudders when Merlin takes hold of him, and he stares at Merlin with his lips parted and eyebrows raised, a complete lack of understanding in his face. Uther starts forward, panting, and fixes his sword on Merlin and Balinor. For a moment, he just breathes, but then he swings his sword forward and Merlin dodges back, grabbing Balinor’s arm to yank him along to a safe distance. 

“Sorcerers,” he hisses, his face red in anger. “And Dracaneard royalty, besides! I will have your head for this, Balinor, and your spy whelp’s shall be on a spike as an example to the rest of your kind! How dare you infiltrate Camelot, and how dare—”

“Wait!” Morgana yells. She leans against the door, holding her dress in a way that would’ve appalled her only a day earlier. 

Merlin murmurs a prayer to the old gods under his breath. Arthur’s sword is down, but Uther’s is still pointed towards Balinor and Merlin. Arthur is still staring, and Merlin can’t meet his eyes right now, and Balinor’s head is swinging between the immediate danger of Uther, Merlin, who is behind him, and Morgana, blocking their only escape route.

“Morgana,” Uther says. “Step away, quickly. These sorcerers will stop at nothing—”

“She’s my friend,” Merlin snaps.

“You! You’re nothing but a liar and a weaselly spy for your father, boy! Why are you here? Information, or—”

“Don’t presume to know anything about me,” Merlin says, and finally allows the anger at everything Uther’s done to his people to come out. “I am here for Arthur, and for Arthur alone, Uther. You are not half the king that your son will be! He is the Once and Future King, the true King, and you’re nothing but a stand-in for a man greater than you’ll ever be!”

“Kill them!” Uther yells.

The knights spur into action. Merlin tilts his head, feeling the magic thrum in his veins upon his wordless command, and they all fall back. He only spares Arthur from the spell, who is still staring at Merlin and Balinor as if he can’t quite believe what is happening. 

Uther roars and charges, and Arthur slowly raises his own sword. Balinor holds up his hand, but Merlin still controls Balinor’s magic and he tugs at his father’s arm to get him out of harm's way—and Uther’s sword pierces Balinor’s side, and his father shouts out in pain.

“No!” Merlin cries, and raises his own hands. Uther is thrown back with his knights, unconscious. Only Arthur is still awake, staring blankly at Balinor as he falls down. Merlin tries to hoist him up, but he’s only dragged down by Balinor’s dead weight.

“Merlin!” Morgana says, and kneels beside him. “Will he be alright?”

“By the gods,” Merlin whispers, and gently helps his father down. Balinor’s head lolls back, hitting the floor with a thud, and Merlin winces before he touches the wound. His fingers come back red, but Uther hasn’t hit a major artery, as far as Merlin can judge. Merlin had pulled Balinor far enough aside for Uther’s attack to hit in a place that won’t kill him.

“I don’t—” Arthur says, and adjusts his grip on his sword as he toes closer. “Merlin—”

“Arthur, listen to me,” Merlin says, and looks up to him, on his knees. “Balinor’s injured, but he will live. Uther has only been thrown back—I didn’t kill anyone today, and neither did my father. Our dragons are still on your roof, and your arrows won’t make a difference. We will leave, and there will be no need for war. I want peace, do you understand? I want peace.”

“You’re Emrys,” Arthur says. “The Crown Prince of Dracaneard. A sorcerer. You’re Emrys.”

“I get the confusion, but my name really is Merlin,” Merlin answers. “Arthur, our fathers would go to war over this, but they’re unconscious and no one has died. We can settle this for now, and it’ll be fine. My father won’t send men to Camelot when he’s home, and Uther—well, I can protect my people from Dracaneard. Please, just please. If you’ve ever listened to me—”

“I have, that’s the problem. You’ve lied to me—you’ve always been lying to me, and now I just—I can’t do this. Merlin, you were—I would’ve given you—Why?”

“I know,” Merlin murmurs. “I know. I don’t expect you to understand, but for now, you have to choose, Arthur. Do you really want a war?

“Would you fight me?” Arthur says, and looks lost. “With your magic?”

Merlin lets his father lie on the floor for a moment and gets to his feet. “No,” he says. “Arthur, I would never fight you. You don’t understand.”

“How could I? I should cut you down where you stand, but you—”

“I’m not your enemy,” Merlin says. He’s trying to be gentle, but he can’t help but hear the bitterness in his own tone. His father is bleeding out on the ground, and Arthur is staring at him like he’s a stranger. Morgana is oddly silent, still kneeling by Balinor’s side.

Arthur lets out a humourless laugh. “You’re not my manservant, either. I’m not quite sure what you are.”

Merlin runs a hand over his own face. He briefly smells blood, and he must’ve smeared some on his face, but he is too weary to linger on the thought. “I can’t explain right now, but I will,” he says. “Morgana, can you find Gaius? Kilgharrah is a steady flyer, but Father is losing a lot of blood, and I’ll need his help to get the wound dressed quickly. We’ll need to get him back up on the roof—no reason to make the dragons break through the castle—”

“No,” Arthur says, and shakes his head at Morgana. “We’re not—I’m going to put you in the dungeons, both you and your father—”

“Arthur,” Merlin says impatiently. “I’m the most powerful sorcerer you’re ever going to meet. Do you really think your dungeons would hold me?”

Arthur stares at him for a moment. Morgana gets to her feet. “I’ll try and find him,” she says resolutely. “Gwen, too, if I can. We’ll need steady hands, and she’ll—Gwen is sensible.”

She disappears as quickly as she came, and Merlin falls back down to his knees. Balinor groans at the sensation of Merlin’s fingers running over his tunic, trying to tear it off. He can stop the bleeding if he binds it with the ruined cloth, but Gaius might have something better, and Merlin doesn’t know if it’s better to wait. After a moment, he tears the material apart anyway, because Gaius can undo it if it’s not good enough. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, and runs a fleeting hand over Balinor’s forehead. “ Gehælan.”

Balinor moves, but the bleeding doesn’t stop. Merlin rests his head against Balinor’s chest, trying to calm himself. Healing spells don’t come naturally to him, and he can’t rely on the adrenaline to get them right. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, incredulously.

“My father is bleeding out,” Merlin says, not even raising his head. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m trying to heal him, but I can’t think—I can’t do this, and I can’t calm myself down, and you’re just standing there and I don’t even know what to tell you at this point, and this is all—just—useless!”

He gets back to his feet and wants to throw up at once. He’s faint, and closes his eyes. Suddenly, Arthur’s hands hold his own. Merlin’s eyes fly open, but Arthur is not looking back. He’s just frowning at their hands, and Balinor’s blood that’s still on Merlin’s.

“This is weird,” Arthur says. “You just knocked all my men unconscious. You can’t even hold a sword properly.”

“Don’t need to,” Merlin murmurs. “I’ve been able to command lightning since I was six. I don’t think a sword is going to help you much in a situation where you’re up against me.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. “That is oddly concerning and good to hear at the same time.”

“I need,” Merlin says, and takes a deep breath. “I need to take control. Okay. I can do that. I’m definitely great at that. First thing is to get Balinor patched up and with Kilgharrah. I need—um.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Arthur says, “But you need to make sure we’re out of here before the knights wake up. How long do you have?”

Merlin stares at the unconscious figures. “Well, an hour or so. But the guards might come back when they’ve secured the Lower Town. I suppose—well, I could take care of them, in that case. I already put someone to sleep. Is that—sorry about that, actually. I’m just—thank you, Arthur.”

“Do you need to—” Arthur clears his throat, “to go talk to the dragons? Is that—”

“Oh,” Merlin realises. “Right. Actually, we saw several people. Oh—they’re with the dragons! Right. Backup. That’s good. Someone to carry Father to Kilgharrah. That’s—I’ll need that. I think my spell is fading.”

“Your spell?” Arthur asks, and Merlin shakes his head.

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m a little—well, it’s a weird day. I survived a poisoning, but I’m still ill, but I was afraid that Balinor was going to come—a vision, you know, but you can never be truly certain, so I hoped—doesn’t matter, Morgana will help, and if Gaius comes—”

“Merlin.”

Merlin swallows. “Yes. Sorry. I gave myself some extra energy with a spell, or I never would’ve made it up here. I think I’m going to—faint, soon. Hopefully not soon. Sorry. Everything’s a little woozy.”

Arthur frowns at him, and Merlin is not even sure what it’s for this time. He opens his mouth to ask, but Morgana hurries back. She didn’t bring only Gaius—Gwen is there, too, and Lancelot and Edwin. They must have come down when the fighting stopped, Merlin thinks.

“Merlin!” Gaius says, and surveys the situation with a complicated expression on his face that Merlin doesn’t have the energy to figure out. “What in the world did you manage to get yourself into this time, my boy?”

“Prince Emrys,” Edwin says stiffly.

“Hi,” Merlin says, and blinks. “Erm—Arthur? I need—could you sort of—” He waves his hands at the people that have just entered. Merlin stumbles, and Arthur grabs hold of him before he can fall over.

“Merlin,” Lancelot says, suddenly by his side and taking hold of his arm. “We were concerned about you. I wanted to tell your father that you were safe, but the King didn’t want to listen to me.”

“As rightly he shouldn’t have,” Edwin replies hotly. “Camelot! They’ve executed our people for more than twenty years, and they would kill us now if they could—”

“Not everyone feels that way,” Morgana says tersely.

Gaius looks up from where he sits on the floor, examining Balinor’s wound. Edwin is beside him, holding onto Balinor as tightly as he can. Gaius says, “It’s merely a flesh wound, but the bleeding concerns me. It’s a fine strap, Merlin, in as far as you’ve made do. It might hold for your journey, although I’m not sure how safe it will be for him to fly on a dragon.”

“Kilgharrah won’t let him fall,” Merlin says absently. “If only because that’d make me Dragonlord, and then Kilgharrah would be really grumpy.”

“Right,” Gwen says, looking pained. “Is someone going to—explain any of this to me?”

“Merlin is actually Prince Emrys,” Morgana says. “Do try and keep up, Gwen. Now, those two knight figures—I suppose you will have to carry up your King, don’t you? Best to be gone before Uther comes to his senses.”

“This explains so much,” Gwen mutters to herself.

“How can you talk like that, Morgana?” Arthur asks, grinding his teeth. “Merlin—your friend—has lied to you for three years, and you’re just going to forgive him like that? Have you gone mad, or has he enchanted you?”

“Oh, I haven’t forgiven him for anything, and he certainly hasn't enchanted me,” Morgana says cheerfully. “However, he has also shown me that my nightmares are actually visions and that I have magic, and he’s helped me to control it. I’m very mad at him, but he’s also on the verge of passing out and I think he’s upset enough about you being mad at him already, so I’m just waiting my turn.”

“Thank you,” Merlin tells her, and blinks sluggishly.

“You’re welcome!”

“You have magic?” Arthur repeats.

“Let’s focus here,” Lancelot cuts in. “Edwin, once Gaius has dressed the King’s wounds, you can carry him to Kilgharrah with a spell. Merlin’s about dead on his feet, so I’ll carry him up—”

“No carrying,” Merlin insists, and pushes Lancelot away for good measure. Immediately, the world starts to tilt sideways again. “I can—it’s fine.”

“My prince, we have to insist,” Edwin says, and stares at him. Merlin feels the entire throne room’s eyes on him, and he itches to get away. Uther twitches in the corner, and Merlin blinks again.

Arthur scoops him up, and before Merlin can protest, he’s carried bridal style in Arthur’s arms. It’s oddly nice, and Merlin thinks his noise of complaint dies out a little sooner than it ought to have, for pride’s sake. But he is weary, and there’s white spots in front of his eyes that make it hard for him to see, and even in Arthur’s arms he feels how heavy his limbs are.

“I have him,” Arthur says decisively. “It’s best if you’re on your way earlier rather than later. Lancelot, make sure no guards are coming. Gaius, is King Balinor ready to be moved?”

“As much as I can make him here,” Gaius grumbles. “They must make haste to Dracaneard. Balinor needs rest and salves, and I have neither to give him.”

“Let’s move,” Arthur says, and Merlin’s head lolls against Arthur’s chest.

~*~

Merlin doesn’t see much of the walk up to the stairs. All he really notices is the careful jostling of Arthur’s arms and a hand on his forehead. He thinks Gwen and Morgana walk with Arthur, because he recognises their gentle voices, but he can’t make out what they are saying.

He only comes back to full consciousness when they are outside. The light of the setting sun is startlingly warm on his face, and the breeze of air shocks him into awareness. He finds himself clinging to Arthur, who looks grimly at him and sets him down gently.

“You were out of it for a bit,” Arthur says softly, and looks over towards the roof. 

Merlin rubs his face. “Still not doing very well, I think,” he says. Kilgharrah and Naimroa peer down at them, but Lancelot and Edwin are taking care of the dragons. Kilgharrah seems mostly interested in Balinor, oddly concerned in a way that Merlin hasn’t seen him before.

“Just yesterday,” Arthur says, suddenly, and Merlin looks back at him, “I was sitting next to the bedside of my manservant—a manservant who I thought very brave, and wise beyond his years, and very loyal—and now, there’s you, and I don’t know what to think. And my father would call me foolish for it, because you’ve betrayed me, but I still just think of you in that bed, and I feel—I could not accept the thought of your death yesterday, and I dare not think of it today.”

“I’m not so different,” Merlin tells him, and shrugs when Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I am sorry, Arthur. Truly. I swear, I never set out to—but I couldn’t have told you. I’m meant to be by your side, you know. I know that, but there’s no place for me there. Not now, not with—this.”

Arthur looks back at the dragons. “You’ll be leaving, and I won’t see you again. It might be for the best, considering. I’m not sure I want to, really, Merlin.”

“Oh, we’ll meet again,” Merlin says, and bites his lip. “Destiny doesn’t tend to care for what we want.”

“I don’t believe that,” Arthur says.

Naimroa flaps her wings and lands next to them. Merlin turns to see Balinor on Kilgharrah’s back, still unconscious. He’s held fast by Edwin. Lancelot stands by them, but his attention is clearly not on the King anymore, but rather on Gwen. 

“Dragon Prince,” Naimroa says, peering coldly at Arthur. “I will carry you to your home, but we must go now. The guards will return to fight us soon, and you do not wish for me to set fire to this kingdom.”

“We’re saying our goodbyes,” Arthur says.

“You do not need to bid goodbye to the Dragon Prince. You will see him again. It has been written thus, and so it shall be. Has he not yet told you, Once and Future King?”

“Arthur doesn’t believe in destiny,” Merlin tells her, smiling tiredly, and leans his head against her. It’s both a comfort to be with his dragons again, and it allows him to look away from Arthur’s conflicted expression.

Naimroa scoffs, and smoke comes out of her nostrils. “There is no belief required. These things come to pass, whether you want to or not.”

“These are the dragons, then?” Arthur stares at Naimroa with both awe and scepticism. “Right. Dragons. That’s—I can talk to dragons today.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot calls, his hand still on Gwen’s. “We need to go. Kilgharrah is ready to fly, and the king is secure.”

“Right,” Merlin says, and turns back to Arthur. His legs are shaking with effort. “This is probably going to sound—well, I mean—I’d rather stay here, with you. As your manservant. And I know you may never forgive me, and I can’t blame you for that—but you do deserve an explanation. Wait, actually, Morgana?”

Morgana had been in the shadows, clearly uncomfortable with the dragons, but now she steps forward. “Yes?”

“I’ve spent the last three years dealing with anyone trying to kill Arthur and Uther,” he says wryly, and wants to keel over from exhaustion, but this needs to be done. “I’ve got—wards up, in some places, erm. They should hold up, but—right, erm. There’s a lot of people after the Pendragons, and I’ve been doing my best, but I won’t—”

“Merlin—” Arthur starts.

“No, just—” Merlin holds up his arm, and presses his eyes shut and leans against Naimroa. She grumbles defensively, lifting up her wing over him, and he pats her with all his remaining strength. “Morgana, you’re going to have to look out for them now. Gaius’ll help you, he knows where the wards are too, but just—Gaius will tell you everything about all the assassination attempts.”

“Assassination attempts?” Morgana and Arthur say in unison.

“Ask Gaius,” Merlin says pointedly. “And, if Uther is ever to find out about your magic, or you find life in Camelot unpleasant for any other reasons—Dracaneard is open to you, always.”

“For a ward of Uther’s?” Morgana says, smirking. “That, I find hard to believe.”

Merlin shrugs. “We’re the kingdom of refugees.”

The silence that falls is awkward. Arthur doesn’t move away, but neither does he say anything. Merlin doesn’t know what to make of him—doesn’t know what to make about any of this, and his head is still pounding, and his legs feel like they might give any moment. Any of these aches are still better than how his heart is doing, currently.

Kilgharrah jumps up, and flies towards the horizon. Arthur starts, and stares at Kilgharrah with a pale face.

Naimroa nudges Merlin. “We must leave, Dragon Prince.”

“I’m flying with you,” Lancelot says, joining them. “It’s good to see you again, Prince Arthur. We’re very thankful for your understanding.”

“I don’t understand any of it,” Arthur says.

Lancelot smiles. “Nevertheless. Goodbye, Gwen. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Gwen hugs him, and then Merlin. Merlin closes his eyes when he takes in her scent, and presses his nose into her curls. He meant it when he said he would rather stay. He’s not even sure what to do in Dracaneard, but this is the end of a time he’d rather not see end.

The time that he was with Arthur, and the time Arthur loved him without reservation.

“Goodbye, Merlin,” Morgana says, and kisses his cheek when Gwen has stepped back. “Make sure you’re safe, and give my regards to your father.”

“Oh, Mum would love you,” Merlin says. 

Gaius has come up to them too, having fussed over the King until then. The physician doesn’t hesitate to embrace Merlin tightly, his eyes pressed close. Merlin burrows his face in Gaius’ stuffy clothes and muffles a sob.

“Gaius—”

“I know you have a father of your own, Merlin,” Gaius says, “and that an elderly uncle has no real claim to you. But you’ve been like a son to me for years, and I will miss you deeply .”

“I’ll write to you,” Merlin promises, and has a hard time letting his mentor go. When he does, Gaius smiles tiredly at him.

That leaves Arthur, twiddling with his thumbs and looking down. “Merlin…”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, when it becomes clear Arthur isn’t going to say anything else. “If nothing else, believe that.”

“I do,” Arthur says, and his eyes are dark as he stares at Merlin. He makes no move to say anything else, and so Merlin steps back, his heart heavy. There is nothing else he can do here, but it still feels like he is giving up on something he wants more desperately than anything.

“Goodbye,” Merlin says. Arthur says nothing.

He hoists himself up on Naimroa’s back with Lancelot’s help, and breathes out loudly as she jumps off of the castle’s roof. Some of the guards, far down below, shout at the movement, but Merlin only has eyes for one figure still standing outside.

Then Naimroa gains speed, and Merlin loses sight of Arthur.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE I

The letter sits in front of Arthur, and he taps the first page once, twice. The words curl over the page, seemingly written in haste. Or perhaps that’s just Merlin’s—no, Emrys’ handwriting. Arthur remembers the speeches that Merlin used to write for him, remembers the few times that Merlin had sat on the floor, cross-legged, as he wrote them. He remembers the quill in Merlin’s mouth as he thought, and the stains it would make on his lower lip.

Mostly, he remembers wanting to kiss those lips for far too long.

“Leon,” he calls, and the Knight ducks his head to attention. Leon is always quiet and solemn, but he’s also one of Arthur’s closest friends and one of their best knights. 

Arthur has nonetheless never told him what exactly occurred that night that the dragons came.

“Yes, my lord?”

“This letter. You say it came with a bird. Is the bird still here?”

“Erm,” Leon says. “I’m not sure, my lord. I could check. Are you—from whom is it, if I may ask, my lord? Because if you want to send a letter back, I’m sure we could arrange something else.”

Arthur waves him off. “Never mind. I was just wondering.”

If Leon is suspicious, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he draws back into the shadow, waiting for an order. Arthur reads it again, and again. His eyes linger longest on that first line. My dearest Arthur , it says. My dearest. Arthur idly traces the black ink, already slightly faint with age. 

He wonders if Merlin put that quill in his mouth, too, when he wrote this letter. If he sat cross-legged in his own chambers. For the Prince of Dracaneard must have a set of chambers, and a desk to write on. His own servants to do his bidding, and perhaps a manservant to help him with clothing and menial tasks. Someone whose hands might linger on Merlin’s own shoulders, the way Merlin’s had lingered on Arthur’s—

My dearest Arthur, the letter reads. Arthur bites his lower lip and tries to stop himself from wondering what Merlin meant when he wrote those words. From the vague explanation in the letter, the promise of meeting in a distant future—Arthur can’t know what to make of it. Your destiny, Merlin has written, and mine, as if it is so natural for him to talk of destinies as if they are fact. 

As if it’s so normal to be told that you share a destiny with someone else.

Merlin, in true fashion, has not gone into any detail, and Arthur isn’t sure if he wants to know. This is already more than he thought he would get. He had thought that he’d seen the last of Prince Emrys when he’d gone slack in Lancelot’s arms, on the back of that beast.

Arthur hadn’t had time to watch him fly off very far. There had been guards everywhere, and the Knights had started to wake up, and Uther had been in a rage. Morgana is still in her room with only Gwen for company and no one else allowed, after they’d gotten in a shouting match right after Uther woke up.

Arthur hasn’t tried to see her yet. He doesn’t know if he can.

My dearest Arthur, he reads again. I know I’ve lied to you. I know that, in your mind, I’ve betrayed you. I want you to know that deception was never my intention, the first time I stepped foot in Camelot. I never meant to stay. I would not have, if it hadn’t been for you.

Arthur breathes out loudly, and the paper wrinkles in his grip.

“My lord?” Leon ventures.

“It’s fine,” Arthur says, and relaxes his hands. The wrinkles in the letter remain and he tries to smooth them out. He fails.

I did stay. I stole away the years. I have never been a good prince—that was always you. But I was good at being by your side, unrelentlessly and unapologetically. I’m not sorry for that.

The chair scrapes over the floor more loudly than Arthur intended, and he winces at the sound. Leon looks at him in askance and Arthur just smiles tightly. There’s a fire going in the hearth, lit by one of the servants. No one has taken over the position of manservant yet—George had tried, and Arthur had sent him away.

Not even Uther has forced the issue. Arthur wonders if his father, even distantly, knows how much regard his son had for a lowly servant. Gwen knows, and Morgana, and Leon, and some of the knights. It wouldn’t have mattered, if Merlin had been as lowborn as Arthur thought he was.

Princes take lovers. Kings take consorts. Arthur would have had to marry, and he would have to conceive an heir, but love isn’t central in a marriage. Only three weeks ago, he’d pictured a future with an as-of-yet nameless and faceless wife, who is slightly pleasant and can accept a husband to whom she will always be second, which is the main thing that will attract Arthur to her. Brown hair, probably—brown eyes, maybe. Someone kind, but in the end, not the one to whom his affections belong.

And then there would be Merlin, always, with his bubbly smile that stretches his face too wide and those blue eyes— 

Always Merlin—unrelentlessly, unapologetically. And a wife that Arthur could never love, as long as Merlin was in his bed. It had seemed like more than anything else Arthur would ever have hoped for.

Arthur makes his way to the hearth. The letter creaks in his hand, as if protesting. But Arthur has memorised the words now, and the contents are things he’d rather forget. Besides, if anyone were ever to find the letter that Prince Emrys penned him—

There is no saying what Uther might do. 

The fire crackles, and Arthur throws the letter in. It catches fire within a moment, and Arthur feels a more profound sense of relief than he really should have. For a second, he wants Merlin to be there, and only then remembers that Merlin is home. In Dracaneard.

“Are you alright, my lord?” Leon says, and hesitates. “Arthur—”

“Not really,” he says, and turns to Leon. “But you know what might cheer me up?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

Arthur watches the letter disappear entirely, all the words burnt from existence—I will meet you again, Arthur, and for my part, I will meet you in the same friendship and trust we’ve always shared—and he straightens his shoulders. Leon is still staring at him, slightly wary and with his eyebrows raised. 

“I’m going to talk to Morgana.”

Chapter Text

PART V

“They say it will snow during Samhain, this year,” Freya says, and stares outside the window. Winter has come, ruthless and colder than in the last five years, and Merlin hasn’t been allowed outside of the castle grounds in the half year he’s been back.

“It’s a good omen for the Priestesses,” Merlin says, still lying on his bed. He hasn’t had much to do but study his spells in the last few months. Balinor won’t let him out to see the dragons—while Merlin’s powers are strong enough that he could ignore Balinor’s orders and do as he wants, but he doesn’t really see what the point would be. He can’t go back to Camelot, and he can’t escape Dracaneard.

Freya turns to him, her dark eyebrows raised. “Since when have you cared for the Priestesses?”

“Never,” Merlin admits, and rolls over so he doesn’t have to look at her. “But they’ve sayings about Samhain, you know. The Disir like their winters cold and dark, is what they tell us, and the gods help me if I can’t have a bit of luck every now and then.”

“Stop complaining,” Freya says, and taps his exposed thigh. “You should be glad you got off as lightly as you did, really. It’s just like before you left, except with some more disappointed staring.”

“It’s not right,” Merlin insists. “I should be by Arthur’s side. I should be—I don’t know, but I don’t want to be away from Camelot. What use am I here, now that my father won’t even listen to me?”

Freya raises her eyebrows at him. “You’re still the crown prince, Merlin,” she says, not unkindly, and pulls at his arm until Merlin sits up.

“What does that count for, when my father’s willingly ignoring every word I say?” Merlin says in exasperation. “I explained, a thousand times, who Arthur is, that he’s the Once and Future King. He just doesn’t want to believe it—doesn’t want to think about the implications of his greatest enemy being the salvation of everyone with magic!”

“He’s not wrong,” Freya says softly.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on, Merlin.” She stands up, and walks back towards the window. Her face is illuminated by the fire playing in Merlin’s hearth, her eyes glimmering mysteriously. “We all know you love him. But his father is Uther, and he—you can’t deny that he killed sorcerers. That he hunted down druids. It may not be his law, not right now, but—well, you never told him about the magic. Doesn’t that say something?”

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Merlin says, after a beat of silence.

“Will thinks you’re in over your head.”

“Will is wrong.”

“Well, then I think it,” Freya says heatedly. “It’s been five months, Merlin. You’ve sent him that letter, didn’t you, and you haven’t heard anything from him. I understand how you feel about him, I really do—to love someone, and to not—not know what they think about you.” She looks lost, for a moment, and Merlin frowns at her. “But you’re a prince. When are you going to look to your own people first, instead of a prince who can protect himself? Who won’t even accept you for who you are?”

“I lied to him,” Merlin says.

Freya shakes her head. “That’s what you want to focus on?” she asks. “Of course you lied to him, Merlin. You couldn’t have told him the truth, could you? But you’re still defending him. We’re all—worried about how this is going to play out for Dracaneard, and you’re still stuck with your head in Camelot!”

Of course they are worried. It has been five months without a single word from Camelot or Uther, and everyone who knows Merlin was there is waiting for something to happen. It isn’t like Uther to sit still after what may have been as good as a declaration of war on Balinor’s side, and Merlin is the only one who has some faith in Arthur’s abilities to talk Uther down from fighting them.

At least, that’s why Merlin hopes nothing has happened. Everyone else is just waiting for Uther to strike back against Dracaneard, regardless of the magic that is keeping his forces out of their kingdom. 

“It’s my destiny!” Merlin argues, just to try and defend his actions. “Arthur’s the Once and Future King, and he will be the one to free magic—defending him is defending my people!”

“Maybe one day,” Freya says, and sighs. “I believe you, Merlin. One day, I believe that’ll be true. But not today.”

She sweeps out of the room, and Merlin falls back onto his bed. 

Five months, and he’s still only making things worse.

~*~

It’s three weeks before Samhain when the news comes to Dracaneard.

“My lord,” says Rhonan, Balinor’s manservant, as he interrupts the tense family dinner. “We've got news from Gawant. They are under attack.”

Balinor stands up, and Merlin winces at the creaking of his chair. “What? From whom?”

That’s something Merlin would also like to know, actually. Dracaneard doesn’t have much in the way of allies—especially not after Bayard had gone back on their fragile alliance after all the issues with Camelot, Princess Astrid’s dislike for that decision notwithstanding—but Gawant is the one kingdom that at least can be called somewhat of a friend to Dracaneard, and everyone knows it. The problem is the magic; it’s not legal anywhere, but at least Gawant isn’t actively executing anyone who simply has it. It makes it impossible for Dracaneard to form real allies, but if they did have them, Gawant would be the first one. 

Balinor’s attempt to wed Merlin to Princess Elena would’ve done a great deal to strengthen that relationship, but Merlin trusts Elena. When she inherits the throne, he thinks their alliance will be fortified and the friendship between their two kingdoms will be all the stronger for it. They don’t need to marry for that.

“Camelot and Deorham, my lord,” Rhonan says, and Merlin blinks.

“Wait, why?” he demands. 

“I can guess why,” Balinor says, and looks at Merlin. Merlin’s cheeks burn at the implication of his father’s words. “What I don’t understand is why Uther Pendragon has waited for five months to act.”

“Let’s get the council together,” Hunith suggests, and rises from her seat as well. “Rhonan, why don’t you make sure everyone is ready for an assembly in an hour? Merlin and Freya, if you can make sure you’re ready to join the meeting too—that would be lovely.”

Balinor takes a deep breath. 

“And bring word to Sir Lancelot, Rhonan,” he adds. “We might be going to war.”

~*~

Sometimes, Merlin thinks he should’ve been born in Ealdor as a lowly peasant boy, and only been Arthur’s manservant. Things would’ve been less complicated, even with the magic, because Arthur might have forgiven him for that if Merlin had found a way to tell the truth. 

But Merlin was born a prince, and the only worthwhile example he’s had is heading a pointless invasion, apparently, one that will take too many lives, and all for the bloodlust of a man who’s already destroyed so much. And Merlin doesn’t understand why.

“Do you think my father will notice if I just slip away?” he asks wryly, wringing his hands as they walk down the corridors towards the council session. He’s been vouching for Arthur’s character for nearly half a year now—if his father didn’t listen before, Merlin really doubts he’ll listen now. He mostly wants to duck away to his room and stay there until someone comes to tell him this is all just a misunderstanding, and there’s no war.

“You’re still our prince,” Freya reminds him sternly. “And just because you can’t run away this time doesn’t mean that you don’t have things to be doing here. Merlin, they need you. We need you. This meeting will be important.”

Arthur would go, even if he would rather be eaten by dragons. Arthur would be their prince, and would so effortlessly lead and inspire, and command the respect he has earned through his valour and kindness.

Merlin was born with his powers, and possesses nothing of Arthur’s spirit. But he has vowed to try, and so he sits up. Freya gently elbows him in the ribs and takes his arm in her own, and that gives him a bit more strength. Even if she doesn’t agree, she is more than a sister to him.

“I’m just worried,” he says, and swallows heavily. He rubs at his eyes, and slows his breathing. If he isn’t mad about this war, he’ll probably cry, and then Balinor will really be upset with him.

Freya kisses his forehead. “He’ll be fine, Merlin. We’ll all be fine.”

She can’t know that, of course. She can’t. But Merlin chooses to trust her anyway, and they enter the hall together, where everyone else is already sitting. Merlin swallows hard when Balinor’s eyes fall on him, and inclines his head towards everyone else sitting at the table—the five court sorcerers that are currently there, and who have, no doubt, their own thoughts about Merlin’s prophecy and his current attempt at fulfilling it.

In total, there are eight court sorcerers of Dracaneard, and they all have their own responsibilities. Normally, kingdoms only have one court sorcerer; or at least, that’s the way it used to be before magic fell into decline, and then was entirely eradicated after Uther’s purge. But most kings will remember that there was once a man or woman by their side to protect them from evil wards and to foresee their futures. 

Dracaneard isn’t a normal kingdom. So they have eight, and although they can’t all quite boast the same rank that an ordinary court sorcerer would be able to, they’re still among the most important members of Balinor’s court. They are to Merlin what the knights are to Arthur, and he knows most of them rather well.

Edwin is the newest addition, and the youngest. Adwin is the one who taught him, and occasionally Merlin at the same time, in his specialisation of deflection magic and glamours. Most of the court sorcerers have their own specialties, but it’s not a requirement for joining the court. Besides Edwin and Adwin, there’s Aoife, who knows more about defensive magic than anyone else, and Chossach, Ganna and Wynna. The last two court sorcerers, Dubhtach and Taliesin, are not presently at court.

“Good afternoon,” Freya greets them as she takes her own seat at the table. Balinor and Hunith sit at the head of it, and Merlin wordlessly takes his place on his father’s right. It’s not a place he feels entitled to, anymore. He’s skipped many of the last few council sessions, if only to escape his father’s glances.

“We’re glad you’re here,” Hunith says, warmly, and Merlin can feel her looking at him. Although his parents haven’t actually brought it up, it’s a clear breach of the expectations placed upon Merlin when he’s in Dracaneard that he hasn’t been here in so long. He is twenty-one, and he is supposed to be involved in the court’s decision.

So he doesn’t say anything, uncertain if he feels more embarrassed about not having attended or about the fact that he still doesn’t want to be here. Even when he was a manservant, Arthur had taken Merlin’s warnings to heart. It’s more than his father is willing to do, these days.

“This is serious business,” Balinor says brusquely, and stares across the room, meeting the gazes of everyone attending. The eight court sorcerers are there, as well as Lancelot and some of the other knights and nobles. “We’ve received word that Camelot and Deorham have invaded Gawant. We can only expect that this is because they want to draw us out, since they can’t breach our magic barriers.”

It’s not too far of a leap, and Merlin stares down at the table as he feels the eyes of his people burning. 

“When did this start, my lord?” Lancelot asks.

“We received word from a messenger just now,” Balinor tells him. “He can’t say much, but it appears that King Godwyn of Gawant received word from King Alined that some of his land should rightfully belong to Deorham. He invaded their kingdom four days ago, although serious bloodshed has been avoided so far. We have reports that he is taking their villages.”

“He’s prodding at an old wound,” Ganna protests, her voice echoing. “Surely, that’s all been laid to rest? Gawant has held that land for two generations now—”

Balinor holds up his hand, and Ganna falls silent. “I don’t think it’s Alined who felt the need to stir up this trouble. We’ve slighted Uther Pendragon, and he has made an alliance with Deorham to attack Gawant so that we will feel honour-bound to help, is what I expect. Uther wants us, not Gawant—not that King Godwyn is aware of that.”

“Alined’s a slimy man,” Adwin agrees mildly. “He’ll do anything for money and riches.”

“And Uther is richer than Godwyn,” Taliesin adds. “Gawant can never outlast those two armies if they decide they want war, and it seems unlikely Godwyn can pay off Alined.”

“We have to help them,” Chossach says, crossing his arms. “If Uther or Alined take that land, it would mean they feel free to go to war with anyone who might ever choose our side. And Gawant is the only friend we have in Albion.”

“We can’t go to war,” Merlin says, aghast.

“We can’t go to war lightly,” Balinor tells him strictly, running his hand over his face. This news seems to have aged him ten years, and Merlin feels torn between wanting to yell at his father for even contemplating throwing their people into this turmoil and wanting to embrace him. 

Although he thinks yelling might be the easier option. “What about making peace?” Merlin challenges him. “Isn’t that an option any longer?”

“With Uther Pendragon?” Balinor says, staring hard at him. “The man who has been hunting your people for two decades? He would see us dead before anything else, and you want to talk about peace—”

“Arthur will be the Once and Future King, one day—”

“But he isn’t king, is he?” Balinor cuts him off. “He is the son of your enemy, and you would sit by and watch them take the villages of your allies? Take over his land? He is leading this army, Emrys, and your naivety—”

“I am doing what you’ve always told me I need to do!” Merlin yells, and fights the tears that he feels well up. It’s not as if he wants to cry—he’s not even feeling sad, but he’s frustrated. Frustrated that his father won’t listen to him after five months of pleading, and that he’s still being treated as if he can’t take this seriously. Even now, the court sorcerers and Freya remain silent, and it’s not as if he can’t guess what they think.

They think he’s trusting too much in what destiny has to say about Arthur. And they’ve forgotten who have taught him to do so. Merlin remembers the first time he joined this council, when he was thirteen and had more opinions than facts to back them up with. The court sorcerers had been gentle with him then, had tried to involve him and gently explained what they did and why. Now, Merlin is under rebuke, all because he has given his heart for a prophecy they all wanted him to fulfil.

There’s an awkward beat of silence. Thankfully, Aoife breaks it quite aptly, and takes the attention away from Merlin in doing so. “Even if we do fight, Uther’s army alone is ten times the size of ours. That is something we have to take into consideration.” 

“But we have dragons,” Chossach notes, and shrugs, as if to say, it’s not as if they can beat us when we have dragons. She would be right, perhaps, but it’s not as if anyone can ride the dragons. Balinor and Merlin would have to be personally involved—which works well enough for a single battle, but can be hard to coordinate for a full-fledged war.

Not that Merlin is intending to ride a dragon to fight Arthur. Balinor knows that.

“Have you Seen how Arthur’s men are behaving?” Merlin asks, in a last attempt, turning towards Ganna. Her vision magic is the strongest among them, and he bets she has attempted to See what is happening in Gawant before the council session. “Are they using more violence than they need to? I know they’re taking the villages, I know—but when Arthur leads them personally, are they setting houses on fire? Are they killing the men? Are they even taking a scrap of bread that isn’t theirs?”

“Deorham isn’t—”

“Arthur’s men,” Merlin insists.

Ganna raises her eyebrows, and taps the table twice as if in defeat. “No. Prince Arthur’s men have been keeping to themselves. The only killing I’ve seen has been when it was provoked.”

“But they are still being invaded, Prince Emrys,” Aoife says carefully. Merlin hates the neutral tone she has taken with him—as if he’s an animal to be talked down from lashing out. 

“But does that strike you as something that Uther would tell them to do?” Merlin says, and feels a bitter vindication at the silence. He continues, “Uther Pendragon is a vicious man, and he would strike at Gawant with all the force he can. He would take these villages, and he would hang the fighting men to set an example, and take their food and gold. These knights aren’t following Uther Pendragon’s orders. This is Arthur’s army.”

“What good does it do them?” Balinor says, and stands. His hands are splayed on the table, and his eyes are stormy dark. “They are still losing their freedom. They are still being invaded!”

“It does good to them, because Arthur Pendragon is a honourable man,” Merlin cries out, and rises, too. “And the only reason he is doing this is because of his father, because of kings who think their vision is the one that their prince ought to have—”

“How dare you,” Balinor sneers.

“Balinor,” Hunith says, and tugs at him. She turns her eyes on Merlin, too, and he sags back into his chair.

It’s a large hall, and the silence falls heavily in it. Merlin can hear the birdsong and muffled conversations from outside; a child’s laughter. He steadfastly looks at the table he’s seated at and refuses to meet either of his parents’ gaze. He’s not in the mood to be admonished once more, as if he doesn’t know better.

“We can’t leave them unprotected,” Balinor says, heavily. “Once the fighting starts, we will have to give our help, Emrys. We cannot turn our backs on our allies—not even because you’ve so foolishly given your heart away.”

“Don’t act as if that’s the reason I’m against this,” Merlin tells him, crossing his arms. “I’ve given my entire life to this prophecy, because I want my people to be free in all of Albion—because I know what it’s like to hide away your magic, to be afraid of that same execution! I’m trying to protect our people from involving ourselves into a war, because I think Arthur Pendragon will do the right thing, because I know him. Because I know this isn’t what he wants. Involving ourselves is only going to escalate the conflict at this point!”

“Because Uther wants to draw you into this conflict!” Balinor says, his jaw set. “Because he would have you dead. And he’s looking for a chance to make that happen.”

“So we wait?” Merlin asks, his heart beating loudly. Even if Balinor agrees to this—even if they both recognise that sending in their own forces won’t help at this point, it feels as if he’s disagreeing with him still. 

Balinor takes a deep breath. “For now, we wait,” he says. “But if Camelot and Deorham don’t withdraw their forces, and if Gawant is forced to fight—I’m not sure we can sit this out. I hope you’re right, Emrys. I hope Arthur Pendragon will turn back before it’s too late. But I can’t help but doubt.”

The truth is that Merlin can’t help but doubt, either. He hasn’t spoken to Arthur in months, and he has no idea if he still feels betrayed by Merlin’s actions. Merlin may still trust Arthur—but that’s by no means guaranteed to be a mutual trust.

And who could blame him, really.

“I’ll do what’s right for our people,” is all he says, and hopes that Balinor can be content with that. It’s not just Arthur’s trust he has lost, after all.

Balinor only nods. Somehow, despite averting their presence in a war for now, it doesn’t really feel like a victory at all.

~*~

It’s cold outside, and Merlin snuggles into his neckerchief. It’s the red one he used to wear in Camelot—he usually doesn’t have it on in Dracaneard, because it’s old and scruffy and not becoming of a prince. Hunith has gotten him some nicer ones, but he likes this one. Likes the thought of Arthur tugging at it, and making fun of it—likes the thought of once again being the sort of person who could wear a ragged old neckerchief without anyone commenting on it.

The grass is dewy and cold underneath his fingers, but Merlin doesn’t mind. Samhain is coming in a month, and it’ll be the turn of the year. Last year, Merlin spent his Samhain with Gaius, making some offers to the old gods outside the citadel. It’s not celebrated as widely as Beltane in Camelot, but that’s probably because Beltane in Camelot isn’t as associated with the Old Religion anymore.

As it is, he stares at the little stone altar on the hills. He doesn’t come here often—the last time must have been six years ago, when things weren’t so complicated. It’s a Samhain he’d spent with the Priestesses instead of the druids. Balinor thinks it’s important Merlin is close to all of his followers, and not just the ones that Merlin is most comfortable with.

Or well, he thought so, anyway. Merlin doesn’t know if Balinor still has that much faith in Merlin’s prophesied future, given his hate for the Pendragons.

“Did you sneak out, Prince Emrys?”

Merlin turns his head to find the unexpected figure of Nimueh peering down at him. The Priestesses of the Old Religion are harder to pin down than the druids, in Merlin’s opinion, and he doesn’t tend to agree with their views for the most part. But they are still highly respected in Dracaneard, and Merlin inclines his head at the sight of her.

“Not so much sneaking, no,” he says, because while most people don’t know what Merlin has spent the last three years doing, the Priestesses make it their business to know things that they really shouldn’t. “I checked with the queen, if you must know. And it’s not the citadel, but it’s still magical ground, so I could. You know, to connect to the magic.”

Nimueh arches an eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t aware you needed to spend time on religious grounds to feel such a connection, my lord,” she says, and her lips twist into a sarcastic smile.

“Nor do you,” Merlin says, feeling a bit defensive. “And it’s not Samhain yet. So why are you here?”

“Preparations, my lord,” Nimueh tells him, and tucks a dagger out of her sleeve. “Blood sacrifices for the gods. Otherwise, how will we know they will come to bless us on Samhain?”

Merlin remembers, now. He has been taught about the Priestesses’ rituals, of course, but he spends so little time with them that he’s forgotten. The Priestesses pay a steep price for the favour of the gods, and always seem to do so gleefully—their own blood and lives for the gods, and in return, the power of life and death. For as long as the gods are willing, of course.

“And what blessing will you ask of the gods this year?” he asks.

“Oh, the usual,” Nimueh says, and twirls the dagger. The handle catches the bleak sunlight, reflecting it right into Merlin’s eyes. “The return of magic. The defeat of our enemies. Let the druids pray for health and crops, my lord.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Merlin tells her, frowning. 

Nimueh scoffs, and looks towards the altar. “Will you do me the honour of assisting in the ritual, my lord?” she asks. “The only blood I know the gods will appreciate more than that of the Priestesses is yours. Their favoured Emrys.”

Merlin catches her gaze. Nimueh smiles pleasantly, and she looks beautiful and ethereal in the morning light. She isn’t any younger than his parents, of course—it’s the gods’ gift of life that allows her to maintain her youth, until the day they take it away, and she will crumble to dust. Hers is a darker magic than Merlin is comfortable with, and even so, their gods are the same. Besides, Balinor’s already mad at Merlin; refusing a Priestess won’t do anything to win him over.

So Merlin gets up wordlessly, and Nimueh nods at him as they walk to the altar. “Why do you want to defeat our enemies?” Merlin asks, and strips up his sleeve so he can hold out his arm. Nimueh’s fingers on his skin are cold, even more so than the blade when she rests it on his wrist for a moment.

Then she moves it down to his lower arm, and nicks him. Merlin’s blood flows red and she lets it drip on the stone altar. It sluggishly trickles down until it comes to rest in a little dip in the stone. Merlin’s eyes flash gold, and his injury closes up again.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” Nimueh comments lightly, although she withdraws her dagger. “It’s not proper for a sacrifice.”

“I’ve sacrificed enough,” Merlin says. “My entire life is dedicated to magic, as it turns out. One or two scars won’t make a difference. Tell me. Why are the Priestesses so intent on destruction? Wouldn’t you rather have peace?”

Nimueh’s eyes are dark. “You’ve spent too much time with the druids,” is all she says.

“Tell me,” Merlin repeats, and tries to remember how Arthur sounded when he commanded his men.

“My lord,” Nimueh says, and purses her lips. “You were born after the Purge. You have lived with the consequences of it, but you did not see the utter destruction Uther Pendragon wrought. You did not, personally, know the many people he killed—you did not lose your friends or family. Dracaneard was a haven for some, but not nearly all made it here. I know your thoughts on Arthur Pendragon.”

“But you don’t think I’m right?” Merlin presses. He already knows what Balinor thinks, and he even knows that Freya has her doubts. But he still has to believe, even if no one else can. Even if Balinor thinks the prophecy shouldn’t be about Arthur, and even if Freya and Will think that Arthur can’t be the man he will have to be. “You don’t think we can make peace?”

“I think Arthur Pendragon will bring back magic,” Nimueh says lightly. “But it isn’t written how he will make that happen. Perhaps it is his death that unites Albion.”

“It’s not,” Merlin says viciously.

“The Pendragons aren’t our friends, prince,” Nimueh snaps. “And if they used to be, they’ve clearly forgotten. They don’t want your magic, and your prophesied king doesn’t want you—it’s best to learn that now. If we are to have peace, it’s only because we’ve won the war.”

“I don’t believe that,” Merlin tells her.

She tilts her head. “Unfortunately, Prince Emrys, destiny doesn’t require your belief. It only requires your magic, and your path has been written since the dawn of time. Only the gods know how it will play out, but I know where I stand. Do you?”

She’s not the only one who has asked that question of him. And Merlin knows his answers, whether he likes it or not—he stands on both sides. Arthur is a good man, and Merlin has seen the shadows of the Once and Future King in his actions. None of them know that. Everyone is too hurt by the past to understand that there can be a middle ground.

Merlin draws back, and walks away without giving her an answer.

Chapter Text

Dawn bleeds red into Merlin’s chambers when he’s woken up by his father storming into his chambers. It’s winter, so it’s not as if it’s still very early, but Merlin had stayed up into the late hours of morning, unable to sleep in thoughts of this war. 

He’d considered sneaking away from Dracaneard to go find Arthur, but he’s ready to admit that might only be a pipe dream. Arthur may not even want to see him, and Merlin is torn between wanting to help Gawant and wanting to help Arthur. This war has only been started to draw out Dracaneard, it seems, and Merlin knows it’s all because of him.

Because he wanted to know Arthur. Because he’d stayed as long as he had, foolishly thinking he’d be able to steal time.

So it feels like he’s only just fallen asleep when he wakes up—and he might have, really, he considers blurrily as Balinor throws a tunic at him. “We have company,” he says, and Merlin blinks at him when he sits upright.

“Company?” he asks, because as far as he knows, they didn’t have any visitors scheduled. It’s not often anyone from outside the kingdom comes to visit, considering Dracaneard’s standing within Albion, and there’s not many nobles that would warrant Merlin’s presence during a visitation. 

“Uther’s ward has reached the gate,” he says, and Merlin’s heart leaps into his throat. Morgana? He’s wondered about her often, the last few months—he wonders how she’s been, and if Uther has figured out about her magic after Merlin’s hasty departure, and how well she has been doing. He’s always hoped that Uther would love her more than he’d hate magic if he found out, but if she felt the need to come here, to Dracaneard—

Well. Merlin’s hopes aren’t very high.

“When did she arrive?” he asks, and tries to keep any emotion out of his voice. Balinor has used his love for Arthur against him often enough for Merlin to be ready for his friendship with Morgana to be used against him. “Is she alright?”

“She stared down two guards and claimed she’s under your protection,” Balinor says, which isn’t really an answer, but Merlin will have to take it. 

Merlin finally hoists himself out of bed, dressing himself in record time under his father’s watchful eyes. He feels like a child again, continuously monitored for even the smallest of tasks, and feels no small amount of vindication when he marches out of the door before his father. Balinor doesn’t respond to it and follows easily, still taller than Merlin by a half head and easily catching up with his stride.

“I can go get her myself, if you’re busy planning for a potential war,” Merlin says. “You’ve made it all too clear you don’t care for my input, as it is. I can help Morgana—”

“Emrys,” Balinor says strictly, and grabs his arm. Merlin yanks himself free immediately, but Balinor’s anger seems to have softened a bit, because at least he isn’t frowning at him. “We agreed that the best thing is not to send our army yet—you are my heir, and we need to discuss this. I can’t keep treating you like a child—”

“Then don’t,” Merlin says heatedly. “Because I’m not one! But you haven’t been listening to me for half a year, because you don’t like what I’m saying, so I’m sorry, Father, I really am; if I’m acting like a child, it’s because you’ve decided to treat me like one.”

“You aren’t thinking like a prince—”

“No, I’m thinking about the prophecy you always told me I’d fulfil,” Merlin snaps. “I’m thinking like one half of a whole, because that’s what Kilgharrah keeps telling me I am, that’s what this entire destiny is about, but you don’t like it, because it’s Arthur. Can we please go see Morgana before we discuss this invasion out in the open?”

No one’s staring openly at them, but Merlin is aware of the servants roaming the streets, the merchants setting up their goods quietly. They haven’t been loud enough to be overheard, but he and his father have been at odds for months, and it’s bad enough that Merlin can’t talk to his parents anymore without the whole of Dracaneard having to see their fight first-hand. 

He understands why Arthur never disagrees with Uther publicly. He understands Arthur’s initial reluctance to talk about it with Merlin, a mere servant boy, even though it’d hurt him at the time. Merlin never used to fight with Balinor, even when they disagreed, and he hadn’t expected the shame of his father’s distrust on display for all their people to see.

“We will have to talk about this, Emrys,” Balinor says, and sighs. “And—I will try and listen. But you have to realise that we cannot sit by and do nothing. The Pendragons made their choice, and if they do not turn back—”

“Uther Pendragon made it,” Merlin reminds him, and strides forwards again. Balinor falls in line with him, and it feels a little familiar to walk side by side again, until they reach the citadel’s entrance. A few guards are around, nervously gazing at their king and prince as they see the small group from Camelot assembled at the gate.

Morgana is as beautiful as she has always been. Her long, dark hair flows down as far as her waist, and despite her journey here, her dresses are unstained by mud, and her heels are perfectly clean. Merlin strongly suspects she changed just before they rode into the capital. Lancelot stands by her side, silent and solemn.

She isn’t alone. Leon is with her, as expected, but Gwen also stands with her, her own curls held up in a bun. Her cloak is a mess, but she sees Merlin first, and she smiles broadly as she does. Gwen flies into his arms, her cheek pressed against Merlin’s.

“Merlin!” she exclaims, holding tightly onto his neck. “We’ve missed you so much!”

“Well, I’m glad you thought to come for a visit,” Merlin jokes, although he can’t quite help but feel nervous. His father looms behind him, and Gwen swallows and lets go of him at once. Merlin mourns the loss of his friend in his arms, but smiles politely at their three guests, and inclines his head towards Morgana and Leon.

“Lady Morgana,” he says. “Sir Leon.”

“Prince Emrys,” Morgana says, haughtily, and curtsies. She winks at Merlin as she comes up, and curtsies again for Balinor. “King Balinor. It’s a pleasure.”

“Is it?” Balinor says icily, and looks up and down at Leon. The knight keeps his head down, the very picture of obedience. He is the best choice Arthur could have made for guiding Morgana here, Merlin thinks, and perhaps the only choice.

Leon has always been more loyal to Arthur than to Uther.

“You’re here for sanctuary?” Merlin is quick to ask. If nothing else, refuge is important to Balinor. The kingdom wouldn’t exist without the rules surrounding the magic users, and Merlin fully means to make use of those to keep Morgana here.

“Yes,” Morgana says, and bows again. “Your son once promised me, my lord, that Dracaneard could be a safe haven for me, if Camelot failed to be one. Regretfully, that day has come.”

“You are Uther’s ward,” Balinor says, and the confusion in his voice betrays him. “I can hardly imagine a situation in which you would need my protection, my lady. I suggest you turn around and leave, and know that the only reason I am not arresting you is for your friendship with Emrys.”

Morgana lets out a surprised exhalation, and Merlin can see her fingers tremble. “My lord, please,” she says. “I can’t turn back.”

There’s only one reason things are as bad as that. Merlin steps forward, and takes her hands. “What has he done?” he asks.

“Too many things to say here, Merlin,” Morgana says, and bites her lower lip. “But he’ll put me on the stake if he ever sees my face again. Merlin, I’ve nowhere else to go. Arthur wants to protect me, but Uther’s gone mad, he’s gone mad…”

She’s hunched forwards in her grief, and Merlin embraces her. It’s more natural than anything else in the world to help a friend, and Merlin can’t help but catch Balinor’s eyes as he runs his hands over Morgana’s back.

“You’ll be safe here,” Merlin decrees, and holds the gaze. If Balinor wants to send Morgana away, Merlin will join her. He owes her that, at least, after he started her on this path. If he’d listened to Gaius, Morgana might not have known about her magic. Perhaps she would be safe.

But she knows, and Merlin taught her. He has a duty to her.

“If Uther learns we’re holding his ward here…” Balinor starts.

“She’s a Seer,” Merlin snaps, and Morgana sobs in his neck. “She has a right to our help, whether you want to give it or not. And even if she didn’t have a bone of magic in her body, Father, I would have offered it to her.”

Balinor mellows. “A Seer?” he asks, and turns to Gwen and Leon. “And them?”

“I’ve not that gift, my lord,” Gwen says politely, and curtsies once again. “Nor does Sir Leon. But Morgana is our lady, and I’ve left my home to serve her. Please.”

“My lord, please,” Lancelot says, the first thing out of his mouth. “Guinevere is a woman of honour, and she will do no harm. You have my word.” 

A knight’s word is as good as a binding oath, even in Dracaneard, where they are far less glorified than in Camelot. Balinor inclines his head in understanding of that and takes a step back. “The lady Morgana and her handmaid can stay,” he allows gruffly, and Merlin sighs in relief. “But the knight will leave. At once.”

Merlin bites his lip to keep himself from protest, although he fidgets towards Leon. Leon raises a single eyebrow and offers Balinor a nod.

“I was only here to bring Lady Morgana to safety, my lord,” he says. “I never intended to stay. My Lord Arthur is in need of me. Someone needs to clean his armour, after all, when he hasn’t got a manservant nor a squire.”

Merlin swallows heavily. “Leon,” he says, and then closes his mouth again. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I know, Merlin,” Leon says, and Merlin wishes he’d gotten to know him better during his stay in Camelot. Leon had been a steady presence, and Merlin thinks they could’ve been friends. But he’s glad Leon will go—Arthur will need steady, loyal men by his side.

“Keep him safe, won’t you?” is all he says.

Leon smiles. “That is my job more than it is yours,” he says, “But I appreciate your efforts nonetheless. Goodbye, Lady Morgana, Guinevere. If you have need of me, you know where to send a bird. And I’m sure Merlin will take good care of you.”

“As well as you will Arthur,” Merlin says, and returns the grin. 

“I fear I’ve got the harder job, my lord,” Leon says wryly, and inclines his head to the others one last time. He takes his horse and Lancelot escorts him out of the citadel. Merlin can see them bowing their heads together, but he doesn’t have time to watch them go.

Morgana is still clinging to him, although she’s already run a sleeve over her face. There are no tear tracks, but her face is pale, and her expression is clearly wrangled into something that’s meant to be resembling neutrality, but isn’t as convincing as Morgana wants it to be. 

“I’ll have to introduce you to Freya, but only if you promise not to team up against me,” he says gently, and takes both Morgana and Gwen by their elbows. “She’ll have some spare dresses for you, and she’ll guide you to everything you need.”

“I’m so very glad I came to you, Merlin,” Morgana says. “And thank you again, King Balinor. I hope to prove to you that not everyone in Camelot bears ill will against you.”

“We will see,” Balinor says, and stretches out his arm towards the castle, a clear invitation. Merlin leads his friends to his home, and tries not to think about Balinor’s eyes on his neck.

~*~

“You and Arthur,” Gwen says, when Morgana has settled into her chambers and is fast asleep. Merlin has invited Gwen into his own, as Gwen is concerned about waking Morgana in the antechambers. 

He can’t blame her for that. Gwen is restless, biting her short nails as she paces the length of Merlin’s room.

“What about us?” Merlin asks, eventually. 

Gwen’s head snaps up, as if she forgot she’d mentioned it. She goes red, and sits down opposite Merlin at the table. “Oh, Merlin,” she says, sympathetically. “It’s not been the same since you left. Not Camelot, and not Arthur.”

“Is he well?” Merlin demands.

“How can he be?” Gwen says. “He didn’t say anything about it, but you left him, and the whole castle was left reeling. A dozen people tried to become his manservant, and he sent them all away. Uther was raving at him, and Morgana was locked up all the time, and I don’t even know all the things he said to her, because they didn’t even let me in half the time. But Arthur just sat there and listened, and didn’t do anything else.”

Merlin leans forward, head on his arms. “I didn’t mean to,” he says miserably.

“What did you expect, Merlin?” Gwen scolds him, but runs her fingers through his hair. “He loved you so dearly, we all knew it. And the fights between Uther and Morgana just kept getting worse, and then we had to leave, and right afterwards Uther started this war. I think he’s actually gone mad, Merlin.” She whispers the last bit, as if she’s still afraid of Uther’s wrath. It’s the years of living with that fear, Merlin thinks, that has made Gwen so cautious to speak of it, even in the safety of Dracaneard.

“I think Uther’s very aware of what he did in starting a war,” Merlin murmurs. “I’m not sure about the rest of it, though. Arthur’s brought his best knights, hasn’t he? He’s as safe as he can be?”

“I think he was a bit relieved to go, actually,” Gwen admits. “He’s taken his best knights, yes—except for Leon, that is. Arthur really didn’t want to leave Morgana in Camelot, but what choice did he have? But then the situation became so bad, and Arthur sent her here.” 

“Arthur did that?” Merlin asks, in shock. He’d thought Arthur may have left Leon to defend her, or take her to some safe place, perhaps, and that Dracaneard had been Morgana’s choice. He didn’t think Arthur would have expressly sent her to Merlin.

Gwen smiles, and covers his hand with her own. “You really did not know?” she asks. “He still trusts you, Merlin. He’s not half-mad, I expect, but we know you. And when he didn’t trust Uther, he trusted you instead.”

“I don’t think Uther will be glad about that,” he says.

It’s brief, but Gwen winces. Merlin frowns at that, and Gwen sighs. “I don’t think he knows that Arthur’s behind it,” she says. “We snuck her out of the castle, and I don’t think anyone saw. He won’t know where she is.”

“Wonderful,” Merlin sighs, and lets his head fall on the table. The cold wood hurts his forehead, but he deserves a bit of pain for the situation he’s found himself in. “So we’ve kidnapped Lady Morgana? Is that why he started this war?”

“Well, I think he was already planning it,” Gwen says awkwardly, and pats his hair. “I don’t know what Uther thinks, really, we’d already gone—but he was just looking for excuses, is what Arthur told Morgana. I’m sorry if we tipped the balance, but really, it was only a matter of time. Uther really hates you.”

“Thanks, Gwen,” Merlin says dryly. “Leave me here, won’t you? It’ll make it less painful when my father decides I’m too bothersome after all and he kills me.”

“Things aren’t nearly that bad,” she protests, and then she’s out of her chair and pulling him up. Merlin lets himself be lifted, and then she’s hugging him again. “I’m sure Arthur will fix everything. And I missed you, Merlin.”

“And I you,” Merlin says, and closes his eyes.

~*~ 

“You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Balinor asks. It’s the first thing he says, directly and in the open; Merlin’s been sitting in his parents’ common room for most of the evening, if only because his mother had looked at him so pleadingly when he’d tried to make excuses to leave.

She’s just gone to bed, but Merlin thought it too conspicuous to leave right after her. So he sits there with Balinor, alone, and now regrets that he hadn’t made himself scarce alongside his mother.

“Thought about what?” Merlin says, although he’s undoubtedly setting himself up for a trap. He hates that he has to consider that now; that he has to think about talking with his father like it’s a game he can lose, and that there are angles to consider. 

“Morgana,” Balinor murmurs, her name like poison on his tongue, and turns around. The moon catches the silver buttons on his tunic, and Merlin eyes them rather than his father’s eyes. “What if we handed her back to Uther?”

Merlin’s mouth feels dry. “She asked for safe haven,” he reminds his father. This is the entire reason he thought Balinor would let her in, despite his hate for the Pendragons. Dracaneard’s responsibility for fleeing magic users is the only bargain Merlin has, when it comes to Morgana’s presence. “She’s a Seer. You can’t tell me Uther wouldn’t burn her—”

“Or her entire presence is a trap,” Balinor snaps. “She may have magic, but she is still his ward—”

“I told Morgana about my magic long before you even came to Camelot,” Merlin says, defensively, and hates the way he enjoys Balinor’s abrupt silence. “She’s not evil, she’s not—anything, except from having been put in a difficult position!”

“Why did Uther wait five months, then?” Balinor demands, his lips stark white with how tightly he’s pressing them closed. “Why didn’t he kill her once he knew what she was?”

“Because he loves her,” Merlin says, dead simple. 

“She has magic.”

“Is it that unbelievable?” Merlin asks, chagrined. “Is it truly that surprising, the fact that Uther Pendragon may love some people enough to hesitate killing them? I don’t know why he does anything the way he does, Father, but he’s a man—a hypocritical one, at times, but I know he loves Morgana. I know he loves Arthur. Besides, he had to make that whole alliance with Alined, didn’t he? Who knows how long that took.”

Balinor stares at him. Merlin stares back, defensively. He wishes he could leave now, but he’s once again been caught in the middle of an argument. It feels different, this time, though. It feels as if Balinor is considering him for the first time in months.

“Maybe,” Balinor grants, and Merlin blinks in surprise. “But I don’t like having her here.”

“She’s my friend,” Merlin says.

“She may be our enemy, if we go to war.”

Merlin smiles tightly. “And why haven’t we yet, if you’re so intent on it? You seem convinced we’re going to have to march towards Gawant, even if you’ve agreed to hold off for now. I don’t think it’s because you’re taking my word for it—”

“Damn it, Emrys, you’re my son!” Balinor explodes, and takes a step toward him for the first time that evening. His expression is wrangled in between anger and some kind of desperation, and Merlin’s surprised to find he leaned back at Balinor’s outburst. He has never been afraid of his father—never could be, really, even without the ready infinity of magic at his fingertips—but he doesn’t think his father trusts himself at that moment.

“I know,” Merlin says, and runs a hand over his face. “Believe me, I kn o w. I haven’t forgotten.”

“We cannot be drawn into this war,” Balinor says quietly. “Not without making a statement that I’m not quite ready to make: that he has a right to make war on us, after what you did. Uther is looking to involve us in this conflict, and to go to war with him—that will kill many of our people, Emrys. But you—you want to avoid this war for Arthur Pendragon, and that, I can’t accept.”

“I want to avoid it to save lives,” Merlin snaps. “Ours, but also those of Gawant’s soldiers, and Camelot’s—even Deorham’s, if it comes down to it! Fighting doesn’t mean I’m guilty—it just means people will die!”

Balinor shakes his head slowly. The silver of his buttons and his threads matches his beard, the light of the moon shining down on him. He looks like a king of old, standing by the window like that—wise and kind and fatherly. And he’s not being any of that, unfairly enough.

“War can’t always be avoided,” is all Balinor says.

“But we avoid it for as long as we can?” Merlin presses. “It’s a power play, isn’t it? If it’s truly us that Uther’s after—he may draw back when he realises we aren’t coming. But if we do—if we do, he’s only going to send more forces after Gawant, so we all have to come out. He can’t enter Dracaneard, so he’s luring us out. Is that it?”

“It seems you’ve paid attention to your lessons with Aoife after all,” Balinor murmurs, and massages his forehead. It’s the most of an agreement Merlin is going to get. “I wouldn’t have left Gawant in this position if it were up to me, Emrys. But you are right—casualties are minimal, it seems, and the men aren’t looting. Camelot is just… there. Sitting. Waiting. So I am ready to take your word on that, after all—that Arthur Pendragon isn’t a vicious warlord. But that is all I am willing to cede.”

“And if King Godwyn asks for us to come?” Merlin asks, his heart beating hard. “If it comes to a true battle, and Camelot and Deorham aren’t turning away? If they’re willing to actually go to war to draw us out?”

Because Uther will, Merlin thinks. And Balinor must be thinking the same thing. But there is a risk in going in too early, and such a move will cost them many lives. 

“Then we will go to war,” Balinor says, eventually. “No matter what you say about the Pendragons. You are this kingdom’s prince, and my heir—I would ask that you think about what that means to you.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. “I will do my best to protect my people,” he says, and tries not to let the tears fall. They are hanging by a thread, only staying out of a war in the hope that Uther Pendragon isn’t nearly as malicious as he’s shown to be in the past. Merlin’s chest is threatening to overflow with fear and guilt, and he hides his shuddering breath from his father.

Balinor waves him away, and Merlin flees. 

For now, they are on the same page. He has no idea how long it will last—he passes Morgana’s guest room, on his way outside to the frozen flower beds, and considers her presence once again—but for now, Dracaneard will stay out of this conflict.

But Merlin doesn’t think he can hope against hope, this time.

~*~

Unfortunately, his father isn’t alone in his concerns about their new guests. It’s not too bad, at the start. Gwen’s presence is a light in Merlin’s life, the same way she had been one in Camelot. She’s a servant, technically, but news of her close friendship to Merlin has spread like a wildfire, so everyone treats her as well as Morgana, even when she’s folding bedsheets.

Gwen isn’t a problem, anyway. She has no magic, but then again, most of Dracaneard’s civilians don’t. Lancelot’s besotted with her, anyway, and what Merlin’s friendship doesn’t do for her standing, Lancelot’s reputation does. They start courting right away, and it’s not unusual to see them taking long strolls alongside the castle walls.

The problem is Morgana, as it turns out.

“Won’t you go to dinner?” Merlin asks her, a final time. He’s growing slightly exasperated with her—it isn’t easy, he knows, because Dracaneard’s court isn’t like Camelot’s. Magic brings power here, but Morgana’s secure standing in Camelot won’t bring her anything beside suspicion. Balinor has accepted her presence but he hasn’t publicly welcomed her, and Morgana is left hanging between being a guest and an enemy.

Not even Merlin’s reputation can save her from being known as King Uther’s ward, unfortunately. 

“I’m not hungry,” she snaps at him, and holds her fingers over the flame. She could burn herself that way, and Merlin finally lets himself fall down next to where she’s sitting on the ground.

“What are you doing?” he asks her. “Morgana, please, of all people, I know that it isn’t easy to live in another court—”

“What do you know?” she bites out, and the fire of the flame paints her face into harsher contours. “You pretended to be a servant, and made yourself Arthur’s pet. You weren’t known as Dracaneard’s prince, you were just our friend. And no one looked at you like that.”

“Like what?” Merlin asks gently, and takes her hand to move it away from the candle. He blows it out, and Morgana purses her lips. Her eyes are dark as she stares at him, but Merlin doesn’t dare break his gaze.

She swallows heavily. “Like you’re a traitor to your kind.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard my father,” Merlin says, and fakes the humour in his voice. He’s sure she can tell. “Morgana, please. I understand.”

“But none of them do,” she points out. “I want to learn, Merlin, and I thought—I’m not sure what I thought. I thought I would come here and I would finally be among all these people who knew magic, and somehow, I think I expected them all to be like you. Kind.”

Merlin sighs. “Come to dinner,” he says. “My father’s busy, he won’t even be there. And my mother will like you, Morgana, if you give her the chance to get to know you. They won’t all think of you like you are Uther’s ward, but they are afraid.”

“Of me?” she demands.

It’s time for honesty, even if Morgana would prefer not to hear it. “Yes,” he says, and holds Morgana’s hands even as she tries to pull away. “You’re a sorceress from Uther’s court, Morgana. My people remember the Purge, have lost so many loved ones to his violence—and now there is war, and they’re afraid. Uther makes them afraid.”

“I see,” she says, quietly. Her rage has stilled, but her silence is even worse. At least Merlin knows what to do as long as she’s talking to him, even if it’s in desperation. But he can see her mind whirring, and knows that she’s thinking about something, and not telling him what it is.

“Come,” he says, and reaches out his hand to her. She looks up at him.

“What for?”

“Dinner,” he says. “But not with my mother. Have you met any of the servants yet?”

“The servants,” Morgana repeats, incredulously. 

“My friend Will,” Merlin says, “used to be a kitchen boy, but to be honest, he’s become a bit of a do-it-all in the castle. My fault, I think, and the steward’s trying to keep him in reign, but Will’s used to running around everywhere with me. Anyway, that’s not the point—the point is, when I’m being stupid, Will makes this soup—he throws it at my head, usually, but when you get a taste of it, it’s really good. And I’m sure he won’t throw it at you.”

Morgana laughs, despite herself. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t ever do anything to someone pretty,” Merlin tells her. “And also, I’m fairly sure the both of us can charm him into a toad if he’s being particularly annoying. It’ll be good practice for you. He’s not got any magic, and I’ve used him for a lot of charms over the years. I think it might’ve caused brain damage, at times.”

“So,” Morgana says, and smiles more easily. “Dinner with the servants, then? Is that something the Prince of Dracaneard does?”

“The Prince of Dracaneard prides himself on not being such a snob as the Prince of Camelot,” Merlin says, and ignores the little jump his heart makes at thinking about Arthur, “and will always call friends exactly what they are, my lady. And you are a friend.”

“Not such a good one, these days,” Morgana mutters, and stares at the candle darkly. “Have you had any visions recently, Merlin? Anything?”

“No,” Merlin says, and sobers. “You?”

“None,” Morgana says, and Merlin knows that she, too, is thinking about Arthur on the battlefield. Surely, if anything were to happen to him, they would see—out of anyone, the two of them dream of Arthur, first and foremost. If the visions aren’t coming to either of them, it surely means that Arthur is alright.

He has to be.

“Come on, then,” Merlin says. “Will is going to ask you everything about what I did in Camelot, and I’d like you to consider mercy. I’d offer retribution, but I don’t think I’ve seen you do anything humiliating in your life.”

“Oh, I’ll consider it,” Morgana says, and joins her arm in his. “After all, what are friends for?”

Chapter Text

Merlin may have reached a tentative agreement with his father on the matter of the invasion of Gawant, but he knows neither of them are truly happy with it. Balinor is readying for war, he can tell—is waiting for something to give, and so is Merlin, if he’s honest. Things are terse between them, even as it almost feels like they’re both pretending that it’s not like that. When it comes down to it, they both know they may have to fight and that Merlin won’t do so willingly.

Hunith has been trying her hardest to get them to talk about other subjects—dragons, magic, anything that Merlin and Balinor have ever had in common. But the invasion always looms over them, as well as the knowledge that the only reason Balinor doesn’t want to march is that he doesn’t want to blame Merlin for setting this entire conflict in motion.

And doesn’t that make him feel guilt-wrecked?

It’s not that Merlin doesn’t wish he saw eye-to-eye with his father on this. Even when they’re agreeing, these days, it seems like his destiny is still keeping them at odds. It’s just that Dracaneard is split in two, even if they don’t always know it. They follow Merlin, the prince, or they follow Merlin, the prophecy. It’s not public information that Merlin has spent years at Camelot’s court cleaning up after the crown prince, so for most people, Merlin as prince and Merlin as a child of prophecy are one and the same person.

Of those that are in the know, there are only some that support Merlin’s actions. Merlin privately considers them his own little council, as he meets with most of them in his fire-lit chambers. It wasn’t organised, but it still feels more familiar than anything, to have the handful of people he trusts sit here, and talk together.

Iseldir is here on business with the court, probably with Taliesin, and he’d come to visit Merlin. Now, he’s talking with Morgana, who is eagerly listening to the druids’ words, and he slowly considers the idea. Morgana’s troubles in Dracaneard aren’t her own fault, of course, but it’s hard for the court to warm to her. Maybe the druids will be more open to a ward of Uther’s.

Freya and Will are talking to Gwen. She’s worked very hard to find her way in Dracaneard’s court, and with success—now that she and Lancelot are officially courting, it’s as if she’s always belonged here. Merlin’s friendship made her welcome in the first place, but her courtship with Lancelot makes her as good as family. Merlin’s happy for her, he really is, the same way he is for Lancelot.

“It’s an odd little band of people that follow you, Merlin,” Lancelot says, and grins, “But I can’t say I disapprove.”

“They’re all friends,” Merlin says, and sighs. “It still feels like there is part of me that is missing, you know. And I miss—I miss the way it was in Camelot. The way I was in Camelot. Coming back, only to figure out I wasn’t coming home. What does that make me, Lance?”

“A conflicted prince,” Lancelot murmurs. 

“A bad one,” Merlin says, without humour. “I should be with the Priestesses to prepare for Samhain tomorrow. They’ll be delighted, I’m sure—a Samhain while there is war on the horizon! The dead will be pleased. My father should’ve asked me, should’ve nagged me about it. And he hasn’t.”

“You’re an adult, Merlin,” Freya says, turning to him. She shuffles near him to take his hands in her own. “King Balinor has learnt that he can’t always make you do what he wants you to do. If you want to be with the Priestesses—”

“By the dragons, Freya, when have I ever wanted to be with the Priestesses?” Merlin asks, exasperated, and paces the length of the room. “It’s just—I don’t know what to do about this war. I can’t support Gawant without attacking Arthur, and I can’t help Arthur without fighting for my enemy. And it means we’re just—not involved at all? It’s wrong, but there’s no right step to take, and I don’t know what to do!”

“I’m sure it’ll blow over soon,” Gwen says kindly, because the whole group has turned to Merlin. He winces at the sight of their eyes on him. “Arthur’s not killing anyone innocent. He doesn’t want this war anymore than you do, Merlin. He’ll convince Alined to back off, I’m sure of it.”

Morgana frowns, and shifts her hands in her lap. “As far as Arthur’s concerned, this invasion is for nothing,” she says, and her eyes come to rest on Merlin. “But Alined won’t be so easily convinced now he’s smelled blood. Godwyn’s only heir is Elena, so if Alined takes Gawant, there’s no sons in the way to his throne. This isn’t just a mock war, Gwen. This is about who will own Gawant.”

“But there’s Elena,” Gwen says, and twists her neck to look at Lancelot to answer her wordless question.

“There are two ways this can end,” Merlin says, as the realisation dawns on him. “Gawant wins against the armies of Camelot and Deorham, and retreats, which is… unlikely. Then there’s the option that Camelot and Deorham win, and they will divide the kingdom between themselves.”

“Alined is a greedy king, Emrys, who will take all the land and money he can get out of this war now that it’s started,” Iseldir says slowly. “And Arthur was fated to unite Albion. His win is not unlikely, if we are to believe in destiny.”

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose and sits back on his chair, running his finger over the rim of an empty goblet standing on the table. They are all looking at him, and what had he just said to Lancelot? Friends, they’re his friends. He hates the word, for a moment, because they can’t be, can they? They are a knight, and a handmaid, and a ward of his enemy who is only here because of Merlin’s protection. A druid whose religion hinges on Merlin’s existence, a girl he once saved from a curse and who is now under his father’s protection, and a kitchen boy he used to fumble around with for fun.

They all still look to him, and Merlin can’t bear it. He doesn’t understand how Arthur did it, all this time, how he managed to see Merlin as his equal, because he suddenly can’t do it. They depend on him, all the time, even when he can’t even help himself.

“I am,” he says, and throws the goblet against the walls, “so done with destiny. I’m done! What did I ever do to convince you that I’m worth all that faith, Iseldir? All my life, I’ve just had these people—tell me I’m Emrys, I’m prophesied, I’m magic incarnate, but what does it mean? Why don’t you tell me, because I’ve had this prophecy explained to me a thousand times now, and everyone tells it differently! Why is everyone so convinced I’m going to do their version of whatever by the dragons’ gods I’m meant to be doing, when I can’t even protect the one kingdom I’m allied with in the first place!”

Iseldir’s gaze is solemn, and his face unreadable. Merlin stares at him for a moment, and then stands up. He would be embarrassed, but he’s just weary.

“You should take that up with the gods,” Iseldir says. “They may not provide you with the answers you seek, but they might give you comfort.”

Merlin laughs—he’s not proud of it, but he does. Bitter and uncomfortable. “You know what I think?” he says. “I think the gods don’t care that much. The Old Religion is angry, and the Priestesses are even more so, and they just—feed each other, don’t they? Anger and revenge and pain, and more and more war. Aren’t we meant to end all that? The Old Religion doesn’t want peace, Iseldir. That’s why the Priestesses and the druids don’t get along, isn’t it? It’s a vicious cycle, and I think the gods just thrive on it—”

“Merlin,” Freya says, and Merlin stops. He watches their faces—Freya is biting her lips, her eyes shining in the candlelight. Gwen has grabbed hold of Lancelot’s hand, and Morgana is pale, but her expression is determined. She’s eyeing him thoughtfully, as is Iseldir. 

Will stretches up, as if he’s barely been bothered. “Come on, Merlin,” he says, carelessly, and grasps Merlin by the arm. “We’ll take a walk.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Yep, you’re not getting a say,” Will says, and steers them to the door. “Even almighty magical princes need to let off steam, once in a while. Freya, will you let everyone out of Merlin’s chambers?”

The cold wind from outside hits him, especially because neither Will nor Merlin had bothered to put anything warm on before they left. It’s late in the evening already, and outside, snowflakes are gently fluttering downwards. 

Will stops only when they’re in the courtyard, near where there’s a place to call for dragons. Merlin stares at the empty circle, and somehow wishes he hadn’t messed things up with Kilgharrah. The Great Dragon is a cryptic advisor, but at least he’d always been around to tell Merlin what to do.

“So,” Will says, and his breath comes in the form of a little cloud. He rubs his hands. “Are you going to tell me what that’s all about, or am I going to have to guess? Not that it’s going to be hard. It’ll be the same thing it always is, these days. Arthur.”

“It’s not Arthur,” Merlin snaps.

Will frowns. “Okay,” he relents. “Tell me what it is, then.”

They make their way over to the gardens, slowly. Merlin leads and Will seems content to follow. They used to run through these hallways, only ten years ago, and lie in the grass to see if they could see any of the dragons flying above them. Will always accused him of calling the dragons whenever Merlin got it right, but he never had.

“When’s the last time we talked?” Merlin asks, suddenly, and hangs over a stone wall to inspect the frozen flower beds. They still bloom, even in winter—magic, of course. He gently touches its blue petals.

“I don’t know,” Will says easily, and comes to stand next to him. Will’s grown up, these last three years. His shoulders are broader, and there’s the hint of a beard on his chin. His face has lost the last of that childish roundness that Merlin knows so well, and suddenly, he feels as if a stranger stands next to him. “Really talked? That time you came home for the first Beltane after you’d been in Camelot, I think. But you only stayed for two weeks, so all the catching up you did was gone very soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I keep thinking about what a lousy prince I’ve been. But I suppose I’ve not been a great friend, either.”

“No, you haven’t,” Will tells him bluntly. Merlin winces. Will continues, “But I can’t blame you, can I? If I’d blame you for being worried about your Once and Future moron, and everything that’s happened, well, I’d be the shoddy friend. You keep pulling away, Merlin, as if we won’t understand. But Freya and Lance and I—we know you.”

“The prophecy’s shit,” Merlin says, and Will laughs.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Merlin smiles vaguely. “Uther wouldn’t have gone to war if not for me. I’m supposed to be helping with peace, right? I just don’t understand what I’ve got to do, Will.”

“Well, don’t decide tonight,” Will says, and turns so he can look Merlin in the eye. “Look, Merlin, really. You’ve got your friends. It’d help if you talked to them once in a while. You haven’t even asked me what my plans are for getting Morgana into my bed!”

“She’d never say yes to that,” Merlin says, and tries to picture Morgana giving into Will’s demands. As much as Morgana had liked his soup, he doesn’t think they’ll ever be that close. Will’s a dreamer of far-flung dreams, though.

“You did,” Will points out. “Granted, we were fourteen, but still. A prince isn’t a bad catch.”

“I don’t count you,” Merlin says.

Will grins. “Oh, but I do. And Freya! Freya’s a ward of a king! You’ve got to admit, I’ve got a solid track record here.”

“And Morgana has far better taste than all of us,” Merlin says, and clasps Will’s shoulder. “Please try. It’s going to be so funny to see her turn you down.”

“I suppose Samhain isn’t as good of an opportunity as Beltane,” Will says, and clicks his tongue. “Still, it doesn’t hurt to try. Have you decided what you’re going to do about tomorrow?”

Merlin sighs. “Try and be a good prince, I suppose,” he says, and reaches down to twirl the blue flower. It doesn’t break in his grip, and Merlin lets go again. “I’ll go to the ceremony with my parents. Morgana wanted to see it, too, and Freya offered to take her, so I can see them later. Samhain might show us how the war will end. Maybe it’ll help me figure out what to do.”

“Maybe you can’t do anything,” Will suggests.

“I can’t accept that.”

“You always thought the prophecy would happen when you were older. Now you seem very eager for it to happen.”

Will is rarely serious, but Merlin supposes he’s earned the question. He smiles tightly, and asks, “If I were at war—if I had to, I didn’t have a choice about it, but you could get a dragon and come and pick me up and bring me somewhere safe? Would you?”

“Of course I would,” Will says, scoffing. “You’re my best friend.”

“The prophecy’s already here, Will,” Merlin murmurs. “Arthur’s in danger, and the knowledge I can help him but that it’d make things so complicated, it’s just—I just want to get Naimroa and go get him, you know? But in this case, there’s no safe place to put him. And that, Will, that is the only reason I’m not currently on top of a dragon and picking Arthur up by his stupid golden hair to drag him out of this war.”

Will clasps his shoulder. “Don’t forget you have friends to ride the other three dragons,” he says. “But for now, these same friends are freezing their balls off because you were being an idiot. Is that done, now? Have you stopped being mad at the gods?”

Merlin considers it. “I suppose I can live with them, for another day,” he says wryly. “But don’t expect me to make any offerings tomorrow.”

“As if I care,” Will says, and tugs at Merlin’s sleeve. “Can we go back inside?”

Merlin bows down to whisper a spell for longevity. The blue flower stands at attention, its petals glowing in the moonlight, and Merlin draws back, smiling. “Let’s,” he says, and lets Will lead him back.

~*~

Samhain is a feast for the dead. They celebrate life during Beltane, but there must always be balance in everything, and Samhain evens out the wild partying in the midst of summer. It happens during the shortest day of the year, when winter reigns over the lands of Albion, and it’s a solemn and heavy affair.

Most of the High Priestesses are off to the Stones of Nemeton for the biannual ghost-raising. They celebrate with the spirits during Beltane, but at Samhain, they mourn with them. Merlin’s glad that he’s not expected to go with them. The war will have made the roads unsafe, but the Priestesses are some of the most powerful users they have, and they will travel alone this year to make sure no one is put in any undue danger. 

Merlin stands on his father’s right hand side in the forests. Their audience is larger than usual, mostly because the Priestesses’ supporters can’t join them this time. They have all come to the druids’ events this year, even though their mournings are far less dramatic. There’s no ghost-raising here; only the quiet prayers of most of the druid clan leaders. They sit on their knees in the ground, working their magic on the oldest tree in the forest. It is the tree that remembers the lives and deaths, and has seen all of them.

Even if it doesn’t, the druids have embedded it with enough magic that it’s certainly become something more. The druids have many holy places all around Albion, being the nomadic folk that they are, but Merlin thinks this one is the strongest.

It’s technically the druids’ celebration, but the Dragonlords have always held a place of honour. Especially since Merlin’s birth, the druids have all but placed Balinor’s family in the centre of the festivities. So they stand there, mostly in silence, as the druids weave their magic around the forest.

“I wasn’t sure you would still come,” Balinor says, eventually. It’s the first thing he’s aimed at Merlin all night, and Merlin feels a sense of discontent uncurl in his chest. He loves his father, he does; he’d even thought they were getting somewhere, in the Beltanes that Merlin spent in Dracaneard. 

And of course, then Merlin’s secrets had come tumbling down, and the breach of trust had been more painful to Balinor than the dagger that Uther plunged into his flesh. With the invasion of Gawant looming over them, things can’t heal. Not the way Merlin so desperately wants them to.

“Why’s that?” he asks, trying not to sound too sullen. Balinor may think it’s childish of him, but Merlin’s tired of being treated like this. How often will he have to remind Balinor that he is the Prince of Dracaneard, even if Balinor doesn’t think his people are his responsibility?

“You’ve been avoiding us lately,” Balinor says. “I wasn’t sure Samhain was important enough for you to set aside our differences—”

“Just because I don’t think the Pendragons are the epitome of hateful monsters doesn’t mean I don’t think our traditions are important—”

“Merlin,” Hunith says, from Balinor’s other side. Merlin has come to avoid her too, tired of being talked into a reconciliation that can’t happen until they learn to trust him again. Hunith is trying her hardest to sympathise with both their sides, but neither can she fully understand Merlin’s reluctance to side with Gawant in the conflict. 

It hurts that his parents aren’t his greatest champions anymore, but Merlin has accepted that his destiny isn’t going to be easy on him. It never was meant to be a convenience to him, after all.

“I’m trying to make you see what they are doing,” Balinor says, his face staring impassively at the druid ritual. Merlin inhales sharply, and balls his fists. His nails dig into his palms, and Balinor, impervious to it all, continues, “Still you insist Arthur Pendragon only wants peace, even now he’s shown exactly how willing he is to go against his father. Aren’t his forces still in Gawant? When this comes to a war, I don’t want you to be disappointed, because that’s the only way this can end—”

“Balinor, this isn’t the place nor time,” Hunith hisses, and elbows her husband in the ribs. Merlin smiles weakly to see it. Fortunately, they’re in the middle of the proceedings and no one is paying the royal family any particular attention. Nor can they be heard over the druids’ loud chanting. Merlin can see Freya and Morgana’s dark heads somewhere in the crowd, a bit further off, and wishes he stood with them today.

“The boy has to understand—”

“The boy is twenty-one years old, and your son,” Hunith stresses. “It’s Merlin, Balinor. When hasn’t he been turning our hair grey? He used to set fire to the Tower and scare off our guests with his wordless magic, but we’ve never held his abilities against him, and we shouldn’t hold this against—”

“I understand,” Merlin says, wearily, before Balinor can respond. “No, really, I do. I don’t want to fight, and you think it means I’m willing to let Arthur wage war. But he’s not like that.”

“I think Arthur Pendragon is his father’s son,” Balinor says harshly, “and you have mistaken his trust in a loyal servant for trust in you, personally. You have come to idolise him, even though he serves only his father’s wishes—his father, who would see us all dead.”

“I think Uther Pendragon’s a mad old king,” Merlin tells him, “and I’ve spent three years seeing the worst and best of Arthur Pendragon. We can have peace, father, I promise, if you’d just trust that Arthur isn’t like Uther—”

“He would’ve had his sword at my throat, had I given him a chance! He is every bit like his father, and—”

“The way I’m every bit you, is it?” Merlin bites, and calms his voice after some people in the crowd are beginning to eye them. “You stormed into Camelot with dragons. Arthur wants peace, but he isn’t an idiot. He’s the Once and Future King, you know that, Kilgharrah has told you. And I see it, because the way he commands loyalty—”

“The Once and Future King will bring peace,” Balinor snaps. “Arthur Pendragon is currently sitting at the head of an army.”

“He doesn’t want that!”

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Merlin,” Hunith interjects, and she looks so tired that Merlin feels bad for kicking up a fuss during Samhain. “Or we believe that you believe it. But we can only judge Arthur by what we’ve seen from his actions.”

“As do I,” Merlin says tersely, and bites his lower lip. “I know you want to help Gawant. I know you don’t believe me when I say Arthur will try his best to avoid a fight, if he can, and that you have your own reasons for not going. But I’m relieved, anyway. For what it’s worth, I’m glad we’re not currently at war.”

“I hope you will never have to learn to choose between your son’s future and your oaths, Emrys,” Balinor says, and rubs his forehead.

Merlin smiles wryly. “Oh, don’t worry. I think I’ve enough difficult choices ahead of me, as it is, and I don’t think fatherhood is something—what is that?”

The druids’ chants have risen and the tree is pulsing with magic. Merlin’s used to these Samhain events, even though he hasn’t celebrated them since the first time he left for Camelot—and Samhain isn’t celebrated quite as widely, in that kingdom—but this magic feels different. Its threads come to pull at Merlin, and he stretches his fingers.

The dead will come, the tree mourns, So many dead. For you.

“What do you mean?” Balinor frowns, and it is only when his hands encompass Merlin’s own that Merlin realises he’s sunk to the ground. His mother is sitting besides him, her hand on Merlin’s burning forehead. “Emrys? Emrys!”

I mourn the dead, the tree weeps. The dead, the dead, the dead. Those who have come, and those great many that are yet to arrive. Its whispered words turn Merlin’s veins to ice, and he shivers. The druids have stopped their chanting, but the tree is crying. Its branches howl in the wind, and Merlin stares.

His mouth is a perfect ‘o’, his thin lips forming around his surprise. Uther’s hand reaches up, from the ground, to the dark blue shadow of a man in front of him. A crown glimmers deceptively, and Uther gasps, as his spit slowly drips down his chin, “Arthur—where is Arthur—”

“Stop!” Merlin cries out, and reaches for his aching head. A firm hand stops him and Merlin opens his eyes, only to see Balinor through a golden haze. The tree is still crying, and he sobs out, “I’ve heard enough from the dead!”

He isn’t sure if the tree is even a conscious entity, and if it is, if it hears him. The howling stops though, and Merlin trembles as his mother holds him. She presses a kiss against his forehead, and when she leans back, he can see that her eyes are red-rimmed. Merlin looks around, dazed and confused. Iseldir and Taliesin still stand before the tree, together with Morgana, but the other druids have disappeared, as has the crowd.

“Are you in any pain, Merlin?” Hunith asks gently, and rubs Merlin’s knuckles. 

“My head,” Merlin says faintly, feeling like a child, because his head feels as if it might split open. It’s been a long time since visions affected him like this. “What happened?”

“A combination of a vision and the magic of Samhain,” Taliesin says, and eyes Balinor strictly, as if they’ve already had a discussion about it.

Balinor doesn’t take whatever hint Taliesin offers, though. “Visions don’t do that to him,” he snaps. “Whatever spells you’ve used, whatever magic you’ve weaved—”

“Not any magic that Emrys couldn’t overpower easily, my lord,” Iseldir says, more strictly. 

Hunith inhales deeply. “It’s been over an hour, Merlin,” she explains, and her voice catches. “You were screaming the entire time—the druids had to tell everyone to leave, because we couldn’t move you. You were thrashing, and you hurt yourself.”

“The tree,” Merlin says hoarsely, and pries his hands from his mother’s to gently touch his own throat. It aches, but that’s not surprising if he’s been in the throes of a vision so long. He still remembers it so clearly, but it hadn’t been like anything he’d ever seen. It hadn’t been a vision from the gods, if that’s where they usually come from—this had been a vision from the dead.

“You kept shouting,” Morgana says, and breaks past Iseldir and Taliesin’s hold to crouch before him. “Please, Merlin, there was one sentence, over and over, and I need to know—”

She catches on a sob, holding her hand before her mouth. Balinor glares at her, but Hunith pulls at him. 

“What?” he asks, faintly.

“Is it Arthur?” she asks, and presses her lips together. Her eyes are wet, tears stubbornly clinging to her lashes. “You just—you kept repeating it, over and over again. Death will come to Camelot. That’s what you said. And all your visions are about Arthur, that’s what you told me—”

“Morgana,” Merlin says, and grabs hold of her. He’s clumsy, and it results in Morgana falling over into his arms. Merlin’s nose is pressed in her dark hair, and she fits her face in the crook of his neck. “No, it wasn’t. I didn’t see Arthur, I promise. I’m not even sure if what I saw is real—it’s the tree, it just—I felt the coming of death, but I don’t know when, I don’t know how.”

“Who did you see?” Balinor asks. He watches his son blankly, his dark eyes flitting between Morgana and Merlin, still in each other’s arms. Merlin tightens his hold on her, and closes his eyes. The tree’s whisper picks up, but it’s not nearly as overpowering as it just was.

For a moment, he considers not telling them. But not telling things is what has distanced him from his parents, and with his mother’s pleading eyes on him, it’s really not an option. Morgana’s arms are heavy around his neck, but the truth is even more so, and Merlin is sick of carrying it alone.

“Uther Pendragon,” Merlin tells them.

Chapter Text

“Are you doing okay?” 

Freya comes to sit down next to him, uncaring of the grass stains on her dress. The night is cold on their skins, and Merlin easily spots the goosebumps that have formed on her skin. Wordlessly, he offers her his silver-threaded jacket—he doesn’t like the thing, anyway—and Freya smiles gratefully as she nearly disappears in the soft cloth.

“Everything’s so complicated,” Merlin says quietly. “Did Father tell you?”

“Hunith did, actually,” Freya tells him, and leans her head against his shoulder. Merlin’s not a muscular man, by all accounts—his shoulders are half of Arthur’s size, probably, although his years as a servant have filled him out more than was used to, and even Will is stockier than Merlin. Freya always makes him think he’s stronger than he is, though. She probably doesn’t even intend for it, but being with her is so easy. 

“I thought they might have,” Merlin murmurs, and gives into Freya’s companionship as he rests his cheek against her dark hair. They stare at the trees together, just outside of the citadel. They are in a between-state, if anything, Merlin thinks. 

“They’re worried about you,” Freya says. “I don’t think I’ve seen Balinor pace that much in his life, and it’s only a short time ago that we heard of an invasion. He doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“He seems to manage well enough.”

“Merlin,” Freya chastises him. “The Pendragons have hunted his people for centuries. It’s not easy for us on the sidelines, you know. We don’t know them like you do—we just know what Uther’s done to us.”

“But you like Morgana,” Merlin reminds her.

“Morgana doesn’t like Uther,” Freya says, and that’s a fair point, even if it’s not the one Merlin tried to make.

“I’m not sure Arthur does, really,” Merlin tells her, and when she stays quiet, he continues. “I mean, he loves him, of course. Uther’s his father, and he has taught him everything about how to be a prince, how to be a king. It’s just… Arthur’s lonely, you know? And he lives for the people who show him love, and first and foremost his father.”

“Reminds me a bit of someone else,” Freya says, and nudges Merlin gently in the ribs. It tickles, and Merlin huffs out a short laugh before he returns his focus on the trees in the distance.

“Not really,” Merlin admits. “I’ve got friends. I’ve got you and Will and Lance, and then I went to Camelot and now I have Morgana and Gwen, and even Arthur, if he still—well. I’ve never been lonely. And I want to make my father proud, of course I do, but—well, we’re at a standstill, and something’s going to give, right? We’ve been balancing on a ledge since the day that invasion was announced, and I don’t know what’s going to happen first. But I’m a prophecy, and my father—I’m not sure he respects it, right now, but he knows it.”

“That you’re the true leader of his people?” Freya says.

Merlin blinks, and stares at her. Freya looks impassive, as if it’s something she’s always known—and maybe she has, he considers—but then he shakes his head. “In one way, maybe,” he says, “but I don’t think I’d make a very good king. I don’t think my father thinks I would, either. And that’s—I wasn’t expecting it, really, but it hurts. That he doesn’t trust me.”

“He trusts you,” Freya says, and pats his hand. “He’s afraid for you. He’s been expecting the prophecy to come true in a certain way for all his life, and now it turns out he’s wrong, and you’ve been in the dragon’s lair for three years when he didn’t even know. Can you blame him?”

Yes, Merlin thinks. Yes, because Balinor has been telling him for years that he’s the mighty Emrys, and that he will unite magic. Has been teaching him to rely on his own instincts and trust his own senses, and now that Merlin has turned around and done so, their relationship has become so much more complicated.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t understand, if only a bit.

“I don’t know what to do about Uther,” he says out loud. “Because Arthur loves him—loves him the same way my father loves me, I think. But I don’t want to save him. I would, if Arthur were to… but I don’t even know what’s going to happen. When it’s going to happen. I need answers before I can decide anything, but Samhain only told me that death is coming.”

“It always is,” Freya says, and amends, “Unless you’re a Priestess.”

“Even then,” Merlin mutters.

“Do you love him?” Freya asks suddenly, and her warmth disappears from Merlin’s side as she turns to peer up at him. In the light of the moon, her eyes glint with unspoken emotion. “Arthur, I mean? Even if he’s fighting a war against your people? How are you so sure?”

“It’s not his choice.”

“But if it was,” she presses. 

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. “Haven’t you ever felt like that?” he asks. “Like—I don’t know, that you can see someone, truly see them, and be so sure that no one else is seeing the same thing? Like you’re privy to their soul, but you—well, you want everyone else to see, because it’s so beautiful, but you want to keep it to yourself at the same time? And it’s just—I know him, Freya, I know what he’s like. Even if no one else believes me. Even if Arthur doesn’t, and even if he—even if he doesn’t look at me like he used to, and it’s all broken beyond repair. I look at him, and I just—hope.”

“I think I understand,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

He ruffles her hair, and Freya smiles gently.

“Are you ever going to tell me who’s making you feel so lost?” he asks. He may have been a lousy friend lately, but he’s not planning on making a habit out of it.

Freya puts her head back down on his shoulder. “Maybe,” she says. “If you go talk about everything with your father. He loves you, you know. More than anything. Even if he doesn’t—it’s not understanding, not like that. But I think he wants to, even if he thinks he can’t.”

“Fine,” Merlin says, exaggerating the weariness in his tone, and presses a kiss to her hair. “There’s plenty of conversations I still need to have. What’s one more?”

She nudges him again, and Merlin pushes her away until they both start laughing, in the middle of a cold winter night. He’s glad she came out here, suddenly, even if he didn’t think he wanted the company when he’d left the castle.

Freya understands him, though, better than she has any right to. And she has accepted what she doesn’t understand, the way his father can’t seem to manage. He’s overcome with a sudden burst of affection for her, and buries his nose in her hair as he holds her close.

She embraces him right back, and they sit together for a long time.

~*~

The day after Samhain tends to be one that is hopeful. The dead have been appeased, the prayers have been said, and the darkest day of winter has passed. 

Merlin feels odd, though. The dead have touched his visions, and they have turned his thoughts back to Camelot. It’s not as if he likes Uther Pendragon—the gods know that he’s sinned against Merlin’s people, and if that’s not enough, Merlin considers him a lousy excuse for a father. But Arthur loves him, and Uther’s had his moments of kindness. 

Arthur makes his father proud, and for his son, Uther had managed to be a good king sometimes. But it hadn’t been enough.

Merlin has no idea when Uther will die, or how. That much is true. The spirits had seemed certain, though— death will come to Camelot. One day, they will take Uther, and Arthur will be king. Balinor had not cared one whit about Uther’s death, and Morgana had just quietly drawn back, and Merlin had watched everyone all the way back to the castle.

He’s spent the night in Alfric’s tender care, mostly to appease Hunith and Balinor. The druid physician comes to bring him his breakfast in the morning, all healthy and nutritious and utterly, completely bland, except for the two pieces of fruit that lie by his water.

Merlin waits until Alfric’s back is turned, grabs the apple, and munches on it as he sneaks out of the door. It’s not the first time he’s escaped Alfric’s clutches this way, and he doubts it will be the last. 

Morgana’s assigned chambers are as near to Merlin’s as he could get them. They skirt against the royal wing, a sign of the esteem Merlin holds her in, and when he knocks the wooden door, it’s Gwen who opens.

“Oh,” he says, and then smiles. “Hi, Gwen. I thought you’d be out with Lancelot?”

“Merlin!” Gwen exclaims, and kisses him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re doing well! Morgana told me about what happened yesterday—everyone in the castle was scared to death, my lord. It’s so good—”

“My lord?” Merlin repeats, blanching. “Since when are you doing that?”

Gwen’s cheeks go dark. “Sorry?” she offers. “I must’ve picked it up from Lance. And it’s not—I mean, you are, so—”

“Gwen,” Merlin insists, and leans against the door frame. “I’m just Merlin. You know me. I’m not—I don’t want you to call me... that.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen repeats, and smiles kindly at him. “You know things aren’t the same, don’t you, Merlin? You can’t always pretend to be a servant, and pretend that’s all you were ever meant to be. I don’t mean that—there’s no shame in being a servant, of course not, but you’re not. And that’s a good thing, because you’re a kind man who has a chance to change things.”

“I know,” Merlin says, feeling a spike of shame, and kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry. I just wish things were less complicated, that’s all. Is Morgana here?”

Gwen’s smile turns tight, and she steps aside to let Merlin in. “My lady Morgana,” she calls out, and Merlin can’t help but notice the my lady part. It doesn’t mean they’re friends any less, but she’s also right. Merlin still thinks of himself as a fellow servant when it comes to Gwen, and he’s not anymore.

Then again, if her courtship with Lancelot goes well—and how can it not, with how besotted they are?—she’ll end up being a knight’s wife, and she won’t get away with being Morgana’s handmaid anymore. Merlin will relish in turning Gwen into a Lady of Dracaneard, if that day ever comes. If she’ll stay here, anyway.

Morgana strides into the main chambers. Her eyes are dark in a pale face, and her hair’s undone, falling to her waist. Her dress flows, but it’s less complicated than she usually wears. She looks wonderful, but Merlin knows her well enough to know it means she hasn’t been sleeping.

“Hi, Merlin,” she says, and smiles. It’s a threadbare thing. “I was just planning on coming to visit you. I’ve been thinking.”

“So have I,” Merlin says, and frowns. 

“Me, first,” Morgana says, and sits down on the sofa in front of the softly burning fireplace. “Gwen, come sit with me, won’t you? I want your opinion on this, too.”

Merlin sits down, and feels the fire warm his skin. Morgana looks into the flames, and Merlin wonders if she’s had any more visions. He thinks she would’ve told him, but Morgana has been oddly reticent for all the time she’s been here. If she’s seen anything in the flames, she might have kept it to herself.

Has she had visions and not told him? Is that why she has been so carefully distant ever since coming here? She seems to trust him, but there’s no telling how complete that faith in her is. Merlin’s well aware he has divided loyalties.

“Morgana?” Merlin asks, gently.

Morgana closes her eyes, and leans her head forwards. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” she says, and hiccups out a sob. “I’m truly, very sorry for what Uther has done to your people. I’m sorry for what Arthur is being forced to do, and I’m sorry for all the hurt Camelot has caused.”

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin says, bewildered, as he takes her hands. Morgana’s still bowed forwards, so he casts a confused look at Gwen. Gwen seems to know what’s going on, because she’s just gently patting Morgana’s back.

“The real reason I came,” Morgana says, heedless of Merlin’s words, “is that I couldn’t stay in Camelot anymore. Uther figured out my magic after you left—I couldn’t keep it a secret, not anymore. I would’ve let him burn me, if that is what it took.”

“Morgana,” Merlin says, stricken.

Morgana finally looks up, and squeezes his hands. “I was locked up, with only Gwen for company,” she says. “No one knew but Arthur. And Arthur was kind—he came to visit me. We talked, a lot. About magic, and about you, and about Uther’s actions. And Uther kept becoming more erratic. He wouldn’t do anything about me—just kept me there, in that chamber. And I could’ve blown up the lock, but I didn’t dare. He is only a man, and I’m a sorceress, and yet he still scares me.”

“He is as good as your father,” Merlin reminds her. “You're not—”

“Please, Merlin,” Morgana begs, and Merlin falls silent. She swallows heavily, and continues, “Uther kept telling me that I could relinquish the magic, that I didn’t have to be like this. That he would pardon me. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I yelled at him. Screamed that he should either make me a pyre or let me go.”

Gwen is stroking Morgana’s hair. “You were emotional,” she murmurs, and kisses Morgana’s forehead. “You didn’t know, Morgana. It’s not your fault.”

“What happened?” Merlin asks.

“He isn’t just as good as my father, Merlin,” Morgana says, and takes a deep breath. “Uther told me he is my father. He shouted at me, told me he wouldn’t have his daughter on the pyre. I don’t think he even meant to let it slip, but as I said… he’s been disturbed, ever since he learnt of my magic. I don’t think it’s something he can learn to accept.”

Merlin stares at her blankly. “Uther’s your father?” he manages.

“I figured that if you could forgive Arthur for that misstep,” Morgana says dryly, and offers him a small, wry smile, “You could do the same for me. But everyone was already walking on eggshells around me simply because I was Uther’s ward, Merlin, and I meant to tell you, but I couldn’t—he’s hated, so much. And he should be. He’s a horrible man, and I’m not sorry that he’ll die.”

Her voice is fierce, but her eyes are still red. “It doesn’t make it easier,” Gwen insists, and turns to Merlin. “She didn’t mean for it to happen, Merlin, I was there. Uther said—what he said, and we just… Morgana just stood there. Uther tried to backtrack, but it’d been said, and we knew. And Morgana threw up her hands, and Uther was slammed in the wall. He hit his head pretty badly, but Morgana says you didn’t teach her any healing spells.”

“I’m horrible at healing spells,” Merlin says, because it’s easier to focus on that. “But… he’s alive, isn’t he? He’s doing alright, even in my vision, he wasn’t—”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Morgana snaps, and untangles one of her hands from Merlin’s to run her sleeve over her eyes. “We called Leon, and he took Uther to Gaius. Arthur made sure no one knew what’d happened and made everything ready to send me to you. All of Camelot thinks the king stumbled and fell down the stairs.”

“But he hasn’t been the same?” Merlin gently prods. “Morgana, this doesn’t mean—”

“If I could’ve killed him, I don’t know that I wouldn’t have,” she says brusquely, and then her shoulders sag down. “After he woke up, he was slower. And he was already mad with his plans, and he knew he wasn’t doing well, and he was just—so erratic. He tried to have Gwen beaten, and he had days where he would order no food to come to my chambers. It’s only because of Arthur’s interference that nothing bad happened to us.”

“And so you came,” Merlin says. “And left a half-mad king in Camelot to declare war on another kingdom.”

“So now you know,” Morgana says. “I am Uther’s bastard daughter, and Arthur’s sister. Uther loved Ygraine so much, we all know the story, but apparently not enough not to cheat on her. Arthur will be livid when he hears.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“You’re not the only one who can keep secrets,” she tells him, and quirks her eyebrows. It makes her look like the strong-minded woman she is again. 

Merlin smiles weakly. He can’t hold it against her, and it’s not the sort of news to convey to a letter, anyway, but he still doesn’t like it. Arthur has a right to know, the same way that Morgana did. 

“I’m glad you told me,” Merlin says, “Although I’m not entirely sure why you wanted me to know. It doesn’t change things, Morgana. You’re still you.”

“I don’t know if I am,” Morgana says. “But I would like to know who I can be, even knowing this. And I won’t figure it out here. I’m not holding anything against you, Merlin—Dracaneard is a safe haven, the way you told me it is. I can’t blame my father’s enemies for being wary about my presence, and they’ve not hurt me. But I can’t stay.”

Merlin slowly nods. “I came to ask you,” he says. “If you wanted to go with Iseldir. The druids can teach you more magic, Morgana, and they won’t judge you.”

“We came to the same conclusion, then,” Morgana says. “I thought about going to the Priestesses, Merlin, at first. But you changed my mind.”

“I did?”

“Oh, you didn’t mean to, I’m sure.” She stands up, and looks out of the window. Merlin doesn’t know what she sees, and Morgana presses her lips together when she turns back to face him. “Three days ago, I was fully intent on joining the Priestesses. I’ve talked to Nimueh, you see, and I fully agreed with everything she said. And then you brought Iseldir with you, and you talked about hate, Merlin. The hate the Priestesses have, and that they keep going because they keep making each other angry, and that there can’t be any peace that way.”

“I was just upset,” Merlin says. “I didn’t mean—”

“I am angry, Merlin,” Morgana interrupts him. “I still am. And I am afraid of what it means, that my only wish is that I’d thrown Uther harder into that wall. And I saw part of who I am in Nimueh, who is so hateful, so spiteful—but I don’t think I want to be like that. I think I want to be ready to make peace, and I need the druids for that. Not the High Priestesses.”

Merlin nods slowly. “I think that’s wise,” he says. “For my part, I’ve always thought the druids were very wise and powerful, whereas the Priestesses have mostly been powerful, and assumed that any wisdom would be left to the gods.”

Morgana comes over and kisses his cheek. “You’re a very good prince, Merlin, and an even better friend. Thank you.”

“When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Morgana says, and offers him a relieved smile before she eyes Gwen. “Gwen will stay here, if you don’t mind. She’s not married yet, of course, but I thought we might be able to ask Freya if Gwen could take up a position as her handmaid, for the time being.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Merlin promises.

~*~

A letter from King Godwyn waits on the desk. Merlin picks it up, running his finger over the coarse paper, the dark words. He doesn’t want to read it—if Godwyn is sending them a letter, he knows what it means.

The day he has been dreading since he first heard of the invasion has arrived.

“He is asking for help,” Balinor says, when Merlin fails to pick up the letter. His father’s face is sharp in the candlelight. It’s only them in his private study, and Merlin wonders where his mother is. If Balinor had asked her not to be here.

“I thought so,” Merlin murmurs, and finally picks up the letter. It’s short and to the point— King Balinor, if you’ve ever considered Gawant a friend to Dracaneard, please—and Merlin’s eyes fly over the penned words. The writing is tiny and neat, the way Merlin never really managed to learn despite Hunith’s patient tutelage. 

Just over Gawant’s border, skirmishes are starting to break out. Godwyn has been sending soldiers, but the true battle is expected to come soon—the battle that will, hopefully, settle this once and for all without destroying the entire kingdom in the process. The greatest part of Gawant’s forces are marching to a plain near the borders now to face Camelot and Deorham in battle, but they are outnumbered and outmatched. If Gawant is to be left standing, Godwyn pleads, they rely on Dracaneard’s assistance in the coming week.

Or he and his line will fall, and his kingdom will be left to the victor. Camelot and Deorham will divide the land, in all likelihood, and his people will be forced to bow their knee to a new king. Most of them won’t notice, but it will matter to the nobility. More riots may follow, and the alliance between Camelot and Deorham will have shown that the borders between kingdoms aren’t sacred. Who knows what kind of unrest will follow?

Oh, Arthur, Merlin thinks to himself as he puts down the letter on the desk. I wish you’d walked away from this.

“We cannot ignore this,” Balinor says, eventually. His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I know you were hoping for something else to happen. But this is the stark reality—this is who the Pendragons are. They are only good for acts of violence.”

“I don’t believe that,” Merlin tells him.

Balinor’s eyes are dark. “Emrys—”

“Stop,” Merlin says, raw and honest. “Don’t call me that, not today. I’m not—I can’t—”

“Do you still believe in Arthur Pendragon?”

“We’re going to have to send our men, aren’t we?” Merlin says, ignoring his father’s question as he runs his sleeve over his face. They both know the answer, and Merlin’s tired of arguing about this. He hopes his father is, too, even if it’s not something that will be resolved so easily. “They’ve all been ready to march for days, so we can act fast. They’ll have to march for a couple of days.”

“And you’ll let them go?” Balinor asks quietly.

“What else can I do?” Merlin says. “You’re right—I never thought you weren’t, I’d just hoped—I know who Arthur is. Who he will be. But we can’t let Camelot do this. Maybe… I can try to talk to Arthur.”

“No,” Balinor says immediately.

“Why not? I’ve got magic, it’s not as if I’ll be unprotected. I know it’s risky, to go and see him when he’s surrounded by soldiers, but I won’t be—”

“You’re my heir,” Balinor tells him in exasperation. “You’re the exact person Uther is trying to hurt with this. No, I won’t let you go—I don’t believe Arthur won’t try to kill you. I don’t intend to give him the chance.”

Merlin huffs out a breath. “I’m not a child.”

“But you are my child,” his father says, and presses his lips together. “I know you don’t like what I have to say, Merlin. I know you don’t agree with me. But we both know Uther is only going through with this to try and get us to fight—to try and get to you. I know you can protect yourself, but—”

“But what?” Merlin says, heatedly. “You won’t let me go into danger, even though you’ll be sending our men into war? Are you that much of a hypocrite, believing me to be so much more important than anyone else—”

“And so what if I am?” Balinor roars, and Merlin recoils. “You defy me at every turn, but you are my son, and I have been concerned about finding your bed empty for half a year! Ever since you’ve come back, you’ve been championing for the son of a man who wants nothing more than to burn you on a pyre! I am tired, Merlin. Tired of seeing you worry about a man who would strike you down if he had half a chance, tired of seeing you try to make peace with someone who isn’t interested in it!”

“It’s my destiny!” Merlin fires back. 

“And by the dragons, how I hate it,” Balinor says, more vicious than Merlin has ever heard him before. “I didn’t think I would, but I see now how the gods laugh. How I regret the fact you ever met Arthur Pendragon. You’ve been slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“But I’m not,” Merlin tells him, and takes two tentative steps towards his father. “You just haven’t been listening to me, because I know—do you think I don’t know? Do you think I wouldn’t have found it easier if Arthur hadn’t been the Once and Future King, if he’d been as violent and rude as hateful as you’ve taught me the Pendragons are? Don’t you think I don’t hate what Uther Pendragon’s been doing? That I haven’t felt torn between loyalties for years now?”

Balinor takes the final step, grabbing his hand. His own is feverishly warm as he curls it against Merlin’s fingers, taking his knuckles tightly. “I won’t give you up to the Pendragons,” he swears, and tugs Merlin into his embrace. “Not even if you ask me to. I don’t care how powerful you are—that day I thought Uther had captured you was the worst day of my life. I don’t care about the prophecy—I care about you.”

“Father,” Merlin murmurs into Balinor’s neck, stunned. 

“I handfasted with your mother the day she told me she was pregnant,” Balinor mutters into his hair. His hand is clutching Merlin’s neck, steadfastly keeping him in his tight hold as if he doesn’t want to let go. “I would’ve married her the same day, but that wasn’t quite as easy to arrange. But the handfasting ritual—well, I couldn’t not, because when she told me—I couldn’t have let her go before, but knowing that I would have a child… I wanted to protect you, even then. From anything that could ever come to get you. From Uther Pendragon, most of all. Seeing you in Camelot was all my worst nightmares come true, and knowing you went there willingly—”

“I’ll be safe, I promise. No one can hurt me. I want to help you—I want to help our people, before this war turns into something none of us can control. There must be something I can do. Let me go to the Crystal Cave if you won’t let me go to Arthur, just to see—”

“No,” Balinor says, and takes Merlin’s shoulders to peer closely at him. “The Pendragons have made their choice. It’s only our responsibility to stand by our allies, but you’ll stay here. Lancelot can lead them as well as any man, and I won’t risk our kingdom’s strongest defences on the chance Uther is leading us into a trap.”

“Father,” Merlin pleads. “I know we need to send our forces, but if you just let me do something—”

Balinor shakes his head before Merlin can even finish talking. “This isn’t your responsibility, Emrys, not yet. One day, you will be king, and you will have to make the hard decisions. But for now, that is still my right.”

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. “I hope it will be for a long time.”

“Let’s pray to the gods for that,” Balinor agrees, and kisses his forehead. “We are agreed, then? We can’t let Camelot and Deorham destroy Albion for their petty grievances. We cannot let our allies stand alone.”

Merlin takes in a shuddering breath. As much as he’s glad to understand his father’s motives, and to finally be taken seriously again, the thought of not doing anything aches in his lungs. But Gawant is burning, and Godwyn’s letter is a cry for help that he cannot ignore so lightly.

“We ride for Gawant,” Merlin says, and despite himself, hopes Arthur will forgive him for going to war against him.

Chapter Text

Deore’s nose is just as soft as it was three and a half years ago, when she carried him to Camelot for the first time. Merlin offers her an apple and thinks about the horse he’d once borrowed from Camelot, the one he’d nicknamed Apple. He absentmindedly wonders how she’s doing.

“Well, what do you think?” Merlin asks her, trying to sound more optimistic than he feels. “We’re doing something, at least, right? Do you think they’re going to kill me when they see me leaving before we actually send out an army?”

This morning, Balinor had given the order for their army to march to Gawant. War in Dracaneard works a little differently, and technically, Merlin is the leader of the magic-based parts of their army, which usually consists of the dragonriders and the battle-mages. But they’re not sending any dragons, and the few fully-trained battle-mages they have will march with the actual army. 

Dark magic became something of a painful subject, after the Purge. The training for battle-mages is very rigorous, and very demanding, and very strict. They have about forty battle-mages now, but only some of the oldest have seen actual skirmishes. Balinor had decided to send only twenty of them with the knights, and thus, Merlin is not really needed. Not that Balinor would have let him go, after the talk they had.

Balinor certainly won’t know what Merlin is planning to do. Merlin hadn’t known he was planning on disobeying his father like this once again, but he can’t sit still and wait. He’d spent the night tossing and turning only to come to this conclusion. If the gods aren’t giving him any visions about Arthur, and how this whole war will pan out, then Merlin will go looking for visions himself.

Which he can only really do in the Crystal Cave. 

It’s still early in the morning, but the castle’s already bustling with activity. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, and Merlin wears a dark hooded cloak over his tunic, so hopefully no one will recognise him. The knights are readying to leave later in the day, and on his way to the stables, Merlin already saw Lancelot wandering around. He doubts Lancelot has slept much since Balinor gave him his order yesterday night, and feels a stab of guilt at that, too.

Merlin can’t help unless he knows what to do, though. He turns his head around to see if anyone is paying any particular attention to him, but the coast seems clear. Slowly, he tugs at Deore’s reins. She follows him quietly, and Merlin pulls down his hood and stares at the cobblestones as he wanders to the city gates.

And promptly walks into Gwen.

“Merlin?” she asks, and isn’t that wonderful—she’s with Freya, who blinks at Merlin slowly.

“Hi,” Merlin says, and smiles innocently.

“What are you doing?” Freya demands, and grabs his arm. “Is that—are you leaving with the army? By the dragons, Merlin, that’s the worst idea you’ve had so far—”

“I’m not!” Merlin protests, and amends, “I might join them after I’m done, but that really depends.”

“Merlin,” Gwen says, and shakes her head at him. “Will you tell us what you are doing, please?”

“If you promise not to tell the king,” Merlin tells them. “Or my mother, actually. I’ll scry with them once I’m in the Crystal Cave, and I don’t want them to come after me until I’ve made it. Or even worse, to send Alfric to mother me. Why do I always end up with the physicians, even when I’m fine?”

They won’t be happy with him, but at least they’ll know what’s going on if he scries with them. Balinor’s manservant Rhonan carries a small mirror with him to scry through for emergencies; Merlin has been taught how to reach it since he was three years old. Mostly, it’s used by the court sorcerers to give Balinor quick updates. 

“Now I know why Arthur told you to shut up so often,” Gwen mutters, and exchanges a tired glance with Freya. 

“Why are you going to the Crystal Cave?” Freya demands. “And why are you doing it so secretly? If you’ve something you need to see—”

“But I’m not sure I’ll see what I want to see,” Merlin says. “And I don’t want—look, I’m just going to see if I can do something about this war. I’m not happy about this, really, but I can’t just join the army and throw myself into the fight, can I? My father expressly told me not to, but if the Crystal Cave shows me something, then I can… help.”

“Help Arthur, you mean,” Freya says flatly, and shakes Merlin’s arm. 

Merlin hushes her, and gently pulls his arm out of her grip. “I’ll be careful, I promise,” he says.

“Lancelot says the roads aren’t safe anymore,” Gwen tells him, frowning deeply. “Bandits are making use of the chaos of this war. It’s not a good idea to travel by yourself.”

“I’m a sorcerer, Gwen,” Merlin reminds her, and pats Deore’s nose when his horse neighs at him. “Please, I’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it!”

Gwen sighs and hugs him. It’s a bit unexpected, and Merlin holds up his arms as Gwen presses herself against him. “Arthur has no idea how good you are to him,” she murmurs before she lets go. She dusts off her skirts, and smiles a bit awkwardly. “I do expect to see you in one piece, Merlin. And that you won’t let Lancelot come to any harm. I mean, if you do see—I’m just…”

“I promise, Gwen, he’ll come home safely,” Merlin says, and Freya kisses his cheek. “Thanks for keeping my secrets, Freya.”

“I’ve grown used to it,” Freya says, and raises her eyebrows at him. “Now, don’t you have a cave to visit?”

Merlin grins.

~*~

He would’ve taken a dragon, but it would’ve meant being seen at once. Even Ekaitza, as their smallest dragon, is very noticeable. Besides, Merlin likes riding Deore. He always has, and it’s his best way of remaining inconspicuous as he travels to the Crystal Cave.

There is a barrier around Dracaneard that makes it impossible to be found except to those who don’t hold any ill will against magic. It’s existed since the days of Merlin’s grandfather and the founding of Dracaneard, and it means that they are impossible to lay siege to unless by someone powerful enough to trick that magic.

Balinor is keeping it up, currently, and Merlin’s offered up some of his powers as well. It’s a ward that maintains itself, mostly, but needs some stabilisation which Aoife, as its guard, is usually in charge of. The protective spells have kept Dracaneard from being attacked outright during the Purge, but it also means they are a small kingdom with very strict borders.

They aren’t free, not really. They’re free within the space they’ve fought for and defended; the last kingdom where magic thrives. Merlin looks over his shoulder as he crosses the barrier within the forest, and finds himself on the main roads.

The first day, he rides relentlessly, trying to get away from Dracaneard as far as he can. The road he’s on is relatively unimportant, and he mostly meets some merchants and a few lone travellers, but not any family. The war between Camelot, Deorham and Gawant is making travelling a risky business, certainly, and everyone eyes Merlin suspiciously as he rides past them.

Merlin smiles and wishes them a good day. 

He sleeps underneath the stars and murmurs a quiet spell to keep himself warm even if the fire goes out. He breaks his fast with stale bread he stole from the kitchen, and then he’s on his way again, the cold of winter making the journey no more pleasant.

It’s a three-day ride to the Crystal Cave. He’s made the journey before, and alone, too. The last time, he was seventeen, just before he left Dracaneard for his trip. He hadn’t seen anything he could make sense of, then, just flashes that he barely remembers. Merlin has never been the greatest of Seers.

Distantly, he wonders if he should’ve gone to visit Morgana with the druids. But she’s only been there for a few days now, and he doesn’t want to pull her away when she’s only just now finding her place.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice the sword pointed at Deore until it’s already there.

“Get off your horse, boy,” a man demands. He’s one of five that have snuck up on Merlin as he rode through the forest, and Merlin curses himself for drifting off. It’s the middle of the day, but that doesn’t stop bandits from luring on easy, lonely prey.

“What if I don’t?” Merlin asks, and softly pats Deore to keep her calm. 

The first man, balding and with a large nose, grins. He’s missing a few teeth. “We’ll drag you off it.”

Merlin considers it, for a moment. He can easily dispose of them with magic, but there are two swords pointed straight at Deore, and the man on his left hand side has a crossbow pointed at him. He would prefer to keep himself and Deore out of trouble, and if Merlin gets hurt, he may fall unconscious before he can do any healing magic. He needs to be rid of all five at once, and while he has the spells for that, it will also mean all five men will be very, very dead after he’s unleashed it.

Merlin has killed, but he has never killed carelessly.

The first thing to do is make sure that Deore won’t get injured. He slowly gets off, and a second man grabs Merlin’s arm to yank him towards him when his feet touch the ground. Merlin scowls, because the man’s grip is hard enough to leave bruises. “Smart choice,” he whispers in Merlin’s ear, and shakes him violently enough for Merlin to lose his balance.

“Search the bag,” the balding man commands, and the youngest of them makes for Merlin’s bag. He’s only got a few gold coins, but Merlin isn’t concerned about that. One of the men is still holding a sword near Deore’s mane, and it will only take a single stab before she’s too far gone for Merlin to bring her back.

“Look, please,” Merlin tries, and slowly raises his one free hand, “I really don’t want any trouble. You can take the gold, and I’ll just—”

“It’s a good horse,” the man who holds Merlin says, and grabs his second arm, too, twisting it behind Merlin’s back. Merlin hisses at the unexpected pain that lances up his shoulder. “We’ll sell it for far more than you have, boy. And you, too.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Merlin says faintly. Not just bandits, then. Or perhaps the bandits have upped their particular brand of cruelty—Merlin wouldn’t know. 

“He’ll fetch a fair price,” the fifth man says, the one with a crossbow. He’s lowered it, now, and the arrow points at the ground. He’s holding it very sloppily, he can tell, and Merlin isn’t even an archer. “And the horse is of good breed. Shiny coat.”

“I’m giving you one last chance to let me go, and I won’t hurt you,” Merlin tries.

His captor twists his arm further. “Don’t try to be funny, boy.”

“No, really—”

“Gentlemen,” a new voice calls out. Merlin twists his head to see a man arrive on the scene, a sword strapped against his thigh and a hand on top of it. The man’s hair is dark and scruffy, and his eyes shine with danger. “Are we having a problem here?”

He smiles, though, and Merlin likes that smile. It’s a very attractive smile.

“None of your business,” the balding man snaps.

The newcomer grabs his sword, and twirls it uselessly before he gets off his horse. He lands on the ground nimbly, and Merlin stares at him. He stares right back. “Hello, there. So what’s your name?”

“Merlin,” Merlin manages to get out. Gods, is he blushing? That’s a bit awkward.

“I think my friend Merlin,” the man says, and flashes a smile at the bandits, “would prefer to be let go. Wouldn’t he, Merlin?” Merlin nods fervently, because really, he can’t even use his magic at this point, not unless he wants to out himself to a helpful stranger who might prove not to be so helpful right after. The two fighters have raised their swords again, and the lousy archer has his crossbow aimed at the—is he a knight? He should be, Merlin decides. 

“Just move on, and we’ll let you live,” the man who still clutches Merlin against him says. He smells of sweat and beer, and Merlin twists a little uncomfortably in his grasp.

“Oh, that’s the wrong thing to say, my friend,” the should-be knight says, and moves.

Merlin doesn’t really notice what happens until it’s already over; the helpful stranger is fast, and he fights like it’s a dance. His movements are so fluid and natural that it feels almost at odds with the rough way his steel clashes against the bandits’ swords. His opponents are too slow to hurt him, and the stranger dashes out of their way as he mercilessly cuts down the men. Merlin’s captor cries in agony and then Merlin’s loose, and he takes three steps away to freedom.

Deore neighs loudly as the fight starts and bucks her head. Merlin catches her bridle and murmurs a quiet spell to calm her down, and turns back to watch the fight.

Even with five against one, there’s really no doubt as to who will win the fight. Merlin’s new friend twists out of one bandit’s grasp only to attack another, and fells them with one smart move. He takes out the archer first, and then turns to the two swordsmen. The remaining two bandits flee back into the forest, and Merlin hesitates for a moment before he follows them.

“Adúnfielaþ,” he whispers, and the magic takes hold of their ankles and slams them down. They cry out, and Merlin’s eyes flash gold as vines slowly raise up the men and lift them up into the canopy. They will be stuck for a long while, if they can even get themselves free. Merlin thinks of their words, he’ll fetch a fair price, and decides to leave them there.

It’ll be up to fate whether they live or not.

He runs back to the path, only to find the would-be knight standing by himself, the two swordsmen and the archer either dead or wounded on the ground. Merlin doesn’t bother to check, and the stranger runs his sleeve over his sweaty forehead and smiles at him.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, and stares at him for a moment. “That was kind of you.”

“The other two ran off, huh?” the stranger says, and peers into the forest. He shrugs after a moment. “Oh, well, if I see them again, they’ll get what they deserve. I’m glad I could help, Merlin, really. It’s not every day you see a beautiful stranger being harrassed by bandits in the woods.”

“What’s your name?”

“Gwaine,” the stranger says, and grins. He juts his head towards the path. “Where are you headed, Merlin? It’s no time for travelling alone, my friend.”

“An inn for today, I think,” Merlin says. “And further west, tomorrow. And you?”

“The nearest tavern,” Gwaine says, and clasps Merlin on the back. “We’ll ride together, yeah?”

Merlin should really turn him down. He can take care of himself, and he would’ve, if Gwaine hadn’t come by. But then again, Gwaine could’ve left him, and he’s really pleasant to look at, and his voice is sort of rough but kind, and Merlin’s…

Merlin hasn’t slept with anyone for six months, and is not expecting Arthur to ever take him back. The gods help him, but Gwaine’s beautiful. And it’s harmless, isn’t it? Gwaine has already proven himself to be a kind man, and good with a sword, too. Merlin can ride with him for a day, and that’ll be the end of it. Just a day with a new friend.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and if his voice is a little hoarse, Gwaine doesn’t comment on it.

~*~

Gwaine’s not a knight, but he is a good fighter—he’d been taught since birth, he said, but doesn’t delve into it any deeper, and so Merlin doesn’t ask. He fights for money, but only when the money’s fair, and his hobby mostly consists of drinking and flirting. Or at least, that’s what Merlin surmises, after Gwaine spends ten minutes grinning up to a waitress only to turn that smile back on Merlin right after.

The company’s nice, though. It reminds him a bit of Camelot, where no one knew he was a royal sorcerer, but Gwaine’s nicer and more attentive than Arthur ever was, even on a good day. They drink together—Gwaine substantially more than Merlin—and it’s already late by the time they go back up to their respective rooms.

Merlin’s a bit relieved Gwaine doesn’t ask him to come to his. He isn’t sure what he would have said.

The inn is nicer than the ground, at least, and Merlin wakes up well-rested. It’s probably good for Deore to have a night in the stable, too, and Merlin takes a bath first thing. His hair’s still dripping when Gwaine knocks and, without waiting for an answer, comes in.

He smiles wolfishly at Merlin. “I thought you would clean up nice,” he says, approvingly, and Merlin rolls his eyes at him. The night in the inn has done Gwaine well, too; his hair is a bit more artfully tousled instead of just a tangled mess, and his tunic is deep enough that Merlin sees a hint of the hair on his chest going down.

“A bath does wonders,” Merlin agrees, and puts on his coat. “Where are you off to, then?”

“I thought I could stick with you, for a bit,” Gwaine says merrily, and Merlin blinks at him. “There’s more bandits than just that one group. And I don’t have anywhere more important to be.”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “More important… than a mere farmer’s boy you’ve never met before?”

“Don’t talk down on yourself like that,” Gwaine says, and the humour’s gone out of his voice. “You’re brave, Merlin, I’ll grant it to you, but these lands aren’t safe. You didn’t even bring a sword.”

“I don’t have one.”

Gwaine tilts his head. “Well, you do now. If you’ll have me, that is.”

No, Merlin thinks to himself. Just say no, and save yourself all the trouble that will come with it. But Gwaine’s so sincere, and his eyes are intently scanning Merlin. What he sees, Merlin doesn’t know, but his gaze doesn’t drop.

“Alright, then,” Merlin says, and can’t help but return Gwaine’s roguish grin.

~*~

The Crystal Cave doesn’t really seem all that impressive from the outside. That is, Merlin presumes, how it survived this long. It doesn’t really look magical from the outside, but for those who can feel it—

Oh, the Crystal Cave sings, to those who can feel it.

Their horses are also unsettled by it. Deore and Brown, Gwaine’s horse, slow down their pace once they get closer to it. “What do you need from here?” Gwaine asks, and Merlin’s had a full day to think about how to explain the fact he’s travelled days to some dingy cave in the middle of a territory that is already quite dangerous even when there aren’t several kingdoms at war.

“Well,” he says, and winces at his own cover story before he’s even told it. “I’ve left some… gold in there.”

“Gold?” Gwaine asks slowly, in exasperation.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “Last time I came by here—well, you know, bandits. And I had some extra gold with me, so I decided to hide half of what I had in case it got stolen! But I need it back now, so I just…” He waves his hands around, and hopes Gwaine will buy it.

Really, Merlin’s a terrible liar. How did he ever betray Arthur for so many years?

“But why leave it here?” Gwaine asks. “Anyone could pass by, my friend. I’m not saying I don’t understand your concerns, but I’m sure there would’ve been better places to store some gold?”

“Well,” Merlin says. “I’m really just a moron.” Gwaine blinks at him. Merlin shrugs, and gets off his horse. “I’ll be back in a second!”

“I’ll be here,” Gwaine says, his expression still more exasperation than anything else.

He looks over his shoulder to make sure Gwaine doesn’t follow him, but he seems content to wait outside. The Cave glitters blue at the touch of Merlin’s magic, and he sighs in relief at the sliver of ancient magic interacting with his own.

Merlin doesn’t have good memories of the Cave. He had first come here with Balinor when he was eleven years old, and witnessed for the first time the great power that visions held. He’d seen past and future, and understood none of it—the nightmares that had followed had wrecked his sleeping schedule for months, and the majority of his twelfth birthday had been spent crying on the floor.

The thing is, Merlin’s powerful, and the future is always changing. When you’re strong enough to witness a thousand different futures, breaking through one to find another, Seeing becomes a bit of a hassle. It’s only the truest visions that now cling to Merlin, the ones that have been arranged by fate rather than by human chance. 

None of this had been the fault of the Crystal Cave itself, though, and so when Merlin steps in, no longer a child, the magic feels familiar. Ancient, but it calls to him, recognising kin. He runs his hand over the glowing crystals and smiles broadly. This is what magic is, in its purest form—not good, nor bad, just real. Existing, and present, and his.

“Show me the war,” Merlin murmurs, and the magic surges up to his veins, to his eyes—and when he looks at his hands, still on one of the crystals, he is glowing gold in his entirety. “Show me Arthur.”

Merlin’s vaguely aware of the gold film over his sight, and of the sense of tiny stones prickling into his knees, and then the Cave falls away—

“Why would you assume that Emrys is planning on an attack—you must always assume the worst, mustn’t you…”

Merlin stands in front of Arthur, and Arthur has his head cradled in his head. He is crying, but he won’t let the tears fall—just blinks fiercely enough so that they disappear, so that he is strong.

“Yes, Merlin. I have to, if I’m to keep my people safe—”

Merlin blinks, and exhales. That is the past; the war with Mercia, that had been—

A dragon appears, sweeping away Arthur’s chambers as they soar in the air. Merlin sits on Naimroa’s back as he peers downwards. “Arthur!” he shouts, but the fighting armies below don’t hear them. There are three colours—Camelot red, right in between Gawant’s yellow and Deorham’s dark blue. “Arthur!”

He can hear the swords clashing, and spots Arthur riding in the front, his hair pale in the bright moonlight. “For my father!”

“What are you showing me,” Merlin murmurs, delirious. His hand slips over the crystal, and he bows forward. He thinks he feels sick, the beat of the hooves still ringing in his ear, the men shouting in agony and triumph, and most of all, Arthur’s desperate battlecry—

Arthur slaps him, and it rings. He tastes the sharp bitterness of blood in his mouth, and Merlin looks up.

“He died,” Arthur says, his voice hollow. “You could’ve saved him, couldn’t you?”

Merlin is on his knees, his palms splayed outwards on the ground. “No,” he mutters, and his eyes glow gold. “He was already dead by the time I went into the Crystal Cave. But you had guessed that, hadn’t you, Merlin?”

And then his own eyes look at him, and Merlin cries—and the vision turns to Uther, who cries out, “Arthur!” and lets out his last breath. His eyes are still open, staring in death at Merlin, the Merlin in the Cave, the Merlin he is trying to get back to but the vision won’t let him leave, not now—

A man stands over Uther’s corpse. His tunic is dark blue, and he grins at the dead king underneath him. And Uther is dead.

Uther is dead. Uther is dead.

Merlin comes to with a gasp, and steadies himself by grasping one of the crystals. He is woozy, but he gets to his feet nonetheless. The Cave buzzes with magic, and Merlin leans over one of the crystals and throws up.

It doesn’t make him feel a little better, but he does feel a bit calmer. He wipes his chin, and murmurs a quick cleaning spell on his sleeve. He holds himself on the crystals, for a moment, and glances at them. They reflect his own pale face, distorted but familiar, and Merlin lets out a trembling breath.

“I’m too late already, aren’t I?” he asks, miserably. “That was—that’s now, or soon, or it’s too late for me to change it, anyway. Uther’s dead, or dying.”

There’s no answers from the Cave, and Merlin hiccups out a sob. He’s not quite sure what to feel, but it’s complicated. Uther is Arthur’s father, and Merlin holds no love for him, but he’s never truly hated him the way that Balinor does. Uther is distant, and not a good father, and certainly not a worthy king, but he was Arthur’s. Arthur’s only remaining parent.

If Merlin grieves, it’s on behalf of Arthur, who will certainly not get enough time for it.

“If Uther’s dead,” Merlin muses aloud, the words still making him reel, “then Arthur doesn’t need to fight this war. And who killed him, anyway? That man was from—”

He stands up, in shock. If he’s right—and he knows he’s right, he’s just seen it—then Arthur needs to know. It doesn’t matter how Merlin will get there, but he must. Arthur will go to war, and he will fight the wrong side. His alliance with King Alined against King Godwyn will be short-lived, when Arthur learns the truth.

Uther is dead, and it is King Alined who murdered him.

Chapter Text

PART VI

Merlin stumbles out of the Cave, uncaring that he probably looks as if he’s gone two rounds against destiny and lost. The visions are still whirring in his head—the past, and the present, and the future.

Gwaine comes to help him walk when Merlin stumbles towards him. “What happened?” he asks, his voice gentle with concern. “Merlin?”

“Gold’s gone,” Merlin says, only remembering his excuse at the very last second. “I bumped my head trying to find it. Sorry.”

“You’re a very strange man, my friend,” Gwaine says, but helps Merlin down. The sun on his skin is nice, and the distance from the Cave makes the magic a little less overwhelming. Merlin blinks away the last remnants of the vision and finally loses that image of Uther’s pale face, his outstretched hand towards a son who will never come—

“I’m fine,” Merlin says, a little harsher than intended, and regrets it at once when Gwaine recoils. “Sorry, no, I’m not—I don’t mean it like that.”

“It wasn’t an insult,” Gwaine says, and his hair swoops over his forehead. “I’m fond of strange men.”

“Believe me, I’ve been called far worse,” Merlin says wearily, and looks up at the sky. He’s not sure how to proceed. He needs to get to that battlefield before the armies meet, and by the looks of it, he can’t have long—he hadn’t seen Dracaneard’s army, and they will arrive two or three days from now, depending on how fast they march.

He will never get there before them. Not on his horse, that is. And he really needs to talk to Arthur, and, by the dragons—Morgana. He needs to talk to her, too, although that might be able to wait until after he’s averted this war. He’s not sure what Arthur will do, and he’s especially not sure if Arthur will even believe him.

Walking into Camelot isn’t an option, even if they know who killed the king. If Alined is a smart man—and he is, one of the worst kind—he’ll not have left any evidence. The king will simply be dead, and Arthur will be on the throne. He won’t even have time for war. What is Alined trying to do?

Merlin will have to talk to Arthur, and pray that Arthur will take his word for it.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Gwaine asks, crouched next to Merlin. His face is so open and gentle, and Merlin wants to weep when looking at him. Arthur looked at him like that, once upon a time. When he still had Arthur’s trust. But here is his way out—his way to leave Gwaine without any suspicions.

He doesn’t think that Gwaine would hate him for having magic. But one never knows.

“I’m not doing so well,” he says, and it’s not even really a lie. “I think I’ll go back the way we came.”

Gwaine frowns. “Merlin, that’s half a day’s ride. You won’t—”

“Not if I just stop at that last town we passed,” Merlin dismisses. “I’ll have to rest for a few days, I think. No point in going on with me, Gwaine. There’s better uses of your time.”

Gwaine doesn’t seem convinced, if the look on his face is anything to go by. “Are you sure? I’d be willing to wait a few days.”

“I don’t even know where I’m going to go,” Merlin lies. “Gwaine, please. You’re a good friend—too good of one, I promise. We’ll meet again, I’m sure of it. But I won’t be a good companion for the foreseeable future.”

“There’s something about you, Merlin,” Gwaine says, and stares at him for a moment before he sighs. He stands up, and offers an arm to Merlin. Merlin takes it gratefully and stumbles to his feet. “You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own?”

“We haven’t seen a bandit in two days,” Merlin says. “I’m sure I can manage a short ride back. And you wanted to go east, didn’t you say? More taverns to drink ale, more men and women to meet?”

“I’m sure none as mysterious as you,” Gwaine tells him, and reels him in to kiss him. Merlin’s mind goes blank for a moment, his hand resting on Gwaine’s shoulder as if he hasn’t decided yet whether to pull him in or push him away. His lips are warm and soft, and Merlin closes his eyes as Gwaine runs his fingers down Merlin’s arm.

Just as quickly as it began, it ends. Gwaine pulls away, and winks at him. Merlin opens his mouth, and stammers, “I’m—that’s not to say—well. Thank you? I can’t, I really can’t, but I’m—”

“They call it stealing a kiss, Merlin,” Gwaine says, and smiles, “Because I already had a feeling you couldn’t. There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“I’m really not sure,” Merlin admits, and scratches the back of his neck. “It depends on him, mostly.”

“Tell him that I said he’s an idiot,” Gwaine says, and takes Merlin’s hand to tug him back towards the horses. Deore stares at Merlin as if she thinks he’s gone insane, and he pats her on the nose, mostly to distract himself from Gwaine’s stare. God, he’s still beautiful, and now his hair is messy and his lips are red.

“I’ll pass along the message,” Merlin says, and manages to offer him a sincere smile. “Really, Gwaine, I’m sure I’ll see you again, one day. I’ll just have to go into every tavern there is until I find you.”

“And I’ll be waiting until you do,” Gwaine says, and presses another dry kiss to Merlin’s lips. “Goodbye, then, Merlin. I hope you feel better soon.”

Merlin had already forgotten his excuse, but he blinks up at Gwaine. “Erm, yeah. Thanks. Have a good trip!”

He watches until Gwaine’s disappeared on the other end of the road, and breathes out. Surely Gwaine thinks he’s a bit of a moron, but Merlin’s glad to be left alone with his beating heart. And then he climbs on top of Deore’s back, and rides straight into the forest.

~*~

It’s quiet in the clearing, and Merlin thinks he’s far enough off the main road to be safe. Safe, in this case, will be a relative term, but no one will find him here, which is the main thing. 

He slides off Deore’s back and quietens his mind as he kneels in the middle of the clearing. It’s easiest to form the psychic connection with Kilgharrah, but he isn’t willing to trust the Great Dragon with this, and so he tries to rely on the vague connection he has with the other dragons.

Naimroa, he whispers, and knows the guttural sounds of the Dragon language are coming out of his throat. But the link between a Dragonlord—or a future Dragonlord, that is—and his dragons is psychic, and he speaks through distance and magic. Somewhere far away, he can sense Naimroa’s presence.

Naimroa, he says again, and tries to make her hear. Come and find me. I need you.

Something vibrates in his mind, like a dragon’s growl, and the connection ends. Merlin breathes in deeply and feels a headache coming on. Visions and talking to dragons—he really ought to be a bit gentler to his brain.

“Well, Deore,” Merlin says, and slowly picks himself up from the ground. A few dead leaves cling to his trousers and he brushes them off. He leans against her mane, suddenly dead tired, and closes his eyes. “I suppose now we wait.”

He does wait, and hopes that Naimroa is listening to him. She’s headstrong, but out of the three remaining dragons, she’s probably also the wisest. Rathuris wouldn’t come without Kilgharrah’s explicit permission, and he can’t trust that Ekaitza wouldn’t bite someone’s head off. Besides, Ekaitza would be too small to carry Deore.

It takes Naimroa several hours. The day has turned to dark long ago by then, and Merlin hopes the black of midnight has masked her arrival. When she lands, her wings outstretched, several bunnies and birds escape from the trees and bushes, and Naimroa looks amused at the fluttering sounds before she peers at Merlin.

“Dragonchild,” she greets him. “Did you know that your parents are very upset with you?”

“Oh, by the gods,” Merlin realises. “I forgot to scry with Dracaneard.”

Not that it would make things much better. Merlin expected to either return to Dracaneard or join Lancelot’s march. His parents might’ve forgiven him for the deception if he was going to either of these things, but Merlin isn’t, and now it just makes it seem as though he’s running back to Arthur.

He is running to Arthur. They just won’t understand why.

“I suppose,” Naimroa says slowly, and in the dark, her eyes glow a faint gold, “that I am not here simply to carry back a message?”

“I need to find Arthur,” Merlin tells her, his voice hard. “As quickly as possible. If we fly there, we’ll make it by morning, won’t we? Right at the battlefield.”

“A battlefield,” Naimroa says, in delight. She’s not as violently thirsty as Ekaitza, but she holds no love for humanity in itself. Merlin shakes his head.

“If things go right, maybe you can join. Maybe. But I really need to talk to Arthur before he does anything he’ll regret later. Will you bring me?”

Naimroa regards him for a few moments, and then puffs out a huff of smoke. She bows her head, giving him access to her back. “And the horse?” she asks. “I presume I am not to see them as a snack, and rather transport them along with you?”

“You’d think my father wasn’t feeding you enough,” Merlin mutters, and rubs in his eyes before he climbs her scales. “Careful, Naimroa. She isn’t like you, and you’ll spook her.”

Merlin murmurs a quick spell to calm Deore down again, and to Naimroa’s credit, she picks her up very gently. Deore whinnies uncomfortably, and Merlin’s eyes flash gold again so she goes slack. It may be for the better.

And with that, Naimroa sets off towards Gawant in the west.

~*~

The sun is just rising when Merlin first lays eyes on the camps.

He’s had a long night, with barely any sleep on Naimroa’s back. She wouldn’t let him fall, but riding on top of a dragon in the middle of a winter night is cold business, and the wind howls loudly. Every time Merlin was drooping, he’d unconsciously think of falling off and sit straight up again.

Merlin wasn’t actually aware that the camps were already forming. He’d known that Arthur was waiting just over Gawant’s border, sitting ready for King Godwyn’s soldiers to come and shedding as little blood as he could. It has turned into a full-fledged battlecamp in one of the valleys in Gawant’s hilly kingdom. Arthur sits on one side, and just a little distance away are Deorham’s tents. Gawant’s yellow flag stands on the other side.

“Drop me in Gawant’s tent camp,” Merlin tells Naimroa. He’d prefer to go to Arthur straight away, but he’s very aware he comes riding a dragon—Arthur’s men will shoot him on sight. Naimroa doesn’t comment and adjusts her flight so that they land in Godwyn’s encampment, mere minutes later.

The soldiers stare at him as Merlin nearly falls of Naimroa’s back. He’s stiff, and he flutters his fingers to get some life back into them. He smiles awkwardly at the soldiers and pats Deore when Naimroa puts her down.

Deore whinnies miserably. “Keep an eye on her,” Merlin tells Naimroa, and makes for the nearest soldier. The poor man has a hand on the hilt of his sword, but doesn’t pull it out. Merlin inclines his head at him. “Hello.”

“Prince Emrys?” the man guesses, his voice quivering. He’s still staring at the dragon behind him, and Merlin turns around. Naimroa grins with all teeth.

“The one and only,” Merlin says weakly. “Will you take me to whoever’s in charge here?”

“King Godwyn, my lord?”

Merlin blinks. “The king’s here?” he asks, and only gets a wordless nod in return. Well, that’s ideal, in a way, although somewhat awkward for Merlin personally. 

It doesn’t take long for Merlin to see King Godwyn. The king’s already awake, and making his way over to them, and they meet in the middle of the encampment. Godwyn’s eyes grow large when he lays them on Merlin. He waves him into the first tent they see—one with rationing, mostly, and Merlin looks at the few meagre barrels in the tent. There’s not much food for this many soldiers.

Godwyn sees him looking and grimaces. “I wasn’t able to gather many rations in such a short time,” is the first thing out of his mouth. “If this war goes the way I expect it to, it might be a good thing—no use wasting food on dead men. But I’m so glad to see you, Prince Emrys. I hope you come to turn the tide?”

“The army will arrive tomorrow, I hope,” Merlin says, and waves away Godwyn’s gratitude. “But that’s really not why I’m here, my lord. I’m hoping to avoid conflict, rather than assist you in it.”

Godwyn’s eyes darken at once. He’s an old man, already, frail and weakened by age. Merlin knows him as a kind person, and the heavy armour that sits on his body doesn’t fit his image of the man. Godwyn’s face has turned to iron, though, and Merlin thinks he understands why Balinor respects the King of Gawant as much as he does.

“I don’t think you can, Prince Emrys,” Godwyn says, and sighs deeply. “Alined’s knights have been burning villages lately, and I don’t think they are going to stop now that their violence has started. This is no longer a peaceful invasion, if they ever meant for it to be one. It seems this will be the place our destiny is decided, before his and Camelot’s forces can overrun us entirely. I’m glad to see your forces have come to join mine.”

“I’d rather not fight at all,” Merlin blurts out. “Lord Godwyn, please, our army is coming, and we will stand by your side if it comes to that, but I didn’t come all this way to tell you that. I came for Arthur Pendragon.”

Godwyn blinks at him. “What of him?”

“He’s the Once and Future King, my lord,” Merlin tells him. “It’s not—I’ve met him. I’ve come to know him, and Arthur’s honourable. And I know my father has told you about the prophecies concerning me—I am bound to him, my lord. I could never fight him.”

“So,” Godwyn says slowly. “You aren’t here to help.”

“I am,” Merlin insists. “If you’ll let me ride under a white flag to Camelot’s camp—”

“I am not here for peace,” Godwyn booms over him. Merlin recoils, and Godwyn continues. “That snake Alined is setting fire to my land and murdering my people, even when they were boasting of their peace only days ago! Killing my innocent people! I won’t let it stand, even if I can’t win.”

“It’s not Alined I want peace with,” Merlin promises. “Please, my lord. I just want to talk to Arthur. I promise, if he listens to me—I’ve something for him to hear, and if he listens to me, he may fight on your side. Arthur’s a good man, I promise.”

Godwyn regards him for a long moment. Merlin counts his breaths, just to have something to do, and just to make sure he won’t blurt out anything else. He wants to say a great many things, but Godwyn will have to make his own decision on this front.

To fight, or to have peace.

“But we are horribly outnumbered,” Godwyn admits, finally. “Your men will arrive tomorrow, you say? And they will bring supplies?”

“They ride under Sir Lancelot, my lord,” Merlin says, and adds, wryly, “With over a dozen battle-mages. The fight will be far more even, I promise you.”

“Then you can try, Prince Emrys. And if Arthur does not listen, then at least we may have a chance to push back this battle another day, and wait for your knights to come.”

~*~

Godwyn wanted Merlin to ride in on Naimroa, just to frighten the other party, but Merlin’s not that much of an idiot—he’d have lost any chance at peace by making such a statement. And so he takes Deore and a white flag, and rides out on the battlefield with Godwyn and two of his knights by his side.

No one comes from Alined’s camp, even though Merlin can see some of the Deorham knights staring at them. It’s not according to the Knight’s Code to ignore an offer of peace, but Merlin thinks that a people who will murder their allies’ king are probably not that mindful of the Code to begin with. 

Unsurprisingly, though, Arthur comes. And rides in front, with Leon by his side. If Arthur’s surprised at seeing Merlin for the first time in half a year, he doesn’t show it. Merlin keeps his own face as blank as he can, aware that they are meeting as enemies. His fingers tremble as he holds onto his white flag, and he watches Arthur’s armour flicker in the pale winter sun.

“King Godwyn,” Arthur says, neutrally, although his eyes are fully on Merlin. “And Prince Emrys. I saw the dragon, but I wasn’t aware you’d joined this war, Prince.”

“Prince Arthur,” Merlin says, and can’t help the way his voice catches on Arthur’s name. “Please. I need to talk to you.”

“We are talking,” Arthur says.

“In private,” Merlin adds.

Arthur’s face does something complicated. “I don’t see any reason for that, Prince Emrys. I think you made everything clear enough in the letter you sent me, and I’m not interested in hearing anything else.”

The letter. Merlin hasn’t thought about the letter since he sent it, full of desperation and loneliness. He pushes down the bitter taste in his mouth. “Arthur. You’re being a prat.”

“A prat? ” Arthur says, in exasperation. “I’m at war, Merlin, you can’t just barge in and expect me to—”

“My lord,” Leon says, awkwardly. “I think what you mean to say is that if King Godwyn and Prince Emrys are ready to lay down their weapons and make peace, we must talk to our own allies and discuss terms.”

“Right,” Arthur says, and clenches his jaw. He looks away from Merlin, and Merlin misses that blue gaze at once. It feels as if his very body is on fire at the remembrance of Arthur, the knowledge that he’s tasted his lips, has been pinned down under the weight of him. 

“I’m not here to discuss peace, my lord,” Merlin says, and hates himself for how formal he sounds. “I’m here to discuss an alliance.”

“Emrys,” Godwyn hisses.

Arthur and Leon look at him, equally incredulous. “An alliance?” Arthur repeats. “Merlin, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Your father went to war over what I’ve done, I know,” Merlin snaps, and ignores Godwyn’s stare. “But it’s the wrong war, isn’t it? Alined’s betraying you, Arthur, has betrayed you already. Please.”  

Arthur lets out a sudden, bitter hiccup of laughter. His visage is far sharper and more wry than Merlin has ever seen him, even that night he figured out Merlin’s lies. “Oh, come on, Merlin,” he says, wearily, and raises a hand as if he wants to run it through his hair before he realises he’s wearing a helmet, and lowers it again. “This is low, even for you. King Alined is our ally, as he has been for years, whereas you are the thorn in Camelot’s side. Tell me why I should trust you over him.”

“You did, once,” Merlin urges. 

“And look where that got me!” Arthur’s eyes are heavy on his, suddenly, dark with something Merlin doesn’t dare name—grief, anger, conflict. “I won’t make peace with you, Merlin. I can’t, and I should strike you where you stand for even talking about loyalty to me, after you… if my father were here—”

“Your father is dead.”

The field falls silent. Merlin ignores the sharp looks from Godwyn and Leon, and only focuses on Arthur. Arthur’s gone pale, any emotion drained from his face. His hands are tight on Llamrei’s reins, and then he shakes his head. Merlin regrets the words as soon as he’s said them, but Arthur needs to know and he wasn’t going to listen otherwise. “No, you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” Merlin says desperately. “Let me come with you, and I’ll explain everything.”

“Not lying?” Arthur says, and then he’s raised his sword, and points it at Merlin. They’re still quite a distance apart, but the threat is clear. “Not lying? All you’ve ever done to me is lie! How could I trust your word after that? You’ve no honour, Emrys of Dracaneard, and you’ve no right to act as if I should listen to you. After what you did.”

“But you sent Morgana to me,” Merlin pleads. “Arthur, please. Uther’s dead, and Alined had him killed.”

“Arthur,” Leon says quietly, and puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Perhaps it’s best to listen to him. Take him into the tents, and let’s find out if there’s any truth to what he says. Merlin’s many things, but he’s not needlessly cruel. You know that.”

It would’ve been easier, Merlin thinks, if he’d just never gone to the Crystal Cave. He’d have sat by his hearth and watched as Dracaneard’s army marched away, and he would have let everyone slaughter each other, like their kingdoms have done to each other before. He wouldn’t have to suffer through Arthur’s accusing look, nor have to feel his heart rip in two as Arthur slowly lowers his sword.

“I hope you’re right about this, Prince Emrys,” Godwyn murmurs, his voice low. His knights follow at a distance, and they stand out starkly in Camelot’s encampment. The deep red of Arthur’s cape is echoed everywhere, but Godwyn and his knights wear their bright yellow. Merlin’s just in his old winter clothes, and he realises only now he’s wearing his red scarf. It’s one he used to wear in Camelot on a near daily basis.

He’s not sure if that’ll be good or bad. Only Godwyn and he follow Arthur into his own tent, leaving the knights to stand on guard. Arthur’s tent is sparse, but there are two chairs. Arthur waves at them, and Godwyn sits down gratefully, but Merlin remains standing, crossing his arms.

“I hope you’ve a good explanation for the way you’ve talked yourself in here, Prince Emrys,” Arthur says slowly, and takes the cup of water that Leon offers him wordlessly. “Because I’m sure you’re aware that Deorham and Camelot’s combined strength outmatch Gawant’s by a rather impressive number—”

“And I brought a dragon, but that’s neither here nor there,” Merlin interrupts him. “Won’t you listen? King Alined had your father murdered, Arthur. I’m not sure exactly when, or how, or why, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry, he’s dead.”

“I would’ve known,” Arthur says sharply. “If my father were dead, I would’ve had word. What I want to figure out, Prince Emrys, is why you are so intent on convincing me of this—”

“Stop calling me Emrys,” Merlin snaps.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Arthur is hot on his heels, the fire in his voice just as fierce.

Merlin throws up his hands. “No, it’s not. My name’s Merlin, that’s what I was born as, and it’s not my fault I’m living my whole life in the shadow of a prophecy, now is it, because really, things would be a lot easier if that’s the only thing I had to follow!”

“Fine,” Arthur says, and rubs his eyes. “One thing you didn’t lie about. That doesn’t mean you are right about this. My father is fine, and—”

A messenger comes in. He’s still young, and his cheeks are red from the cold. He has a letter in his hands, and looks between the kings before his gaze finally settles on Arthur. “My lord Arthur?” he says, and swallows. “This came for you from Camelot.”

Oh, by the dragons. Merlin takes a deep breath as he watches Arthur take the letter. He’s almost transfixed as Arthur opens it, focused on every line of Arthur’s body. The lonely prince, the prophesied king, his mind supplies. But Arthur’s eyes skim over the content of this letter, and he suddenly looks very, very lonely indeed.

Arthur’s eyes snap to his. Merlin gets to his knees in front of his king. “I am so sorry, Arthur,” he whispers. Arthur’s eyes are damp, tears welling up in them despite himself. Merlin knows what that letter says. 

The slap is unexpected, and it hurts more than Merlin thought. He tastes blood in his mouth, just like in the vision, but the vision hadn’t included the rising embarrassment and guilt that come with the tears. Godwyn and Leon both inhale sharply, and Godwyn’s hand goes to his sword.

“No,” Merlin tells him weakly, and raises up a hand. “I deserved that, and more. Not for this, please, Lord Godwyn.”

“He died,” Arthur says, and the blue of his eyes is all the more sharp, standing out against the watery red. “You could’ve saved him, couldn’t you?”

“No,” Merlin says, and shakes his head. “He was dead by the time I went into the Crystal Cave and saw it, Arthur. I promise you, I only found out yesterday. I had a vision during Samhain, and it wasn’t—but I didn’t know until just yesterday, I promise. I wanted to stop this war, but I didn’t mean—I would’ve helped you, Arthur.”

And he would have, if Arthur had wanted it. He’s only had memories to remember Arthur by for half a year, but now he’s in his presence, and Merlin wants. If Arthur asks, and it’s in Merlin’s power to give, he would do it. 

He thinks that doesn’t make him a very good prince, probably. 

Arthur’s come to crouch next to him, and lifts up Merlin’s face by his chin. He runs a finger over Merlin’s cheek and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have slapped you. I’m not—I believe you. I don’t know why, Merlin, given all of our history, but I do.”

“My lord,” Leon says. “If Uther’s dead…”

“I know,” Arthur says, and he looks so very, very young. He’s only three years older than Merlin, and to be king at twenty-four isn’t ideal. He should’ve had more time, but that’s not something that Merlin can change. As powerful as he is, he’s not about to dabble in dark magic just to give Arthur some more respite.

“My king,” Merlin says, and Arthur’s eyes flit to him. “I don’t know why Alined did this—”

“We don’t have any proof,” Arthur says, and runs his hand through his hair. It remains upwards in spikes, and Merlin desperately wishes he was his manservant again for a moment, solely so he could have the privilege of stroking it downwards. “I can’t accuse Alined of anything simply on the word of my enemy, and moreover, I don’t want to. How did you know?”

“I had a vision,” Merlin tells him. “I went to—you probably won’t know it, it’s tucked away. I went to the Crystal Cave. It’s the birthplace of magic, and it is particularly helpful when one is trying to see more clearly. I only went to try and find a way to stop this war, because it was—well, you see, Dracaneard’s army’s on the way.”

“Prince Emrys,” Godwyn hisses at Merlin’s blatant admission of it.

Merlin shrugs. “He was going to find out either way, Lord Godwyn. We were trying to stay out of it, but then—well. You once said, Arthur, you always had to assume the worst in order to keep your people safe. I don’t think I’m very good at being a prince, but I’m trying. So I’m here, assuming the worst. I assume I can’t have it both ways. I went to the Cave to see what I could find out about the future, but all I saw was you. And Uther.”

“What did you see?” Arthur presses. If he has any misgivings about Merlin’s words, he doesn’t show it. In fact, his face is entirely blank. Merlin wishes he could give him more time to grieve, but time is what they don’t have.

“A man in Deorham colours,” Merlin says quietly. “Poisoning your father. And it wasn’t a set-up, I know that, Arthur, because no one even saw him. But I don’t know why—”

“I know why,” Arthur says, his lips pressed together. “Because I have to return to Camelot and assume the throne before anyone else tries their hand at it. And it means that after we win this battle today, I won’t have time to fight King Alined on who gets Gawant afterwards. Which means that he does, and he will have twice as much land. All because of a war won with the knights from Camelot.”

“All this deception for a mere bit of land?” Merlin asks.

“This deception for a kingdom, Merlin,” Arthur says tiredly. “Alined’s slimy enough for it, I grant you. But motive doesn’t make proof, and if things are as you say they are, I’m sure he’s smart enough not to have left any.”

“But you can’t let this go,” Merlin says. “He murdered your father—”

“As your father would have, once upon a time,” Arthur snaps. “As mine would have killed yours, I’m sure. Bloodshed upon bloodshed, Merlin. You didn’t want me to fight Mercia for betraying Camelot’s loyalty, once upon a time. Should I have gone to war over that, based on your accusations? I just told you I can’t go to war. Not if I want Camelot to be stable.”

Merlin is silent for a short moment. “But you believe me?”

“You do this thing, when you’re nervous,” Arthur tells him. “With your face, all open. You don’t have a tell for when you’re lying, but you do have one for when you desperately want me to know the truth.”

“What will we do about this battle, King Arthur?” Godwyn says, and slowly rises to his feet. “I will not let Gawant go. Not without a fight.”

“This was never my battle,” Arthur says abruptly, and looks to Leon. “I would leave, but I don’t want to take the risk that Alined may still take Gawant. He’ll be twice as strong if he is considering attacking Camelot. Leon?”

“You could make an alliance, my lord,” Leon says hesitantly. “But there is already one in place with Alined, and I’m not sure—”

“You could,” Merlin says, realising. “If Lord Godwyn swore to Arthur as his High King. That’s a deeper bond than what is between mere allies—Lord Godwyn will be your swordsman, Arthur. He’ll have to give up some of his lands as a show of trust, but you can allow him to keep reign over them. It’ll end this war, no one even knows what it was about in the first place—it’s as good as any peace treaty. It’s better.”

“No one has been High King in centuries,” Godwyn says, and turns to Merlin. “But if he’s the Once and Future King—”

“He is, I swear it,” Merlin says, urgently. “Arthur, please. If you’ve ever trusted me, trust that what I say is the only way.”

“Why are you fighting for peace so badly?” Arthur demands. “What stakes do you have in this, Merlin?”

“I fight for it because I want it,” Merlin tells him. “Aren’t you tired of this? This—constant squabbling, hate upon hate? We have a chance here to create a union that will last, with men of honour. I know you want that too, Arthur. I know.”

Arthur blows out a frustrated breath and paces the two steps of length that he has in the tent. Merlin watches him carefully, fiddling with his thumbs. 

“Out,” Arthur demands, and gestures at all three of them. “I need everyone out. I need space to think.”

I didn’t know you could, Merlin would’ve said, a year ago. Now, he silently treads out of the tent with Leon and Godwyn, and wishes he could be inside. But Arthur needs time, more than anything, and Merlin knows he’s broken his trust.

“I’ll need to inform our men,” Leon says, after a moment’s hesitation. “And Deorham, too, I imagine.”

“King Alined isn’t with them, I suppose?” Merlin asks wryly. 

“I know you’re angry, Merlin,” Leon says, and pats his shoulder, “but you have to let Arthur come to terms with this. You’ve just placed the whole kingdom on his shoulder while he’s dealing with a war he never wanted to fight in the first place.”

Merlin sighs. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Prince Leofwine is leading Alined’s army,” Godwyn says, brusquely. “Alined’s sister’s son, and his heir apparent. He’s brutal, and proud, and won’t stop here, if I were to hazard a guess. No matter what Prince Arthur chooses.”

King Arthur, Merlin wants to say, but bites his tongue. Arthur hasn’t been granted his crown yet, but he will. He looks over his shoulder, but then Leon leads them along and puts them next to a fire, along with Godwyn’s two knights. Some of Arthur’s knights already sit there, and Merlin knows two of them personally; Sir Bedivere and Sir Brennis. Bedivere has known him since his first year as manservant, going as far back as that trip where they were talking about the rumours of his marriage to Elena.

Merlin hunches in on himself, even as Leon grabs a piece of bread for him and King Godwyn. 

“It’s your duty to protect these men,” Leon says to Bedivere and Brennis. “Lord Arthur needs to make some decisions before he meets with them again, and you are to keep them in your sight at all times. Make sure no harm comes to them.”

With that, he disappears to fulfil his duties as Arthur’s first knight. Merlin wishes he could come along with him; at least Leon never looked at him as if he wanted to eat him alive, no matter how he feels about Merlin’s deception.

Bedivere raises his eyebrows. “Look at what the overgrown lizard dragged in,” he says slowly. “A Prince of Dracaneard.”

At least these men will know about Merlin’s deception. Probably the whole castle does, Merlin considers. He’d gotten a bit of a reputation, even in the lower town, being both Gaius’ apprentice and Arthur’s wayward manservant. It’s not just Arthur he has betrayed.

And still, he feels bitter. These men have no idea what Merlin has sacrificed to help Arthur, and they have no idea what happened between them. They may be protective of their lord—and Merlin is glad they are, is glad that Arthur is loved—but he wishes it didn’t come at his own expense.

He shuts his mouth and nibbles on his bread. It’s gone a bit stale, but Merlin hasn’t eaten since he was at the inn with Gwaine, and even then he hadn’t had much.

“Prince Emrys will have your respect,” Godwyn says firmly, and Merlin keeps quiet. At least Arthur’s knights don’t deign to respond, and Godwyn stands up. “This isn’t usual, Prince Emrys. We should have been brought to a tent, not out in the open. Arthur is showing that he holds us.”

“No, Lord Godwyn, he’s showing that he holds me,” Merlin corrects him, wryly. “The son of his fiercest enemy, coming to beg to surrender. And he’s right to—the addition of Dracaneard to this war may spook Prince Leofwine into agreeing to whatever Arthur wants to do. We do have dragons, you know.”

He aims this mostly towards Bedivere and Brennis, and takes some satisfaction in the way they pale a bit. Godwyn sighs and waves at his own knights. They start a quiet, murmured conversation, presumably about their own strategies, and Merlin tunes it out. He focuses on the fire in front of him.

He wonders what Arthur is thinking about. Wonders what he will choose to do.

Chapter Text

It takes a little under an hour for Arthur to summon him and Godwyn again. Merlin goes with no little trepidation as Leon walks them back to Arthur’s tent. 

Arthur is alone, sitting behind his desk. He’s deep in thought, his eyes somewhere far away, and letting his head rest against his hand. Merlin has seen him like this very often, and his heart twists at the familiarity. 

When they walk in, Arthur sits upright. If he’s cried, Merlin can see no sign of it. He’s known about his father’s death for an hour, and Arthur is yet to snap out of his princely demeanour. Merlin respects him for it, as much as he fears the onstream of emotion Arthur will be hiding for several more days—at least until he’s crowned king.

“I’ve summoned Prince Leofwine,” Arthur says, betraying no feelings at all. “I will inform him of my father’s death, and I will tell him that we will not fight Gawant. That is, if you will swear your fealty to me, and make us allies until death. I will leave you your lands, Lord Godwyn, but I cannot walk away from a battlefield without a victory.”

“Ah, the qualms of a young king,” Godwyn says, and smiles wanly. “If you save my people, Lord Arthur, then you have my oath. But you must know that I can’t give it so easily without knowing what else you’ll ask of me.”

“I’m not planning on taking your throne or your lands, Lord Godwyn,” Arthur murmurs, looking as if the kingship has already dragged him down and aged him. “I’ll have my hands full enough with my own crown to want anything to do with yours, if you don’t mind. Rest assured, we will draw up terms that will be beneficial to both of us.”

Godwyn looks at Arthur for a hard moment. “I believe you, Lord Arthur.”

And you,” Arthur says, and abruptly turns to Merlin. “Will you swear a similar oath? Make the peace you want so badly?”

Merlin blinks. He hadn’t expected that, and Arthur’s face is entirely blank. Half a year ago, Merlin would’ve been able to guess at Arthur’s thought process, but now he doesn’t know what’s going through Arthur’s head.

“Would you accept it, if I did?” he asks, finally. 

Arthur’s smile is humourless. “I don’t know.”

“You will have my aid when you require it, my lord,” Merlin says, and inclines his head. “But that is a promise I make as a man, not as a prince. You ask for something I can’t give you, Arthur. Not until I’m king, and not until magic is legalised in Camelot.”

“Then you will wait for a long time,” Arthur tells him, sharp as his blade and aiming to cut just as deeply, and rises. “King Godwyn of Gawant, please kneel.”

Godwyn does, though he struggles. Merlin helps him, and can feel Arthur’s gaze on his face at all times. But then Merlin steps back, and Arthur says the words, and Godwyn accepts. Merlin watches as Godwyn kisses Arthur’s ring—the one that belonged to his mother, once—and steps back in to help Godwyn rise.

“And now I am your bannerman, Lord Arthur,” Godwyn says, and holds out his sword for Arthur, “I ask you to stop the war on my lands, and withdraw all armed forces.”

“Leon,” Arthur says, and his knight appears at once. Merlin doesn’t doubt he’s listened to everything. “Please make sure Prince Leofwine joins us sooner rather than later. We’ve got peace to make. And bring Lord Godwyn to a tent of his own where he can rest before the talks.”

“My lord,” Leon says, and Godwyn follows him gratefully.

It leaves only Merlin and Arthur sitting there. Merlin presses his lips together and stares at Arthur. Arthur’s not looking back, but slowly sips from his goblet. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, at last. “About your father.”

“Why would you say that?” Arthur asks, abruptly. “Would you have saved him, had I asked? I don’t—I don’t understand you, Merlin, and I know that I never really have, but that’s not—he was your enemy. I am your enemy, by all means. Do you really put so much stock in a prophecy that you’d—let him live? Simply because I dared ask?”

“No,” Merlin murmurs. “I’d do it because it’s you.”

“I don’t get it,” Arthur tells him, and paces. “You could’ve come here with your army—you could’ve joined far earlier, and I told my father, I told him, there wouldn’t be any defeating you—not if you brought sorcerers and dragons—”

“You do understand,” Merlin says, and crosses his arms defensively. “You like to think it was all a lie, just to make it easier. But it’s not easy, Arthur, it’ll never be that. You wouldn’t have sent Morgana to my doorstep if you thought I would do any of that.”

Arthur’s eyes are heavy on his. “But you could have saved my father?”

“I could have, yes,” Merlin says. “Magic is powerful, Arthur, but it can’t bring back someone from the dead. I saw too late, and if I’d seen in time—well, I don’t know. I haven’t known what to do for six months, so why would I start now?”

“He would’ve killed you,” Arthur says.

Merlin shrugs. “He would’ve tried to, yes. But I wouldn’t have saved him for him.”

Arthur breathes deeply, and runs a gloved hand over his face. A few of his clasps are undone, but he’s in full armour otherwise. He is a glorified picture of a king, ready for both war and peace, whichever comes his way.

“Morgana told me a lot about how you were helping her,” Arthur says, eventually. “I went to her after—the letter you sent me. She always argued in your favour, and I just couldn’t help but think—if you were really here with ill intent, you wouldn’t have risked it. She was the king’s ward, and she could have had you burned. But she was suffering, and you helped her, the same way you helped—” He stops abruptly.

“Morgana is my friend,” Merlin says, and hopes Arthur fills in the gaps. 

“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” Arthur says, and fiddles with his clasps. “I need my wits about me. Prince Leofwine is coming, and he’s a real turd.”

“Not so unlike you, then,” Merlin blurts out.

Arthur snickers, only for a moment. It’s enough for Merlin to feel that same brightness in his chest though, and he smiles. 

“I think you ought to leave. Prince Leofwine won’t appreciate your involvement, and I’m sure he’ll accuse you of bringing about my new alliance with Godwyn by sorcery. God knows it’s more likely than you using your brain, but still, it won’t help to convince him to back down. If he will back down in the first place, that is.”

“What will you do if he won’t?” Merlin asks, concerned.

“He will,” Arthur assures him, but he doesn’t look so certain. “But no matter what, this war ends here today. And I would prefer it if it ended without Dracaneard involved.”

“Or me,” Merlin says wryly. 

Arthur raises his eyebrows at him. “Aren’t you Dracaneard?”

“If only it were so easy,” Merlin tells him, and eyes Arthur’s unclasped armour. Without being able to explain why, he moves into Arthur’s space and fixes them for him. Arthur stares at him, closer than he’s been in half a year since he carried Merlin up to a tower to save him from his father’s wrath.

“What on Earth are you doing, Merlin?” he breathes.

“You’re a prat, and a moron, and I frankly don’t understand why you think half the things you think,” Merlin says, “But this used to be my job, and I was rather good at it, really. Well, I had to learn. But you were surprisingly kind about it, even when you barely knew me. That stuck out to me the most, you know. That you had so many gripes with me, but you never made fun of me.”

“This isn’t—” Arthur swallows, and Merlin watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall down. “You are the Prince of Dracaneard. This isn’t your job. It never should have been.”

Merlin finishes the last clap, and stands back to admire his handiwork. He hasn’t forgotten how to do this. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put up with all your dirty socks,” Merlin says, and smiles at him. “But I always did like putting you in your armour. Well, then, my king. If that’s all.”

“That’s all, Merlin,” Arthur says, like they’re back in old times, and Merlin walks out his tent. His heart is beating fast, and for a moment, all Merlin wants to do is turn around. What does it matter if Leofwine doesn’t trust Merlin? Arthur does—he does, today proved that. 

And Merlin walks out of Camelot’s encampment, leaving behind his king.

~*~

Godwyn doesn’t return until late, but the old man’s face is alight with relief when he comes to find Merlin in the tent he’s been assigned in Gawant’s encampment.

“Prince Leofwine accepted!” he says, and hugs Merlin. It comes as a bit of a surprise, but Merlin pats Godwyn on his back. 

“That’s wonderful!” Merlin says, and beams. The concern had been eating him up, so he’d spent most of the day doing tricks with Naimroa. He hadn’t flown her, afraid that it might be taken the wrong way by the knights of Camelot and Deorham, but he’d practised her ability to aim her breath of fire.

In hindsight, the knights of Gawant hadn’t liked him much for that. But it’d been cleared up very quickly, and at least Naimroa hadn’t offered to eat any of the knights for their trouble.

“I do wonder, Prince Emrys,” Godwyn says quietly, “What this means for Gawant’s alliance with Dracaneard. We’ve been friends with your father for a long time, and I’d hoped that a marriage with Elena could’ve solidified that friendship. But now…”

“Oh, no marriage for me, Lord Godwyn,” Merlin hurries to say. “It’s not Elena, I promise, she’s lovely. You know we’re friends. I’ll always count you as an ally, and I think Camelot will have other issues other than Dracaneard to focus on for a while.”

Godwyn lowers his head, looking at Merlin from below his brow. “I don’t know your history with Lord Arthur, Prince Emrys, but I trust you know what you are doing. If he is truly the Once and Future King, I will be glad to see what world he will build with your help.”

Merlin smiles. “I suppose we’ll find out, my lord,” he says, “But today is a good first step towards peace. And I thank you for it.”

“No, thank you,” Godwyn says, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder, and takes his leave.

~*~

He wakes up to the sound of shouting and the smell of wood burning. He sits up straight away, the wrongness of the situation clearing his head before he even truly recalls where he is; a knight stands in front of him, one of Godwyn’s men who joined them when they went to Arthur under the white flag.

His face is tense, and Merlin throws his legs out of his bed, grabbing the first tunic he sees lying around. “What’s going on?” he asks, struggling with the lace even as the shouting comes closer outside, and the knight turns back with a concerned expression.

“Deorham has set our tents on fire,” the knight answers him. “We are assembling to attack—their forces are already out on the field and in our camp. Our king is driving them back to the plains, since only a few sneaked in, but I was assigned to keep you safe, my lord.”

It couldn’t be so easy, of course. Merlin feels the sinking pit of emptiness settle, and he swallows away his sourness as he rubs his eyes. The sky is still black when he walks out of the tent, not taking the time to grab any of his scarce belongings. They will be here after the battle, or they won’t be—Merlin has a duty first.

“I won’t need your protection,” he says, voice low, as he takes in the knights running around him. He can hear the horses whinnying loudly from the middle of their camp, and sees the flames rising. Some men are running in the opposite direction of the battle, carrying heavy buckets of water, nearly losing half of the contents in their haste. Merlin lifts his hands towards the flames, and says, “Forsmore þæm fȳre.” 

The magic obeys him with ease, and the flames go down. Only the sad wisps of smoke are still rising high into the night, nearly invisible. Merlin spares a moment of concern for the horses and then turns back to the knight, staring at him with no little trepidation. 

“My lord, I was ordered by the king,” he says, swallowing hard. 

“Unless you want to fly a dragon,” Merlin says lightly, “I think it’s best if you go find Godwyn. Make sure he’s safe.”

Naimroa, he whispers in his mind, even as he watches the knight make a decision and run towards his brothers in arms, Naimroa, come to me. She isn’t far away; the dragon lands before him within seconds from the other side of camp. She must have been waiting for him to call her, because Merlin does not need to explain to her what he wants. Naimroa lowers her neck for him to climb on top of her, and sets off towards the sky without a word.

If Merlin thought about this for a minute longer, he would need to consider the implications of going to war. Right now, he does not need to technically be here. Dracaneard is not yet involved in this battle: even the agreement that has been made is only between Gawant and Camelot. Merlin’s presence here, right now, is only that of him as a man, not as a prince, if he considers it himself. His presence has the chance to complicate things.

But then again, his army is already on their way. Merlin can’t even consider standing by and flying away when Godwyn and Arthur need him. Because they will need him, he thinks; Alined’s knights have the benefit of their surprise attack, and with the fighting spread out below him from his perch in the sky, he can see they have chosen the higher ground which is quickly turning to their benefit. The fighting is thickest on the field between Deorham and Gawant’s army; Camelot’s is approaching from the east, and Merlin can see some red capes ahead of the main force joining the fray. The battle is only just at the precipice, clearly, yellow and blue-clad knights charging each other in a way that Merlin believes is not at all how wars are usually fought. He always thought it would be more orderly, with kings leading their knights into an honourable assault, swords raised as horses break into spears.

This isn’t that, at least, and Merlin doesn’t know if it’s his lack of knowledge on how these things are supposed to go or that war is just lacking that sort of nobility with which Arthur used to describe it to him. Leofwine clearly isn’t the sort of knight that Arthur strives to be, judging from this attack; Merlin thinks of what he knows of Alined’s heir apparent, which isn’t much. Brutal, and proud, is what Godwyn had told him of Leofwine. A turd, had been Arthur’s helpful addition. Merlin thinks Godwyn had it right, in the end. Leofwine won’t let it end here, no matter how many men die.

Just as he tries to figure out how to best situate himself to help—Naimroa is eager underneath his thighs, clearly ready to set fire to the enemy, but he doesn’t want to risk her harming their allies—he spots Arthur.

The number of red cloaks rises, just as the first hints of day flicker in the horizon. There is no sun yet, but Merlin sees the light blue edge in the distance; dawn can’t be too far off, and it affords him a better view of the valley underneath him. Leofwine’s army is still larger in numbers, and they have horses; Godwyn’s forces are woefully unprepared for battle, but they are holding up as well as they can. Some of Camelot’s knights—perhaps those who already were awake to keep watch, Merlin considers to himself—are fighting with them, but now Camelot’s main force comes up the gentle slope of the valley.

“Naimroa,” Merlin says, and shivers despite himself. He is barely wearing more than his pants and a loosely-tied tunic, and the bitter wind tugs at him coldly in the air. “Whatever happens today, we look after Arthur. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Dragon Prince,” Naimroa answers flatly, and it’s not a confirmation, but Merlin knows she will listen to him. He digs his knees in her scales and moves forward. Naimroa lowers them, enough so that Merlin is nearly deafened by the sounds of men shouting—men dying in the field, so unnecessarily—and swords meeting, the metal screeching and clattering in his ears.

“Arthur!” he shouts, trying to catch his attention before he joins the turmoil of Gawant and Deorham’s armies. Arthur rides on top of his war steed, heedless of Merlin’s voice. He hasn’t even looked up to the dragon in the sky, but he moves to meet Deorham’s force. Suddenly, with startling clarity, he remembers the vision he had of this moment in the Crystal Cave.

“For my father!” Arthur yells, and the real battle begins when his army crashes into the fight.

Merlin huffs in annoyance, and steers Naimroa up again when several of Deorham’s bowmen, at the edge of the fighting forces, aim for her. One of the arrows scrapes just past Merlin’s elbow, and he breathes hard as he holds onto Naimroa to make sure he doesn’t fall off.

Wars are always made to sound so honourable in the songs; as if they are done out of honour, love and nobility, but that is not what they are. Merlin has grown up with stories of his people being killed. They had never had a proper war, because they had hidden, but Merlin never really understood Arthur’s fascination with his skills in the battlefield anyway. 

Perhaps, he considers, watching carefully for that fair-haired fool he calls his king, Arthur will agree with him after this. Arthur has led his men for many years, but this will be his first true battle, the same way it is Merlin’s. He thinks Arthur will staunchly hold to his point, though, even if he only does it to rub Merlin’s nose in it. To Merlin, the art of killing is not a true art—but perhaps that is what he needs Arthur for.

Perhaps it is not the fighting that the songs are written about; perhaps it is what the men fight for.

Naimroa surges to the left, where most of Deorham’s archers are situated, and snatches one of them up. The man cries out in pain when he is yanked into the air; Merlin winces as Naimroa lets go, and pointedly does not look back. 

Instead, he searches out the most important people to protect during this battle. Mostly, that is Arthur. King Godwyn is at the back of the army, protected by several of his knights. Merlin’s glad not to have to worry about him too much—not only is he an ally, but Merlin’s very much aware that Godwyn’s death would complicate the new alliance with Camelot severely, and still leave an issue about Godwyn’s heir. Women don’t tend to be respected enough when there’s a kingdom at war, and Merlin will not allow Gawant’s throne to be snatched from Elena’s deserving hands.

Leofwine himself is in the middle of the fighting. Merlin spotted him early, surrounded by some of his best knights—or he assumes that is what the golden weave in their blue cloaks signifies, anyway, but Arthur would probably be able to tell him more accurately how they’ve earned that distinction. Leofwine’s hair is red, he thinks, but it is hard to tell without proper sunlight; it might range from bronze to a true russet colour, but at least he will be easily found from the sky.

“Emrys,” Naimroa says sharply, and that is all the warning Merlin gets before another arrow flies past him, catching in his arm. Merlin hisses out in pain, putting his arm over the surface injury. His fingers come away red, and he doesn’t have time to focus on a healing spell before the next arrow comes.

“We have to deal with these archers,” he says in exasperation. 

“They won’t hurt me,” Naimroa tells him, her voice low and gurgling with fire. “Your flesh is not nearly as strong as mine. They won’t hurt me, but you are unsafe. We can leave, Dragon Prince, or I can take further to the sky—”

“No,” Merlin says. “I’m fine—let’s just take out the archers, first, and then we can see if I can use a spell to isolate some of Deorham’s soldiers—”

“—And then I can bite them in half,” Naimroa finishes, far too delighted, the satisfaction curbing her concern. Merlin sighs, wiping his bloodied fingers on his tunic and pats her glimmering scales.

“And then you can bite them in half,” he agrees, because he would not be a very good Prince of Dracaneard if he did not let dragons be dragons. His injury stings, but Merlin puts it out of his mind when Naimroa swoops down again, this time spreading her wings so she barrels into the enemies’ ranks. Some of the men duck in time, but not a single one of them has the chance to shoot Merlin before Naimroa is on them.

She turns back around elegantly, and keeps up her promise—she snaps at the remaining few archers standing there. The ones that are still alive run into the battlefield, taking their chances with Camelot’s and Gawant’s forces instead of a dragon.

Merlin grins, despite himself.

Dawn finally touches the edges of the world, painting the world orange and red with its first gentle rays. He cranes his neck to make sure Godwyn and Arthur are still safe, and spots the latter fighting in a crowded area, Leon next to him. Naimroa remains close to the surface now that the archers have been dealt with, flying just over the swing of the knights’ swords.

“Go up,” Merlin commands her. “I want to see if we can take care of Leofwine.”

He doubts the fighting will end if they capture—or, if needs must, kill—Leofwine, but it can’t harm. Even now, he can already see that Leofwine’s forces are shrinking. Gawant’s soldiers are still spread, with no clear main force or strategy driving them except for those protecting King Godwyn, but Camelot has matters well in hand. Arthur is in the middle of his men, and Camelot has been steadily flanking Deorham’s forces. A contingent that had peeled away from the army at the beginning of the battle are now forcing their way uphill, pressing Deorham’s men down into Arthur’s spears. It is proving highly effective.

Still, Merlin thinks he has a bone to pick with Leofwine. He catches sight of Deorham’s leader in the middle of his own army, aided by the glitter of Leofwine’s bronze hair in the sun and the thread of gold in his knights’ capes. Several knights of Gawant and Camelot are surrounding the knot of guards, but none have yet broken through—that is, until Naimroa swoops down with her claws first, taking care of one of the openings.

“Dragon!” someone shouts, and Merlin isn’t entirely sure what happens then. Naimroa lands briefly, and he is holding onto her tightly, but something—or someone?—still manages to catch him in the following chaos, and when Naimroa goes up, Merlin slides off. All he knows is that he hits the ground hard in the middle of a score of Deorham knights, and he is disoriented with the sudden, sharp pain lancing up his arm and the overpowering noise of war all around him.

Merlin presses his eyes close in fear, instinct overriding him, and thinks he can smell the blood and metal in the air. He gasps when someone’s foot stands on his hand, keeping him pinned, and opens his eyes to see a Deorham’s soldier’s flat face grinning down at him.

“Prince Emrys,” he says gleefully, and lifts his sword, dawn catching the blade of it, sharply golden and blinding him—

Merlin crosses the arm not trapped beneath the man’s foot against his chest, and his magic surges up. From the ground, thick roots grow to surround Merlin, the pressure on his hand vanishing as a pierced cry sounds, one of the roots piercing through the soldier’s foot. Merlin scrambles back and is caught by his own spell, the roots forming a solid ball of protection around him faster than he can process.

Suddenly it is as if it is night again, cocooned as Merlin is. The magic thrums in his veins, the very earth consoling him, and panic makes Merlin’s ears ring. Everything sounds far away, except the splintering impact of a mace against the barrier he has just put up; tiny bits of dirt fall on Merlin’s face as he stares up, frozen, when the roots begin to break off and the first streams of light pierce the darkness.

Spells. He needs a spell. Merlin has faced death in many situations; he had spent three years protecting Arthur from afar. He has killed men before—he has been injured before. He has faced a great many things, but he cannot think clearly after having been dropped in the middle of a battlefield so suddenly, separated from the safety of Naimroa’s back. He can hear her roar; she can’t be far away, but the knight is still hacking at Merlin’s shield of roots, and he lies on his back, completely blanking on every spell he has ever known.

The last of the roots breaks. Merlin shields his face with his arm when the sunlight pours back in, unwilling to face what is coming. A man cries; Merlin waits to be run through with a sword, and it doesn’t come.

Instead, a calloused hand grabs him tightly and hoists him up. Merlin opens his eyes, and is treated to the sight of Arthur’s eyes, darkly and fiercely on him.

“What are you doing, you moron?” Arthur yells at him, shaking him.

Merlin swallows hard. In the heat of the battle, he can hardly make out who is ally and who is foe—all the colours he’d so easily seen from the sky are hard to make out between all the screaming and flashing of weapons. Arthur doesn’t shrink back from all the clashing going on around them; he is the only steadfast thing in Merlin’s sight, so he focuses on him instead.

“I didn’t—” he starts lamely, and doesn’t even care about how much his voice is trembling. “Someone caught me, and I didn’t know—I panicked—”

“I can see that,” Arthur snaps, and looks around him, eyes sharp and focused, before he turns back to Merlin. “This isn’t a place for you. Your dragon—”

Naimroa is still up in the air, wreaking havoc to their side. She may not have been able to get to Merlin without hurting the knights of Camelot and Gawant, the way Merlin had told her to watch out for them. Stay away, he tells her, suddenly feeling calmer now he has thought of her. We’ll deal with this. Go take care of Deorham’s forces.

Someone shouts, and a man falls into Merlin. He flinches, and Arthur drags him across the field, his bloodied sword raised as he practically manhandles Merlin into a circle of Camelot knights. “You’re injured,” Arthur says, when Merlin makes a noise of pain and runs his hand over his arm. “Let me see.”

“An archer,” Merlin explains, when Arthur grabs his arm to inspect it. “It’s fine, Arthur, I swear—I’m fine, it’s just a flesh wound.” Arthur has blood all over himself too, and grime in his hair and all over his face, but he doesn’t seem injured. His fingers are oddly gentle on Merlin’s arm, and then it seems he realises what he is doing; his face shuts off and he pushes Merlin’s arm away.

“You’re fine,” Arthur repeats brusquely, more as if he is saying it to himself than anything else. “Why are you involving yourself in this?”

“Godwyn is my ally,” Merlin says defensively. “Leofwine betrayed us—betrayed you, and you just expect me to leave? I was going to see if I could kill him.”

Arthur runs his hand over his face. “Leave Leofwine to me,” he tells him, voice weary. “You are right. He did betray me, so I will be the one to deal with him. What use are you on a battlefield, anyway? You are not made for war.”

Neither are you, Merlin wants to tell him, but looking at Arthur, the words die in his throat. Even if he doesn’t think so, he doesn’t imagine that Arthur will believe him. “I can help you get to him,” he offers instead.

Arthur’s face is full of open exasperation. “Merlin, for God’s sake, look at you! You’re not a warrior, you’re not even wearing any armour—”

“I am Emrys,” Merlin bites out. “If I wanted to, I could blast away this entire army with a snap of my fingers, Arthur, so stop acting as if I’m so fragile, or an idiot, or that I have no idea what I’m doing. Let me come with you.”

In the end, it is his fault that Uther felt the need to go to war in the first place. All the men that are dying today are here because Merlin couldn’t stay away from Camelot, but he swallows that thought to meet Arthur’s eyes. They are not even allies—they are nothing, but to Merlin, he is everything, and he so desperately wants Arthur to understand that Merlin would offer his life to help him.

Maybe he is a little mad at Leofwine, too. 

“Don’t get in the way,” Arthur says, his words clipped. “I can’t protect you if we’re surrounded by Gawant soldiers, so—”

“I can protect both of us just fine,” Merlin snaps darkly at him, because Arthur could stand to be less sullen about it. Arthur is quiet for a moment, and then offers him a terse nod. It is all the preparation Merlin gets, because the war is back on them as Arthur returns to the fray, and Merlin has to follow into the same chaos that blinded him earlier.

Arthur breaks through his own ranks and jumps back into the fight, sword raised and ready. Merlin is glad he went first, because he is already disoriented; any time someone comes near him, he ducks away. His hands are raised, and he murmurs, “Bordhreóða,” so that a golden shine envelops him and Arthur both. Arthur is still able to pierce from this side of the shield, but it will serve to protect him from any swing from a weapon, although it won’t protect him from a fist to the face.

Merlin is dearly hoping no one will try to punch them in the face, though.

Arthur leads them towards Leofwine, clearly better able to orient himself in the smell of blood and the deafening noise of death around him, uncaring about the arrow sticks that break under his feet or the odd body the ground is littered with, the grass staining brown with blood that is already rapidly drying. Merlin sticks to his side, occasionally throwing up his hands to forcefully push back some of Deorham’s knights. They don’t have to go far; Merlin easily breaks through the ranks of Leofwine’s personal knights with a spell, near to where he fell off Naimroa.

Arthur eyes him strangely, but then steps forward, out of the protection of Merlin’s shield. “Leofwine,” he says, pointing his sword to Deorham’s leader. Leofwine has a flat face, unkind but not necessarily ugly; it just seems as if his expression is constantly tugged downwards. Leofwine is covered in blood, and sneers at the sight of them, throwing up his own sword.

“Prince Arthur,” he says snidely, and a cold smile flickers on his face. “Or King Arthur, I suppose it is? And Prince Emrys.”

“You want a fair fight, don’t you, Arthur?” Merlin asks, and lets his magic surge upward. A golden circle stutters into appearance, holding only the three of them. This is stronger magic than his shield from earlier, and static, so it’s easier to maintain. One of Leofwine’s men shouts and tries to ram himself into the shimmering air; Merlin’s spell holds. “This ends here, and this ends now.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, a hint of a warning in his voice. “Don’t involve yourself in this.”

“I’ve as much right to fight him as you do,” Merlin says, and crosses his arm. “But I’ll leave that to you.”

“You’d drop a sword the moment it’s pressed in your hand,” Arthur murmurs, but Merlin can tell all his attention is on Leofwine, the same way that Leofwine’s is on Arthur. Merlin is glad for the reprieve his shield offers, however, because he does not think he’d be able to protect himself and keep an eye on Arthur’s duel at the same time. But he won’t interfere any more than Arthur wants him to—unless it is to save his life.

He shouldn’t have worried. The duel starts quick, Leofwine plunging forwards, sword first. Arthur parries easily, and Merlin doesn’t need to be an expert in swordfighting to see who is the more skilled fighter. Leofwine is clumsy and hurried, trying to defeat Arthur before Arthur can strike him down. It is over as soon as it has begun, when Arthur hits Leofwine’s wrist with the flat end of his blade and forces him to drop his sword, and Merlin thinks he understands why Leofwine kept his knights so close.

But Arthur does not kill him, the way Merlin was vaguely expecting him to. He halts his sword just before it would pierce Leofwine’s chest, and Leofwine lets out a ragged breath.

“Call off your men,” Arthur says calmly, keeping his sword in the exact same place over Leofwine’s heart. “As a token of goodwill to King Alined I will spare you, because I am not interested in fighting a war over your death, Lord Leofwine. Do you accept?”

Leofwine swallows heavily. “I accept,” he says.

“Prince Emrys,” Arthur says, his eyes still on Leofwine’s. “Can you make sure he can’t escape?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, and raises his arm. The same spell he used to protect himself earlier surges up, and roots and twines come twisting out of the ground to grab Leofwine’s limbs and keep him in place. Outside their shield, word of Leofwine’s surrender is already spreading like a wildfire. Merlin cranes up his neck as a shadow falls over him; Naimroa lands gracefully next to Merlin’s shield, and he banishes his spell with some relief.

Naimroa puffs, but all knights are avoiding her now; she opens her wing over Merlin, as if to protect him, and he pats her scales fondly, feeling far safer now that she has come back for him.

“This will do a lot to end the battle,” Arthur says, eyeing the dragon warily. “I need to get back to my men to coordinate Deorham’s surrender. Stay here and guard him, Merlin.”

Only a year ago, Merlin would’ve offered him an impish smile. Part of him wants to remind Arthur that he can’t order him around, but it feels oddly well-balanced to have Arthur giving him these careless commands even while faced with the full truth of who Merlin is. As if thinking the same, Arthur frowns darkly, his eyes flitting back to Merlin.

“Don’t worry,” Merlin says tightly, trying to get back to that odd companionship they were sharing just now. He feels as if he is losing grip on Arthur, as if he just had him by the fingertips and is now grabbing in the dark to keep hold. 

“This does not make us allies,” Arthur reminds him, but his brows are still furrowed. “I mean—I would appreciate your assistance in this matter, Prince Emrys.”

If Merlin is really grasping for him, it is only because he wants to grab Arthur by the shoulders and remind him that it is not him that has changed, that he is still the same Merlin that used to clean his armour and fold his shirts in that way that would make Arthur scold him for creasing them—the same Merlin who brought him his food, who woke him up in the morning. The same Merlin who kissed him—the same Merlin who spent three years making Arthur the centre of his world.

But he can’t reach him, and Merlin feels his shoulders droop, exhaustion settling in. The noises of fighting might either be drifting off or Merlin has learnt to ignore them already, because it all feels far away suddenly, and the adrenaline is wearing off. “You know I don’t want you to call me that,” he says.

“Well,” Arthur says, and grimaces. “You should learn to accept it. It is your name, after all.”

He doesn’t give Merlin the chance to respond as he disappears back into the ranks of his own knights waiting for his orders. Merlin watches him stalk off, already barking orders to his men. It is King Arthur he is seeing, no longer a prince, and Merlin feels as if he may not even know this man, despite the fact that he does.

What if he only ever gets to know the prince, and the king will never let him in?

He shudders, and turns back towards Leofwine. Naimroa snorts out smoke, and Leofwine stares at her with unmasked terror.

And that is how the battle comes to end, and Gawant is free.

Chapter Text

Deore is dead.

It shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, in Merlin’s chest, but it does. He hadn’t even spared a thought for her in the midst of battle, not that it would’ve mattered. She was burned when Leofwine’s men set fire to Godwyn’s camp, and he finds her corpse among the other horses that have been as unfortunate. 

There’s no time for grief, though, in the aftermath of battle. Arthur’s commands are swift and fair; he declares the war to be over, and he lets the remaining knights of Alined live, as, he says, a sign of good faith to ensure that Deorham won’t fight him again. He sends some of his own knights to go to Alined to deliver Leofwine and his men to him, as well as Arthur’s message. After all, they were the ones who had broken their alliance, and Arthur has his victory in both a physical and a moral sense. Merlin is busy putting his magic to use in the form of healing spells for the injured knights, right after he heals his own arrow wound.

Arthur will march home and leave his remaining wounded men, the ones Merlin does not have the time or skill to look after, in the care of King Godwyn, to follow him when they’ve recovered. And Merlin’s to fly towards his own army and return home with them. He’s not looking forward to Lancelot’s reaction when his friend figures out Merlin was in a battle without any of his knights from Dracaneard.

At least he came with a dragon.

“Emrys,” Arthur says, when Merlin’s getting ready to fly Naimroa back home. They’re in Godwyn’s camp, because Arthur’s is already being broken up. Arthur is ready to march back to Camelot and take his throne, and Merlin will return home. “Merlin.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and turns to watch Arthur carefully. 

“I suppose,” Arthur says, and frowns. “Well. Have a safe trip, is all I wanted to say.”

It’s not, Merlin can tell. Lonely king, he thinks to himself. Still, despite everything, lonelier than ever. Merlin doesn’t know what to tell him, so he just nods his thanks. Arthur may have let him join this battle, but things will never be as comfortable between them. Merlin mourns that loss, and mourns his horse, and his chest is tight and he thinks he might cry if he has to say farewell to Arthur again.

“You too,” is all he gets out, and climbs on top of Naimroa. “And… Arthur?”

“Yes, Merlin?” Arthur says, and arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t be a prat,” Merlin tells him, and manages to smile.

Naimroa throws herself up in the air, and this time, Merlin is treated to the vision of Arthur getting smaller and smaller. They have left with a truce, but it’s not yet the same. Merlin misses their easy banter, misses the Arthur who was comfortable throwing his pillow at Merlin’s head and would laugh at it. He misses the Arthur who tried, for a year, to convince Merlin that he loved him.

The war is over, and Arthur will be crowned king. It is the start of something, the beginning of the Once and Future King—but Merlin increasingly feels like things are ending. Arthur may believe that Merlin doesn’t mean him any harm, but that doesn’t mean they have peace. He wonders how things would have been, if he hadn’t listened to Kilgharrah.

Perhaps he would’ve met Arthur only after Uther’s death. He could have come to him as an ambassador, in an attempt to make peace between their kingdoms. Arthur would’ve been wary, but Merlin could’ve… Well.

It wouldn’t have been the same, would it? Arthur would never have seen him as Merlin, his manservant, Merlin, his friend. He can’t regret that part of their relationship—the time that allowed him to learn to recognise Arthur’s heart by the kindness of it, and that allowed Arthur to see him as a man, rather than a prophecy.

But for now, he flies away from Arthur, and wonders what the future will look like.

~*~

The army stops as soon as they see them. Merlin doesn’t have to fly far to see them—only an hour or two of marching, and they would’ve made it to the battlefield. In fact, Merlin had sort of expected them to already be there when he’d left. It’s probably for the best, though. Arthur may have accepted Merlin’s presence as a necessary evil, but he doesn’t think he would’ve let the arrival of Dracaneard’s army slide.

Naimroa lands and Merlin smiles wearily at Lancelot. His friend is mostly staring at him with wide eyes.

“Merlin?” Lancelot says, aghast, and gets off his horse. “What are you doing?”

“Deore is dead,” Merlin blurts out, and it isn’t what he meant to say. He misses his horse, though, and it’s stupid to miss an animal when he’s just come back from a war. There are valuable men dead, but the thing is—Merlin didn’t know any of those men. But he’d brought his horse there, and hadn’t even considered the danger, and now she’s gone.

Lancelot sweeps him into his arms, and Merlin finally allows himself to cry for the first time since he found himself in Arthur’s presence. He’s bone tired, and overwhelmed, and Lancelot is nice and warm and soft. God, if only Merlin were still in love with Lance. He might not have had him, but at least Lancelot doesn’t count him as an enemy.

“What happened?” Lancelot asks, and takes Merlin by the shoulders to look at his face. “You were meant to stay in Dracaneard, Merlin.”

“I went to the Crystal Cave,” Merlin says, and runs his sleeve over his nose. “I wanted to see how this war was going to end, and I saw—well, it’s not really my fault. Honestly. Anyway, Gawant and Camelot ended up banding together and fought Deorham. Arthur defeated Prince Leofwine, and they’re all going home now.”

Lancelot blinks at him. “So you’re saying you ended the war?”

“I didn’t do that much,” Merlin says, wincing. “It was mostly Arthur, really.”

“Don’t give me that look, Merlin, I know you better than that.” Lancelot sighs, and looks over his shoulder to the knights behind him. They’re whispering amongst themselves, and Merlin knows he doesn’t look like their prince right now. He’s filthy and caked in mud, and his magic is erratically angry about leaving Arthur’s side at a moment like this. It’s exhausting.

“We’ll have to go back,” Merlin says. “Uther’s dead. Arthur is going to be crowned king.”

Lancelot freezes. “Poor Arthur,” he mutters, and that’s why Merlin loves him so much. “Does Morgana know?”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to be surprised. “Do you—”

“—know?” Lancelot finishes, and smiles thinly. “Gwen told me. I’m not sure how she will feel about it, though. They have a complicated family.”

“Neither do I,” Merlin murmurs, and leans his head forwards on Lance’s shoulder. He sighs, and Lancelot strokes his hair for a moment.

“How did Arthur take it?” he asks gently, and untangles a knot in Merlin’s hair. “I suppose you can tell me later. I’ll turn our men around, Merlin, and you can give Naimroa a rest and ride with me.”

Naimroa doesn’t need a rest, but Merlin is thankful for Lancelot’s decision anyway. He waits back as Lancelot gives his orders, glad not to have to take the lead. A part of him suddenly wonders where Gwaine is. He seems the only uncomplicated friend Merlin has made in a long time—despite the kiss, that is. 

Although he’s pretty sure Gwaine is the sort of man who will take what he can get, and not push him for anything else. He already misses him, vaguely, but only because it’s the sort of dynamic he wants with Arthur. And that is one thing he will never have.

Dracaneard’s army turns around and returns home. Their only man who fought in the war is Merlin.

~*~

It takes them another three days to get back. Merlin rides Naimroa for the last bit, certain these are the last moments of peace he will have for a while. He thanks her when he returns her to the dragons’ cave. Kilgharrah flies above it, but Merlin manages to ignore the Great Dragon and makes his way back to the castle.

Balinor is waiting for him, as Merlin thought he would. Lancelot has already disappeared, although surely he’s the one who has told Balinor all he needs to know. Merlin’s face grows hot at Balinor’s stare, and he pushes past him into the castle.

“Emrys,” Balinor says, tersely. Merlin keeps walking, and Balinor grabs his arm tightly. Merlin is reminded of the bandits in the woods, for a fraction of a second, and yanks himself free. “Emrys! Are you not even going to attempt to explain yourself?”

“I did what needed to be done,” Merlin says hotly.

“Will you never listen?” Balinor roars, and the few servants running past them look up before they hurry away. “You’re twenty-one years old, Merlin, my crowned heir, and a sorcerer of unrivalled powers. Must you keep defying everyone and make all your own decisions, like a tantruming child? I’d searched all of the castle before Freya deigned me to tell where you’d run off to!”

Well, at least she’d held out for a long time.

“I prevented Gawant’s forces from being slaughtered,” Merlin bites, because yes, maybe he should’ve told Balinor about his trip to the Caves. The situation is complicated, and Merlin wanted to take action in the only way he could, and Balinor will never really understand. “I did put being a prince first, but I can’t just turn my back on my prophecy! And if the prophecy had gone the way you wanted it to, you’d never have demanded it of me!”

“You had us worried,” Balinor snaps back. “There’s a war on, and Uther Pendragon wants your head, and you disappeared!”

“Uther Pendragon is dead!”

That stops Balinor in his tracks, and so Merlin does, too. He’d assumed Lancelot had told Balinor, but it seems to be news to him. “He’s what?”

“I saw it,” Merlin says, and can’t help but sound a bit sullen. “Betrayed by King Alined. King Godwyn swore to Arthur as his bannerman. There’s peace.”

Balinor stumbles, and only remains upright because he leans against the wall. His entire body is turned downwards, his head bowed. Merlin can see his chest rise and fall, and he frowns, coming to crouch before his father. Balinor isn’t looking at him—his brown eyes are fixed on the floor, and his palm splayed over his own chest.

“Dead?” he repeats, and Merlin reels as his father meets his gaze. “He’s really dead? He can’t hurt you anymore?”

Merlin almost falls over as his father hugs him tightly. Balinor smells of magic and sweat, and his hands are so tight that Merlin can barely breathe. He embraces him in turn, patting his father’s back. “I’m sorry I left without letting you know,” Merlin murmurs. “I just—I don’t know how to get it right, these days, and I just wanted to see what I needed to do. I couldn’t sit by and do nothing, Father, I can’t—”

“It was sensible of you to seek out the Crystal Cave,” Balinor says, and pulls back, holding Merlin by his shoulders. His smile is brittle but sincere, and Merlin doesn’t think his father has looked so much like his father in a long time. “I hope you’ve learnt, by now, Emrys, that you can rely on your magic. More than on me, certainly.”

And Merlin realises. Balinor has been as torn up as Merlin is, ever since he was born. Balinor needs to choose between a person and a kingdom as much as Merlin does—and for the first time, the two interests hadn’t aligned. Merlin hugs him again, and this time, it’s Balinor who is surprised.

“I’ll tell you everything,” Merlin swears. 

Balinor lays a hand on his head. “I’m glad, my son,” he murmurs. “But let’s wait until your mother gets here, won’t we? You’ve scared her to death, even if she doesn’t want you to know. She never wants you to know.”

“I’m fine now,” Merlin says, and amends, “Well, I’m not really sure how I feel, really. Deore died in Deorham’s ambush, and I’m not—”

“Ambush?”

Merlin smiles weakly at the thinly-veiled concern in Balinor’s voice. Maybe he should begin from the start, before he worries both his parents into an early grave. “On second thought, let’s wait for Mother.”

Balinor runs his hands over his eyes. “You’ll yet be the death of me, my boy.”

“I swear, no more secrets,” Merlin promises. 

Balinor smiles.

~*~

It’s remarkably easy to get things out of the way with his father. They’ve been edging towards this understanding, Merlin thinks, ever since Samhain. Hunith holds his hand as Merlin tells about his vision, and his decision to summon Naimroa and warn Arthur about the deception.

He’d conveniently left out the part about the bandits, or the way he’d parted from Gwaine. There’s no need to tell them everything.

When he tells them of the battle, Balinor slowly shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything else. Hunith hugs Merlin when he mournfully tells him of how he’d found his horse after they’d defeated Deorham’s army. 

“I won’t mourn Uther’s loss,” Balinor says, at the end, when Merlin is done. “And I am glad that, at least, a decent king might sit upon Camelot’s throne again. But you understand, Emrys, that this is not yet peace? Camelot’s laws have not yet changed. As you tell it, Arthur Pendragon still considers your presence in Camelot a betrayal.”

“I know,” Merlin says, and offers his mother a bitter smile when she casts daggers at Balinor’s words.

“He will come around,” Hunith says kindly. “If he is the Once and Future King, it’s prophesied, my boy. It may take a long time, and it will be the hardest thing you may ever do—but there is a better world that is coming. And he needs you for that.”

“He’ll have to bring back some stability, first,” Balinor mutters, and purses his lips. “It’s no easy task, to be such a young king.”

“I’m going to Morgana,” Merlin says, and runs a hand through his hair. Mostly, he wants to fall into his bed and not wake up for the next three years, but he is very unlikely to get it. “She deserves to hear it from me. About Uther, I mean. She might already know, but—”

But he owes it to her. He had told Arthur, and so he would tell Morgana. 

“My boy, don't you need to get some rest?” Hunith asks, her forehead creased in concern. She lays a hand on Merlin’s cheek. “You’ve been running yourself ragged for days.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, and smiles wearily. He pats her hand and rises. The druids won’t be far, and Merlin doesn’t want to put this off any longer.

~*~

The dead leaves crunch underneath his boots, and the birds chirp loudly as they fly above Merlin’s head. If it were up to nature, the world would never be as vile to include war. It’s why Merlin loves the trees, loves the canopies, loves the animals that hide away. They know only a natural circle of life and death, and war is not a circle. It cuts through the circle, and stains it in red.

At least his own people were spared, but Merlin isn’t glad to think about what Arthur will have to take care of when he gets home. He will need to secure his throne, and give endless reasons for why he broke the alliance with Deorham to men who don’t understand Arthur’s brand of nobility, and grieve his father only in the moments between duty.

And Merlin can’t be with him, because they are not friends. He needs to remember that, when he thinks back on Arthur’s eyes on the battlefield, and his farewell after. Arthur had needed his help, and he was smart enough to take it. And now Merlin can do only one last thing for him.

“I knew you were coming,” Morgana says, as she appears before him. Merlin startles at the sudden sight of her, but then smiles. She’s already grown into her abilities more than ever, now that she has willing and capable tutors. 

With her, there’s a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years old. His hair is dark, but his eyes are very light, and intently focused on Merlin even as he tightens his hold on Morgana’s hand. He’s a druid, Merlin can sense it.

“Hi, Morgana,” he says, and smiles at the child. “And your new friend.”

“This is Mordred,” Morgana tells him, and runs a hand through the boy’s curls. Mordred presses himself against her, and his gaze doesn’t leave Merlin’s face. It’s not the first time Merlin’s been stared at by anyone who follows the Old Religion, as they consider him their saviour, but it doesn’t get any easier. 

“It’s good to see you’re so quick to make friends,” Merlin offers. “Is he with Iseldir’s clan?”

“Yes,” Morgana says, and crouches in front of Mordred. “I need to talk to Merlin, Mordred, if that’s alright. You know the way back. I will see you later, I promise.”

Mordred’s eyes flit to Merlin. “He’ll take you away. I Saw it.”

“Not before I’ve said goodbye to you,” Morgana tells him, her voice gentle. Merlin has always known her as a caring individual, but he’s never seen her eyes as soft as when she looks upon this druid child. Something passes between them, and Mordred slowly nods.

He eyes Merlin one last time. Goodbye, Emrys, he says straight into Merlin’s head, and then disappears the way he came. Merlin winces at the echo of the boy’s voice—he knows the druids value their magic, but it’s never felt anything but invasive to him. He doesn’t like to do it unless necessary, and he’s always made sure the druids knew that.

With Mordred gone, though, it’s only him and Morgana. She looks at him, rising up in one smooth motion.

“Are you alright, Merlin?”

“Yeah, I’m just—” Merlin tries, and then shakes his head, taking four steps to engulf her in his arms. “I’m glad we’re friends, Morgana. Have I ever told you that?”

“It’s because I’m a wonderful gift giver,” Morgana says, and chuckles into his ear. “I could feel you coming, you know. Iseldir has been teaching me to sense the world around me, and you—I never noticed before, but you stand out like a beacon.”

“Like the moon on a cloudless night, I’ve been told,” Merlin confesses, and lets go of her. “So you’re okay? You’re doing well?”

“More than well,” Morgana tells him, and pulls at his jacket. “The druids are lovely, and Mordred especially has been an unexpected gift. But that’s not why you’re here. I know, Merlin.”

“You do?” He can’t help the scepticism in his voice. But then Morgana smiles, bitter and relieved and sad all at once, and he understands. She does know. Perhaps Merlin should’ve expected it, but all he can do is hug her.

Morgana takes it. She’s hugged Merlin many times—she’s clung to him in despair and in joy, and Merlin has always welcomed it. This time, though, she only stands there, and allows it to happen to her. He can hear her breathe into his neck, but she doesn’t move.

“I won’t miss him,” Morgana says, and when Merlin pulls back, her eyes shine with unshed tears. “But I can’t help—he was a bad man, Merlin, and an unjust king. Arthur will be far better, but still…”

“He was your father,” Merlin says, and brushes her hair from her face. “We’re allowed to feel complicated about our fathers, Morgana. And he loved you.”

Morgana bites her lower lip, and swallows heavily. She looks down to her feet for only a moment, and when she looks up, she’s composed herself. Maybe it’s the price they have to pay, Merlin reflects, for being princes and princesses. She, and Arthur, and Merlin—when they cry, they only think about how fast their tears need to be dried.

Then again, Morgana and Arthur are better at that than Merlin has ever been.

“I Saw this, I think,” she says, her voice more even, and steps away from Merlin. “Do you remember, that first night you saw my magic? I’d set the plant on fire.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Merlin says. It’s hard not to, even though it feels like a lifetime ago. He can still recall the exact expression on Morgana’s face, and his own heartbeat thundering in his chest when he’d shown her his own flame. He remembers the taste of wine he’d shared with Arthur on his lips.

All of his days in Camelot he can recall with utter clarity. This one more than most, is all.

“I told you, even then,” Morgana says, and smiles wryly. “There will come a day when Arthur loses everything, and he’ll need me. I think that day has come.”

Merlin stares at her. “You want to go back to Camelot?”

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, and lays a hand on his cheek. “You’ve done so much for me. You truly are one of my closest friends, you and Gwen—but Arthur is my brother, even if he doesn’t know it yet. If he needs me, then I will go.”

“I’m glad he’ll have you,” Merlin murmurs. He can’t say he doesn’t understand. Besides, Morgana has her magic well under control, and the nightmares are in check. The druids have many things to teach her, but maybe she will be able to come back in a few years, when things have settled down and Arthur is more grounded in his role. 

This isn’t the end, he convinces himself. He slowly nods. “Well, you can borrow one of our horses. Arthur will be back in Camelot by now—if you leave tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll be back in time for the coronation. I can send Lance with you, if you want—”

“A knight of Dracaneard?” she asks in amusement. “I’m not sure our kingdoms are on terms that are that good, Merlin. And really, you should keep Lancelot and Gwen together for a while. She was worried, you know.”

Merlin crosses his arms defensively. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Travel with me,” she says lightly. “You can use your magic to disguise yourself, surely? Take on someone else’s form?”

He blinks. “No, that’s—I can’t do that. It’s dark magic.”

“Really? Even if you took a form that doesn’t exist?”

“All forms exist somewhere,” Merlin argues, and rubs his eyes. “I could age myself. I doubt anyone would recognise an eighty-year-old man.”

Morgana smirks. “So you’re coming?”

Well, he really hadn’t even thought about it. Merlin supposes he can go away for a couple of days, now that the war’s over. And he’ll be missing Morgana for a long time after this—maybe it won’t be so bad? If he disguises himself, he may be able to see Arthur one last time.

He may be able to see Arthur’s coronation. His heart skips at the thought.

“I suppose I can,” he allows, as if he hasn’t already agreed to it.

“Not as an eighty-year-old man, though,” Morgana says, pursing her lips. “You’d only slow us down, and what in the world am I meant to say if Arthur asks when I’m travelling with an elderly man? No, it’s far too conspicuous.”

“Well, I can try something else,” Merlin says slowly, and looks around. He can hear the birds chirping in the trees above him, and he focuses on the sound. If he can’t disguise himself as a human being, there’s only really one thing for it. It’s quite a difficult spell, and he feels an odd feeling in his chest. The magic pulls at him, but Merlin presses his eyes closed and perseveres.

And then everything is dark, and snaps into place. Merlin blinks up and wiggles his entire body. The cloth falls off his head, and he cranes his neck to see Morgana towering over him, ten times his size.

“Merlin?” she exclaims in delight, and picks him up. Merlin chirps at her. 

He’s a bird. It’s odd, and the magic still pulls at him; changing forms is an advanced sort of magic, and usually has time limits. Merlin’s relatively certain he can do whatever he likes, though. Boundaries aren’t really intended for him, after all. He’ll just have to practise.

He flutters with his wings, and Morgana gently sets him back on the ground. The leaves below him dust up, and then Merlin’s taking off in the air, clumsily. He nearly crashes into a tree, but birds are built for this sort of thing, and he glides down easily to avoid a branch. It’s just a matter of feeling the wind, after that, and he flies up to the top of the trees.

This can be a fun sort of way for travelling around in the future. Merlin inwardly smiles and makes his way back down. His clothes are lying in a puddle at Morgana’s feet, and she’s appraising him.

“You’ll have to teach me that one,” she says, and leans forward. “Can you turn back?”

Merlin does, and turns scarlet red as Morgana continues to eye him. She’s very close, and Merlin is mostly very—naked. 

“Morgana, please,” he squeaks, and grabs his clothes.

“Oh, please, Merlin,” she says, rolling her eyes, but turns around nonetheless. “You act as if I don’t know what a naked man looks like. I’m a maid, but not a prude. And besides, I’ll have you know that I never thought of you like that. Arthur was the one who basically undressed you with his eyes every time you were in a room, but I’ve better taste than that.”

“Thank you for that,” Merlin says, and hoists up his pants. “It really makes me feel so good about myself.”

“Oh, don’t beat yourself up about it,” Morgana says, and turns back, smirking with her eyebrows arched. “You can’t turn every head, you know. One would think you’re as vain as Arthur. Gwen used to like you a lot, you know. Don’t tell her I told you.”

“What?” Merlin says, even as he finishes up his final buttons. 

Morgana hums. “I think it had ended by the time you introduced her to Lancelot,” she says. “No one could really turn her eyes but him, after that. The fact you so clearly set them up probably didn’t help your chances, I’m sure. Although you were pining so clearly after Arthur that it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” Merlin complains.

“If you insist,” Morgana says, and turns more solemn. “We can leave tomorrow, can’t we? I’ll have to say my goodbyes to the druids, and to Gwen, and I’m sure you have your own arrangements to make.”

“Are you so sure Gwen will be staying?” Merlin asks, narrowing his eyes. Surely she won’t want to be apart from Lancelot, but Gwen is loyal. 

Morgana shrugs. “I’ll make sure of it,” she says. “Tomorrow, Merlin?”

“Tomorrow,” Merlin promises.

Chapter Text

Merlin tells his parents beforehand, and if they want to protest, they don’t show it to him. Balinor’s nod is slow and calculating, and Hunith hugs him close to her, as if she’s afraid he might disappear tomorrow, never to return.

They’ve accepted it, to a degree. They have to, having seen the lengths Merlin will go to for the Pendragons. 

And so he waits out of the front gates of Dracaneard for Morgana, with one horse, Frogga, bridled. It’s still early,  and the winter means that the sun hasn’t come up yet. Merlin likes the early winter mornings, though, when the wind gently brushes his cold skin and the world is sleeping.

Above him, great wings part the sky as Kilgharrah appears. The Great Dragon lands before Merlin, only barely fitting between the trees. He grumbles at the inconvenient location, and this is why they have built a special place in the courtyard for welcoming dragons. 

“Hello, Kilgharrah,” Merlin says, raising his eyebrows.

“Young warlock,” Kilgharrah says, eyeing the gates to the citadel. If the guard in there is cautious of the dragon that’s appeared, he doesn’t show it. Then again, Merlin’s the future Dragonlord. There is very little Kilgharrah can do to him.

“I suppose you’re here for a reason?” Merlin asks, when it becomes clear that Kilgharrah won’t speak. “Remember what I told you last time. I don’t want you to tell me of my destiny—it’s not yours to tell. And I don’t appreciate your games.”

“These are not games,” Kilgharrah snaps, and unfurls his wings a bit. They brush against a tree, and he harrumphs again. “Your destiny is no clear-cut thing, warlock. Arthur will be king, and it is only because I once told you what you must do. It is only because you stayed in Camelot that these things have fallen in place.”

“It is because of a great many things,” Merlin retorts. “Spit it out, Kilgharrah. What is it that you want to say?”

“The witch has the power to be Arthur’s unmaking,” Kilgharrah tells him. “And Arthur’s bane has presented itself to you. These are things you must stop, before an evil comes to fruition—”

“Morgana’s my friend. And she’s Arthur’s sister. She wouldn’t allow harm to come to him.”

“Would you bet his life on that?” Kilgharrah asks sharply.

Merlin is quiet for a moment. Arthur’s life is infinitely precious to him, and he has protected it many times. But he also put it in Morgana’s hands when he had to leave, and he’s glad to do so again. “What you don’t understand, Kilgharrah,” Merlin says kindly, “is that just because something has the power to be something, it doesn’t mean it will. Morgana, at heart, is a good woman—hurt, maybe, traumatised, but good. And if I don’t trust her, then what will I become? Will I stop trusting everyone? What kind of Albion will that be, when we’ve decided to only trust what we control?”

“The union of Albion depends on you.”

“Maybe,” Merlin says, and shrugs. “But Iseldir was right, and Naimroa, and my father, and—so many other people. You’re right, in a way, too, because we all see part of the prophecy, and we understand in our own way—but you once said I would be the father of a people, and not the leader of a kingdom. I thought about that, you know. I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be a prince and a prophecy, and I’ve realised something.”

Kilgharrah huffs out a puff of smoke. “And what may that be?”

“Morgana is magic,” Merlin says, “and that means she’s under my protection. I’ve got a greater duty than Dracaneard, even one that’s greater than Arthur—I have a duty to everyone with magic. That’s why I will unite Albion, won’t I? They will follow Arthur, and I will make sure that Dracaneard doesn’t need to be a haven anymore. I will make sure that everyone is safe, even if they’re not here. And I will start with Morgana.”

Kilgharrah regards him for a long moment. “You have grown up. But you are not so old that you can so carelessly disregard a dragon’s advice.”

Merlin smiles. “I haven’t. But at the end of the day, Kilgharrah, it’s only advice.”

“Well, then,” Kilgharrah says loftily. “I hope you know what you are doing, Merlin. There are many threats to the Once and Future King’s life, and it will not be so easy to be by his side, now that he knows who you are.”

“You should leave,” Merlin tells him, and smiles tightly as Kilgharrah throws himself up in the air again. The horse whinnies at him, and Merlin pats her nose absentmindedly as he watches the Great Dragon fly away. 

Morgana appears only minutes later. She stumbles upon the main road with a bag of food and her eyes still fixed on the sky. “Was that the dragon?” she asks, breathlessly. “I thought I saw him coming this way—”

“You just missed him,” Merlin tells her, and takes the basket from her. “Here, I made sure you had a horse. She’s very kind—her name’s Frogga. Don’t ask, Freya named her.”

Morgana purses her lips, but mounts Frogga with the ease of someone who has been riding horses all her life. “What did he say?” she asks, and then frowns. “And don’t you need a horse? It will take us a few days to get to Camelot, even on horseback—”

“And then you’ll arrive with two horses?” Merlin asks, smiling wanly. “I’ll hide myself for the journey too. It’s for the best, really. You can still talk to me—if you want to, I can talk in your mind, like the druids do. If we run into any trouble, I can transform back, but for now…”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Morgana allows, and looks back at Dracaneard. “Did your parents agree to this? I’m not making you run away again, am I? And what did the dragon say?”

“Nothing important,” Merlin tells her, and nods to himself. “It’s fine, Morgana. I’m not just a prince—my father’s beginning to understand that. But I think I’ve learnt what’s important, and what has to take priority, and I can’t… as much as I want it to be Arthur, I know it’s not. Not all the time. If he’d not listened to me in Gawant, we would be enemies.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re not,” Morgana says. “And I’ll be doing my best to make sure Arthur sees it too. We can make an alliance—”

“No,” Merlin interrupts, and pats her hand. “Not yet. But thank you, Morgana.”

She takes the hint for what it is, and Merlin undresses in the woods. Then he closes his eyes again, listens to the chirping in the woods, and lets the magic run through him. It still shocks him, and fights against the natural shape of his body for a moment—it’s only his second time using such a complicated spell, and he still has to figure out all the best ways to let it come bubbling to the surface. But it does, and when he opens his eyes, the world is much taller than he’s used to.

He picks up his bag of clothes with a taloned foot and throws it over Frogge. Morgana eyes him, fastens all the bags, and then they’re on their way to Camelot.

~*~

The journey is blissfully peaceful. They take the main roads whenever they can, and now that word has spread about the end of the war, they run into more people. Everyone had been waiting with bated breath to avoid meeting soldiers on the way. If there are any bandits, Merlin and Morgana don’t encounter them.

Merlin only switches back occasionally to his human form—mostly to eat, and sometimes to sleep. He’s not even bothered by Morgana’s eyes on him anymore, when he dresses. It’s a mostly silent journey, and if they talk, it’s mainly Morgana. Merlin answers in her mind, but the strain of being a bird for such long stretches of time wears on him, and he tends to be quiet.

Not that Morgana talks much. Her grief is much louder when they’re both silent.

~*~

“Lady Morgana,” Leon says, meeting them at the gate. “I’m very glad to see you safe and sound. I’m sure Lord Arthur will be glad to see you home as well—did you travel alone?”

“I had companions along the way, but none that went to the citadel,” Morgana says, waving away Leon’s fears. 

Leon’s forehead creases. “They could’ve sent some guards with you, my lady.”

“I insisted,” Morgana tells him, and gets off her horse. Merlin sits down on Frogga’s mane and spreads his wings, surreptitiously stretching. He got used to flying very fast, but it’s quite a different feeling just to spread his wings for the fun of it. Even now, the wind catches in his feathers, and he almost falls over.

“I’ll take you to Arthur,” Leon says, and offers Frogge to one of the servants. Merlin flies up to the houses—he’s sure Morgana would find a way to explain a bird trailing her, but Leon knows more than most about Merlin, and he doesn’t want the knight to guess it might be magic. He’s just here to see Arthur, and catch the coronation—he shouldn’t be seen.  

“How is he?” Morgana asks, her face creased with concern. She’s folded her hands in front of her—a nervous tic. “Is he—missing Uther much?”

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me, my lady,” Leon says, and his shoulders sag as they walk. He smiles thinly at her. “You know Arthur hasn’t been himself—not since Merlin left. He’s quiet, reticent, and moody. His head is clear, but I’m concerned. Now Uther’s dead, he’s been even more withdrawn than usual.”

“Well, he just lost his father, it’s natural for him to grieve,” Morgana says. “Even if we all had our own ideas about how Uther ruled this kingdom. Oh, you don’t have to comment on that, Leon—I know you’re wary about magic.”

Leon hums. “Did you know Merlin was on the battlefield?” he asks, suddenly. “I saw what he could do, with just a flick of his fingers. It’s not the sort of man you want as an enemy, my lady, and that power in the wrong hands…”

“Merlin’s hands aren’t the wrong ones,” Morgana says sharply.

“Magic can do great evil,” Leon says carefully. “I do not trust all hands as I trust yours, my lady. Arthur cannot afford to be naive, and where Merlin is concerned—well. You know how he is—”

“In love,” Morgana says, and flicks her eyes towards Merlin. “Be glad it’s not something more nebulous, Leon.”

Leon looks pained. “I like Merlin, you know I do. When he became Arthur’s manservant—no one failed to notice how Arthur’s edges were softened. We all hoped—you as well, my lady—we all hoped Merlin would end up in his bed while Arthur married some noblewoman he’d have no interest in, and help him rule the kingdom when the time came. Arthur was hoping for it, because Merlin had his best interest at heart. And now he doesn’t—he can’t, possibly. He is a good man, my lady, I don’t doubt it—but he can’t possibly be what Arthur needs.”

“Maybe he is,” Morgana argues, and then softens. “But for now, Arthur has enough on his plate. The coronation’s today, isn’t it? I came just in time.”

“He’ll be glad to see you before,” Leon agrees, and then they’ve arrived at the castle. Merlin thinks about ducking through the doors, but he’ll probably be caught, so he decides to stay outside. He knows the way to Arthur’s chambers blindly, and he swoops up to sit by the window.

It’s closed—it’s winter, after all—but he can see Arthur. He’s all alone, sitting leaned forwards on his bed, as if in pain. His hands are in his hair, and he stares intently at the crown that sits before him, on a chair. Merlin can only image what’s going through his head, and his magic whispers at him, turn back, go and help him—

He ignores it, pushing down his magic forcefully. There’s nothing he can do to help Arthur, and so he just watches him. Watches him, and feels his heart break as Arthur muffles a sob in between his hands, before he shakes himself out of it again.

How often has Arthur stopped himself from crying? How often has he sat here, all by himself, and been able to grieve in peace? Even now, he won’t let himself break, always mindful of the people that rely on him. He has won a war and lost a father, and even now his shoulders must carry the burden of an entire kingdom’s happiness.

And Arthur will keep himself responsible for it all, Merlin knows. Arthur will carry on, relentlessly, for Camelot, and with no regard for himself.

There’s a knock on the door, and Arthur startles. He takes a deep breath, and commands, “Come in.”

“Arthur,” Morgana says, and hurries in. She embraces Arthur, and Arthur holds up his hands in surrender before he realises what’s going on, and lamely pats her back. Merlin inwardly snickers at Arthur’s expression. “Are you alright?”

“As well as can be, Morgana, thank you,” Arthur says brusquely, and frowns. “Why are you here? I thought you’d be—well, with the magic, I’d thought you…”

Morgana smirks, and pats Arthur’s arm. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, Arthur. I heard what happened, so I came back as quickly as I could. I couldn’t let you be alone, in a time like this.”

“I’m not alone,” Arthur says.

“Don’t think you can lie to me,” Morgana rebukes him, and in one smooth motion, grabs the crown that still sits on the chair in front of Arthur’s bed. “They’re going to give you this? Arthur, please, this isn’t a crown worthy for a king. Your hair will look horrible.”

Arthur blinks. “Excuse me—”

“We’ve got to talk,” Morgana says, and catches Merlin’s eyes through the window. She swiftly turns back to Arthur. “There’s a reason I was so mad at Uther, before you sent Leon to take me to Merlin. He told me something—something you and I were not meant to know. But you are stronger than Uther, and you have a right to know. We both did.”

“What?” Arthur asks.

“Uther was my father,” Morgana says bluntly. “He told me himself, Arthur—I’m his daughter. With Vivienne. I’m not sure if Gorlois ever knew, or if Uther—well. I’m your sister.”

Arthur stares at her, his face blank. “You’re lying, surely? You’re—you are older than me, so that would mean—”

“Why would I lie, Arthur?” Morgana says in exasperation. “I’m sure your father loved your mother very much, but he wasn’t a very good man, was he? He killed hundreds of sorcerers, so is it that far-fetched to think he’d sleep with a friend’s wife? Is it more grievous than any of Uther’s other sins?”

Arthur’s face twists complicatedly. You could stand to be more gentle, you know, Merlin chastises Morgana in her mind. He’s dealing with enough.

“But he loved her,” he says, weakly.

“He did,” Morgana says, eventually. “Arthur, I’m not telling you this to hurt you. I am telling you so that you know you have family. You are not alone—you never will be, you see? There are people who love you.”

“I don’t know what to think about this,” Arthur says, and rubs his eyes. “I’m to be crowned king in two hours, and my father’s funeral is tomorrow, and now you—I’ve no time to deal with any of this, Morgana, not now.”

“I just wanted you to know,” Morgana says gently. 

Arthur slowly nods. “And are you… alright?” he asks, dubiously. “Did you…”

“Learn more about my magic?” Morgana supplies. “Yes. I stayed with the druids for a couple of days, and Merlin tried to teach me as much as he could, the first few weeks. He’s a rubbish teacher.”

“He would be,” Arthur mutters, and deflates. “Did he—mention me at all?”

“About every conversation,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes. She walks over to the window, and Merlin squeaks as she opens it. A cold gust of wind rushes inside, and Merlin is forced to flutter away. “Merlin!”

“What are you doing, Morgana, have you gone insane?” Arthur asks, exasperated, and comes to stand near the window with her. His eyes fall on Merlin, still disguised as a bird, and he scowls. “Yes, that is a merlin. Very funny, Morgana—”

“If you don’t talk to him, Merlin, I will,” Morgana says strictly. “And I don’t care if your kingdoms are opposed right now—I’m not willing to hear the two of you moon about each other once again. You helped him win this war, so by the dragons, I will have you be somewhat friendly with each other.”

Merlin flies in, chagrined. Arthur stares at the bird perched on his chair. “Morgana—”

Merlin switches, and then he’s staring at Arthur’s face. He’s still naked, and he grimaces even as Morgana strides over to Arthur’s wardrobe and throws some of Arthur’s clothes at him. Merlin winces as they hit him in the face, and shrivels up under Arthur’s gaze.

“Merlin,” he says, finally.

“I’ll leave you two boys alone,” Morgana says. “Merlin, please, don’t be as obstinate as my brother.”

With that, she’s gone, and the door falls shut behind her. “Sorry,” Merlin says, and lamely holds up Arthur’s tunic. “Do you mind—”

Arthur turns, and that gives Merlin a lovely view of Arthur’s red neck. “Please,” he murmurs, and leans on his bed. Merlin has slept in that bed—has spent a night in it with Arthur, before all the lies were uncovered, before Arthur knew—

He focuses on clothing himself, instead. If Arthur’s tempted at all to turn around, he doesn’t show it, and Merlin makes sure he’s fast and quiet. “I’m done.”

“I don’t even know—” Arthur says, as he turns around, and bites his lower lip as he sees Merlin. “Why are you here? We left things well enough, didn’t we? We’re not—it’s not peace, but you helped me. Is there something you want?”

“No, not really,” Merlin says sheepishly. “I just couldn’t let Morgana travel back by herself, and I really wanted to see your coronation, actually, but I figured I couldn’t really come as myself—well, I wasn’t planning on being seen at all, but Morgana—”

“She’s a witch,” Arthur mutters, “and I mean that in the darkest sense of the word.”

Merlin thinks of the Dark Priestesses he knows—Nimueh and Morgause, mainly, and the dark snarls on their faces when they’d talked of the Purge. They have lost more than most, and they have let that sense of loss turn them to the three-headed goddess, and Merlin knows the Old Religion can be dark at times. Can be harsh; can demand blood. Arthur’s not like that, and nor is Morgana.

“She’s not nearly the worst one I know,” Merlin says, “even if she’s a bit meddlesome.”

Arthur’s eyes on him are inscrutable. “You wanted to see my coronation?”

“This may come as a surprise to you, Arthur,” Merlin says, deadpan, “But I spent three years as your manservant, mostly because I really thought you were a very good man and not necessarily because I liked the job that much. And I did rush into a war to tell you how to make peace, and to tell you the truth of your father. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t care.”

“I can’t make sense of you,” Arthur says lowly.

“Yes, so you’ve said.”

“So explain it to me.”

“In terms you’d understand?” Merlin asks. “We’d be here all day. When will you get it through your thick dollop-headed mind that I’m not here for favour, or for—whatever reason you think I would have, as a prince, to be by your side? When will you understand I’m here as a man, because I can’t seem to stay away?”

Arthur exhales sharply. “We’re not at war, Merlin, but our kingdoms have never been friends. You know what my father did. I’ve never understood why you would—why you would consider me—just because of a prophecy.”

“It’s not the prophecy, Arthur,” Merlin says tiredly. “My entire life’s been dictated by it, but it’s not that easy. If it’d been the prophecy, I would’ve warded you and left you alone until you came to my father with a peace offer. I would’ve stayed a bird and flown away, and I wouldn’t have—I just wanted to talk. I just wish you’d understand, that it’s not—I know it doesn’t make sense. The main thing you’ve to know is that I’m a really, really rubbish prince.”

“Not so rubbish, I think,” Arthur says. “You created peace for your allies, and your own army was kept safe from the conflict.”

“If I’d been any way what my father would’ve wanted me to be, there wouldn’t have been a need for conflict in the first place,” Merlin points out. “No one really understands, Arthur, but that’s fine. You’d come closer than most, I expect.”

“I’ve put up with your simpleton ways far too long not to understand them,” Arthur retorts, and frowns. “Is your father very upset, still?”

Merlin shrugs. “We’ve all learnt to accept there’s a fine line between being a prince and being a child of prophecy,” he says wryly. “There’s compromises to be made, but my father will be fine. I’m doing what I can.”

Arthur slowly picks up the crown, and stares at it. It’s a fine piece of work, even though Merlin suspects that Morgana is right, and it’ll smush Arthur’s hair horribly. If he knows Arthur, though, he won’t need to wear it often. Arthur’s very golden hair is his crown, and his entire demeanour is enough to recognise him as a king. He was born to this.

The prophesied king, Merlin thinks, for the first time, and smiles wryly to himself. 

“What you said on the battlefield,” Arthur asks suddenly, “Did you mean it?”

“I’m generally in the business of saying what I mean,” Merlin tells him, “But right now, I’m at a loss about what.”

Arthur smiles wryly. “When I asked if you would make an oath. The same one that King Godwyn made me. You told me you would never make such an oath until—magic was legalised in Camelot. You know I can’t—that’s not just up to me. I’ve a council, and even if it were up to me, I don’t know… I’ve seen it destroy, Merlin, and I’ve seen it kill. Your word alone is not enough for me.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Merlin says. It’s not that he doesn’t understand, even though he can’t help the jealous pang of bitterness in his throat. No one said it would be easy. “Did you know there’s sorcerers who live in Camelot, even now? Gentle people, who only use their arts for healing and crafting and farming? Witches who help with childbirth, quietly praying to the old gods? Do they deserve to be burned?”

Arthur blanches. “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m just—”

“They’re my people too,” Merlin says. “In every way that matters. And I know you will be a good king to them, so I’m content to leave them here. You’re a good man, Arthur. Don’t worry about the future, yet. Today’s only the first day.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready,” Arthur admits. “Would you—if your father died today?”

“I hope you don’t have any plans,” Merlin says.

A wry chuckle escapes Arthur’s mouth. “I don’t think I could, Merlin, God forbid.”

“I’d be hopeless,” Merlin confesses. “Honestly, I’d probably run away. Me, a king? No, I’ll have another twenty years, at least. If I had to, I suppose I would, but I don’t… we’ll never be ready, Arthur. But your father would be proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, and he’s so close, suddenly, his hands on top of Merlin’s. Merlin swallows heavily, able to count the dark lashes of Arthur’s eyes. He wants to kiss him, more than ever, wants to see if he still tastes the same, wants to do something he can savour the regret from for all the days he won’t have the chance to regret Arthur. 

“My king,” Merlin murmurs, and feels Arthur’s warm breath on his skin. 

Then Arthur steps away, and Merlin has to hide his disappointment before it shows up on his face. He’s not sure he succeeds, actually. 

“Make sure no one sees you at the ceremony, will you?” he asks. “That thing with the bird is a nice trick, but I’ll never trust a bird in my life again.”

“Prat,” Merlin says, and runs a hand over his face as he wearily grins. “It’s difficult magic. You won’t run into it a lot—there’s probably only a handful of people who can do it. And you’re not so important that I’ll have time to keep an eye on you every day, just so you know.”

“What were you doing, then, three years long?” Arthur demands. 

“Learning how to duck, mostly,” Merlin says, and shrugs. “Friends, then? Morgana will kill us if we don’t—I mean, I’m not expecting anything—but I’ll be here, if you need me. We can’t be allies, but you—well. You know.”

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says, and takes Merlin’s outstretched hand. It’s warm and a bit clammy, and it’s gone far too soon. “Friends, I suppose. I would offer you a room for the night, but it’s probably—”

“No, I suppose I have to leave. My father knows I’m here, but you know what he does when he doesn’t hear from me for too long. I’ll leave right after your coronation.”

Arthur turns around. “Will you come to say goodbye?”

“Do you want me to?”

It’s quiet for a few moments. “I’m not sure, Merlin. I’m not very certain about anything, least of all you. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’s—”

“—complicated, I know,” Merlin finishes, because he’d rather not hear Arthur say it. “Good luck, then, Arthur. Until we meet next time.”

Arthur looks grossly unhappy, and Merlin wonders if he’s doing the right thing. Maybe he should force the issue, the way he did when he was only a servant—maybe he should tell Arthur off. It’s not his place anymore, is it? It would only be because Merlin’s own heart is screaming at him, and if there’s one thing Arthur taught him, it’s that he’ll need to ignore it at times.

And ignore Arthur’s too, it seems.

“Until we meet next time,” Arthur echoes, and Merlin turns into a bird and flies away.

~*~

It’s probably not the most inconspicuous place, but Merlin can’t really help himself. So when Arthur’s coronation has started, and Geoffrey is droning on about the duties of a king in front of where Arthur’s kneeling, Merlin flies into the throne room and perches on Gaius’ shoulder.

As always, Gaius has picked a spot at the back of the room, near the door. So it could’ve been worse, Merlin tells himself, even if he only mostly did it simply because he’s missed Gaius.

To Gaius’ credit, he doesn’t shoo him away immediately. His lined face turns in surprise, and Merlin chirps softly at him. “A merlin,” Gaius murmurs, and slowly lifts up his fingers to stroke Merlin’s wing. “What a surprise.”

Gaius isn’t a druid, and Merlin wonders if his magic is strong enough for Merlin to talk into his mind. Probably not, and besides, he doesn’t want Gaius to have a heart attack. So he settles for leaning into Gaius’ touch, and when Gaius offers his arm to perch up on, Merlin obediently follows.

Gaius isn’t a fool, though. “Is that you?” he murmurs. “I hope it’s not simply the delusions of an old man, Merlin, but one has to wonder—”

Merlin chirps, and nods, as far as he can in his bird’s body. Gaius brightens up, though, and his smile is so wide that Merlin almost wants to turn back into a human just to hug his uncle. 

“Well, then, my boy. I hope you’ll enjoy this moment—it belongs to you as much as it does to Arthur,” Gaius whispers, and holds up his arm so Merlin can see better. And it’s a glorious sight, certainly—the light falls over Arthur’s face, gold and warm. His face is solemn, and none of the doubts Merlin knows he has show in his expression.

With one smooth movement, Geoffrey places the crown on Arthur’s head, and Arthur rises.

“Long live the king!” his people chant, and Arthur’s tiny smile is not lost on Merlin. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”

Long live the king, Merlin thinks, as Arthur stares across the throne room to lock eyes with a merlin, perched on Gaius’ arm.

~*~

Merlin, as promised, leaves without saying goodbye. He doesn’t outstay his welcome, although he pecks at Morgana’s window right before he leaves so she can wave at him as he flies out of Camelot.

Things will be different, he thinks, but not necessarily bad. Arthur has accepted who he is, to a degree, and he will have to learn to be a king. Merlin wishes he could help, but it’s not as if he considers himself a true picture of the perfect king—Arthur’s wise, and he has learnt to listen. He will be great, if he allows himself to be.

Merlin will have to learn to be patient. Morgana will protect Arthur, and he has his knights. 

So he returns to Dracaneard. Things have settled, and Freya hugs him tightly as he comes back. Will slings an arm over his shoulder, and that is that. Merlin has come home, if that’s what he can call Dracaneard, and he will have to stay. There are things he needs to learn, too, and there is a peace to be maintained.

It will be enough, for now.

~*~

The tomb is dark, and his heartbeat is so loud that Merlin can’t hear any other sound. Arthur’s sword is the only flashing thing, reflecting a blue light.

“No!” Merlin calls out, and Arthur’s face twists with regret as he raises his sword—and Merlin’s hands are dark with liquid blood, the agony in his shoulder more than he can bear, but he grits through the pain, because something worse is waiting for him. “Arthur, don’t kill him!”

The sword comes down. Balinor lies on the floor, his fingers outstretched towards him, dead, dead, dead—

Merlin sits up in his bed, breathing heavily. “Leoht,” he demands, and a light appears. His chambers are empty, and it’s the middle of the night. Merlin touches his own face gently, only to have his fingers come away with sweat.

It’s just a dream, he tells himself. Just a dream.

Chapter Text

PART VII

“You did take your time,” Merlin says, as Gwen picks out flowers and puts them in her basket. She’s grinning from ear to ear, though, and if Merlin knows her even a tiny bit, she won’t stop for the rest of the day.

Why should she, after all? It’s her wedding day.

“You can’t hurry along a bride, Merlin,” she says. “If Lancelot’s to be believed, I even outrank you today. It’s some sort of marriage magic, is it?”

“Handfasting has magic, ” Merlin corrects her, because she’s been in Dracaneard for two and a half years and still insists on saying that handfasting and marriage are the same thing. “Marriage is legal in all the kingdoms, but handfasting is the thing where you bind your souls together. And yes, today, you outrank me. But only because the druids think handfasting is the holiest union there is. And it’s more complicated than that.”

“I never fully understood,” Gwen says. “Can you carry this basket for me? It’s getting a bit heavy.”

Merlin dutifully takes over the basket as Gwen continues picking flowers. She wants them to be in her hair, and Freya had been so enthusiastic about the idea she’d basically forced Gwen to go and pick the ones she liked best. However, Freya has taken up many of the wedding and handfasting duties, being Gwen’s closest friend in Dracaneard and technically her lady.

“It’s just the thought of it, really,” Merlin says. “That any person who handfasts is holy, for a day, because of their promise of unending love. It’s why my grandfather never had a handfasting ceremony—his wife was arranged. Of course, they did get married. My father got handfasted before his marriage. Technically, I’m a bastard in most kingdoms.”

“I don’t think that’s the biggest problem they have with Dracaneard, Merlin,” Gwen tells him, and looks critically at her basket. “That’s probably enough, isn’t it? Oh, but what if I don’t like any of them?”

“Then,” Merlin says, and his eyes flash into a molten gold, “I’ll give you some new ones.” A purple flower appears between his fingers, and he gently brushes aside Gwen’s hair to put it behind her ear. She smiles nervously at him, and swats at him.

“Merlin! You could’ve spared me an hour of collecting flowers!”

“Yes, but it did get you out of the castle,” Merlin tells her, and smiles mischievously. “And it allowed me to get away from Lancelot’s nervous pacing, too. I’m not so sure why both of you are so anxious about today—you’re marrying him, Gwen. You’ve been together for more than two years, you’re perfect together, what are you afraid of?”

“They’re not bad nerves,” Gwen says, and wrings her hands together. “It’s just—knowing we’ll have a life together. It’s excitement for all the things we’ll be together, and it’s—I want to look beautiful for him.”

Merlin grins. “He thinks you look beautiful when you’ve spent a day in the stables, Gwen,” he says, and picks another flower from the basket to put in her hair. “You’ve held his heart since the day you two met.”

“It’s just,” Gwen says, and looks down. “Have you ever looked at someone so perfect, and wondered, well, how they’re so wound up in your soul that you can’t let them go? When they just smile at you, and you know—I can’t ever let this go, and then you just have to live with the constant wondering if they’ll ever stop looking at you like that, because you can’t think you can bear it?”

“Yes,” Merlin says.

Gwen blinks at him, and blushes red. “Oh, I’m sorry, Merlin, I wasn’t—”

“Don’t worry,” Merlin says, and smiles wryly. “This day is all about you, Gwen. And Lancelot will never stop loving you—I don’t think he knows how to, if that helps. Now, let’s go back. I’m sure Freya will murder me and take the position of Crown Princess for herself if I don’t bring you back in time to get dressed.”

Gwen follows him, and it doesn’t take long before she’s chattering about her wedding again. Merlin doesn’t mind, not really—they deserve their happiness. They will wed first, and then do their handfasting at sunset, when the magic is strongest. Their souls will be bound together, and Lancelot and Gwen will be united both by the laws of most kingdoms and in the eyes of the druids.

It’s what she deserves.

~*~

The ceremony is beautiful, of course.

It’s a rare occurrence to have the whole royal family present during both the wedding and the handfasting ceremony. Balinor tends to be there for his knights, but Lancelot is so present as both a family friend and as one of their most loyal knights that Hunith shows up as well, and of course Merlin wouldn’t miss it for the world. Freya and Will, their own hands clasped, stand next to Merlin as Gwen and Lancelot bind their souls together.

They’re probably the next ones to get handfasted, Merlin thinks. Balinor hadn’t much enjoyed giving Freya away to Will, but then again, Freya had argued very much about the fact she is a ward, and not his child. Merlin had defended her, and Balinor had relented without too much difficulty.

He does want them to be happy, in the end. It’s just that Merlin knows the boundaries between duty and love can be difficult to find. 

The feast goes until late in the night. Merlin dances with both Gwen and Lancelot, but he spends most of the night nursing his wine and turning down offers from the druids. Beltane will be in two weeks, and Merlin is twenty-four and should be more than willing to spend a night with an eager soul—but he hasn’t managed, and the only offers he’s accepted he has retracted just as quickly.

It’s a bit sad, and Will keeps pushing him about it, but Merlin knows who he wants. Who he wants sits on a throne in Camelot, and has kept peace for two and a half years, and has not married at all in that time, although Morgana writes to him that he’s had several offers.

He’s happy, though, as much as he can be. He’s travelled a bit, even though not nearly as far as when he was eighteen and found himself the manservant to Camelot’s Crown Prince. He’s visited Elena in Gawant, and spent three weeks with her, and he’s gone to travel to Nemeth, which isn’t an ally but is more friendly than most other kingdoms. He’d visited any sorcerers and witches he could find, and talked to them.

Tried to understand their love for their kingdoms, even though magic was outlawed. Tried to understand how deep roots can grow, so that even the dangers of home are preferable to the safety Dracaneard offers. And he has learnt to be a prince, and to love Arthur from afar, and make do with the letters Morgana sends.

It’s enough, for now. If he doesn’t think about it, he can go through his day and love his people more than he loves Arthur. He wishes one didn’t contradict the other, but he hasn’t talked to Arthur in over two years, so it’s easier to ignore it.

It’s enough.

~*~

That is, until two days after Lancelot and Gwen’s wedding.

“There’s a delegation at the gate, my lord,” says Wynna, one of their court sorceresses, after she’s knocked on Balinor’s chambers. They are having a closed dinner, and they certainly weren’t expecting any guests. Merlin and Freya exchange a glance.

“Who?” Balinor demands, rising up. “Is it Gawant?”

“That’d be weird,” Merlin says. “We’re not technically allied with them, they wouldn’t just come knocking at the gates—”

“No one would,” Balinor says, and he’s got a point there. He looks at Wynna, raising his eyebrows. “Well, Wynna?”

She presses her lips together. “My lord, it’s King Arthur. He says he comes in peace.”

Merlin stands up so fast that he knocks over his chair. Hunith shakes her head at him, but smiles softly; Balinor simply glares at him. “Did his sister mention anything to you, Emrys?” he asks mildly. “Any particular reason for the fact our oldest enemy is knocking at our doors?”

“No, not as far as I know,” Merlin says, and bites his lower lip. “But if you—we’re going to let him in, right? I’ll come with you.”

“Merlin, give your father time to think,” Hunith says, although she seems amused.

“Do I have a choice?” Balinor asks wryly, and massages his forehead. “Are you sure you’ve no idea why they are here? If Morgana didn’t even let you know—”

“I’m sure it’s nothing nefarious, it’s Arthur,” Merlin says. 

“Pendragon,” Balinor points out.

“My lord, Aoife is ready at the gates to either send him away or bring him here,” Wynna says. “There are a number of knights and battle-mages that we can send, too—”

“Do it,” Balinor says, and waves at her. “We’ll trust him, for now, but be ready for him to try anything. If he passed the barrier, it should mean his word is sincere, and I’ll give Emrys the benefit of the doubt. He has, after all, spent three years with him.”

“I’ll go with them, too,” Merlin says immediately.

Balinor shakes his head. “No. We are one united front, Emrys. I will have you by my side, as my Crown Prince. Freya, too.”

It’s not unreasonable, and Merlin-the-prince agrees, but Merlin-the-person would rather sprint to the gates and welcome Arthur himself. He has no idea why the King of Camelot is coming here, and personally, too—but there must be a reason, and surely it’s not a social call. It’s best to wait for Arthur to come to him.

Although half an hour suddenly seems too long, now that Arthur is within reach.

~*~

Arthur’s delegate is rather small, as these things go. They are flanked by Aoife and Edwin, two of their court sorcerers, as well as half a dozen knights. Arthur has brought Leon with him, and Bedivere, as well as several young knights that Merlin doesn’t recognise. They were probably knighted after Merlin left, he thinks, and his heart sinks a bit at the thought that the Camelot he left isn’t the Camelot that stands now, under Arthur’s rule.

They come to a halt before Balinor’s throne. Arthur bows, and his eyes flit to Merlin, standing by his father’s side. Merlin’s very aware of his dark outfit and the silver crown on his head, and he fumbles with it awkwardly. The two and a half years in Arthur’s absence have done him well—he’s grown more into his frame, and his hair curls at the ears. He can feel Arthur assessing each change, comparing it to the Merlin he knows, and swallows heavily.

Arthur himself looks good, too. He’s always been attractive, but his face had always held a boyish quality—Merlin hadn’t even realised it until now, because Arthur looks like a man. He is twenty-seven, and there’s a wisdom in his eyes that didn’t used to be there.

Merlin’s just sorry he had to miss Arthur gaining it.

“King Balinor,” Arthur says, his voice low and strong, and it echoes in the halls. “I’m grateful for your welcome. I know better than to expect it, but I’m afraid I had no choice but to come to your kingdom with utmost speed.”

“Lord Arthur,” Balinor says, and raises. “My son convinces me you are a better man than your father. I hope to agree with him by the end of your visit.”

“I can only hope, my lord,” Arthur says wryly, and bows again. “Lady Hunith, and Lady Freya. Prince Emrys.”

Balinor crosses his arms. “I know that being straightforward is not usually the business of kings, Lord Arthur, but I hope you understand my caution in this matter. Why have you come to us?”

“Because Prince Emrys promised his help, once, if I were to ask for it,” Arthur says, and this time, his eyes don’t leave Merlin’s. “And I have come to ask if he will honour that promise.”

“Obviously,” Merlin says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s not an offer made lightly, you know.”

“Emrys.” Balinor’s voice leaves no room for arguments. Freya snickers and elbows Merlin in the ribs, and he rolls her eyes at her. When he looks back to Arthur, though, his face seems oddly blank. 

“It’s not something I would hold you to,” Arthur assures them—more so Balinor than Merlin, probably. “It’s just—well, Princess Morgana and Gaius both told me you’d be the only ones capable of dealing with the problem I find myself in, and I happen to agree. There’s a man who broke into my castle, and he took something I didn’t even know was there. A key to the Tombs of Ashkanar. The final key, as Gaius told me.”

“Dragon egg,” Merlin says immediately. They all know the story—it’s just that the Tomb is lost, and it has been, for hundreds of years. 

Arthur looks surprised, though. “Yes. You know it?”

“We know of it,” Balinor corrects him, and sighs deeply. “Ashkanar was, by all accounts, a king related to Dragonlords, but not a Dragonlord himself. Even four hundred years ago, dragons were a rare sight to behold. He buried the egg with him, and no one knows where it is. Are you sure the key is complete?”

“By a man named Julius Borden,” Arthur confirms. “He confronted Gaius.”

“Is Gaius alright?” Hunith asks, in concern.

Arthur inclines her head towards her. “Completely healthy, my lady, although shocked by the turn of events,” he says, and turns back to Balinor. “I don’t know who Borden is, my lord, but I fear what he can do with a dragon egg in his possession. If there’s anyone who knows how to deal with it—”

“What would you do, Lord Arthur?” Balinor says, his voice so low that Arthur falls silent at once. “Find the egg, and destroy it? We all know Camelot’s laws on magic. A dragon is the essence of magic, an ancient source stronger than anything else. Borden can’t hatch it, but I can. Would you have me do that, or would you destroy it?”

“Father,” Merlin snaps. “He may not be able to hatch it, but he can still practise a lot of dark magic with a dragon egg in his hands. Even if he’s only going to sell it, we have no idea who it’ll end up with.”

Balinor leans forward. “But can you stand it, Arthur Pendragon? The thought of a dragon out in this world, in the hands of a Dragonlord?”

Arthur has steel in his eyes. “I know my laws, Lord Balinor, although I thank you for reminding me,” he says wryly. “I do not consider our two kingdoms to be enemies. Most of that you have to thank your son for, who is a braver man than most. If anyone were to have a dragon, I think it would be best to have it be Dracaneard, because you already have three, and I don’t think another would make much more of a difference.”

“Four,” Merlin corrects him, and beams at Arthur. 

“I do ask,” Arthur continues, and shoots Merlin a look, “That you would only keep the egg, and not yet hatch it. Not until Prince Emrys is Dragonlord, and he will be its lord.”

Silence falls in the throne room. Merlin winces as everyone glances at him. Balinor slowly nods, and turns back to Arthur. “I would ask you why, but I think there’s no need for me to ask. Emrys?”

“What?” Merlin asks, blinking. He’s surprised his father would ask him. “I mean—yeah, obviously. Eggs can last a thousand years, so that’s not—why would I be against that?”

“I’ve not taught you how to raise a young dragon,” Balinor says. “I suppose we’ll have time for that later. I didn’t think it would be found—it will be the last remaining egg in the world. We accept your offer, Lord Arthur, and will find this egg for you.”

“I’ll come, too, if you don’t mind,” Arthur says lightly. “Julius Borden trespassed in my castle, and stole a key that belonged to me. I claim the right to his justice.”

Balinor exhales deeply. “I suppose I can’t stop you. I’ll get someone to prepare some rooms for you, Lord Arthur, but don’t be too alarmed at the guards in the guest wing. I’m sure you understand it’s just a precaution.”

“I can ward them,” Merlin offers.

“Emrys, for the last time, you’re a prince,” Balinor says wearily. “Leave that to Aoife. I expect you to ready the dragons—I will be taking Kilgharrah.”

Merlin blinks. “You’re coming?” he asks. “Father, I can go by myself. It’s my promise, and I can take Edwin, if you want another sorcerer—”

“I am the Dragonlord,” Balinor says. “This dragon may not be hatched until you take my title, but until then, it is my responsibility. And I won’t offer you over to Lord Arthur again so easily, Emrys.” He smiles a bit, and Merlin bites his tongue.

“I’ll ask Naimroa,” he mutters. 

Arthur bows again. “Thank you, Lord Balinor,” he says, as polite as he gets. “I suppose we’ll be seen to our chambers, then? And won’t leave them until we are set to depart, tomorrow?”

“You think right, Lord Arthur,” Balinor says pleasantly. Arthur just bows a last time, and disappears as the servants wave at them to follow. Merlin watches him go, and sighs deeply. It isn’t a social call, but Arthur clearly trusts him, and what he’d said—well, perhaps it’s best not to linger on it. 

“He seems kind,” Hunith says, as the entire delegation has disappeared. “And he’s a very pretty boy, Merlin.”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Merlin says miserably. “Two and a half years. Two and a half!”

“And you’re still smitten?” Freya offers, and shares a smile with Hunith. “It’s not as if we couldn’t tell. But he’s offered you a dragon egg!”

“It’s one thing in which he recognises our hands are safer than anyone else’s,” Balinor says strictly. “That doesn’t make him an ally.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Merlin says.

“Emrys. It’s best if you don’t talk to him—he is under watch.”

“And I’m the prince, so I can watch him just as well,” Merlin says in exasperation. “You can’t stop me, Father. I’m going to talk to him.”

“At least allow him to settle in first,” Hunith suggests, and brushes Merlin’s hair out of his face. “And comb your hair, please. It’s late already, and you should talk to the dragons if you want to leave in the morning.”

“Fine,” Merlin says, and slips out of his mother’s grasp before Balinor can say another word.

~*~

Naimroa isn’t difficult to convince. Merlin has ridden her a half dozen times in the last two years, and she’s probably the dragon he is closest to currently. Ekaitza is a bit too aggressive, and Rathuris is closer to Kilgharrah than Merlin would like. Naimroa is changeable in her moods, but she’s become a sort of friend. One with scaly wings and sharp teeth who doesn’t like humanity all that much, most of the time.

So she agrees, and all the dragons are excited about the possible addition to their little family. They are kin, and even if they’re not very close in other ways, Merlin knows the dragons are frighteningly possessive of one another, and of their Dragonlord.

It’s already dark by the time Merlin makes his way back to the castle and finds himself in the kitchen. Will’s helping out cleaning, and brightens as he catches sight of Merlin.

“Merlin!” he says, and clasps him on the back. The other servants ignore them, long used to their antics. Merlin smiles vaguely, and Will continues, “Freya told me about our visitor. I expect you’re going to ravish him tonight?”

“Will,” Merlin hisses, and shoves him. “Will you stop that?”

Will shrugs. “I’ve been trying to turn your eyes to other prospects for years now, my friend. If that doesn’t work, I can support you in your endeavours. Besides, Freya said he said a lot of nice things about you, and that you couldn’t stop blushing and fiddling with your collar. Like a puppy, is the term she used.”

“All of you have betrayed me,” Merlin laments. “It’s not like that, Will, not anymore.”

“Didn’t he try to get you into his bed for a year, once?”

“When he didn’t know who I was, yes,” Merlin says, looking at Will darkly. “And that’s three years ago—four, really, since that started. He’s just here for my help.”

Will snorts. “Do you have to try so hard at being naive, or does it come naturally to you?” he says, and picks up a plate. It’s still steaming, and the food on it is rich and among Dracaneard’s best. “I’ve already had a gallon of wine delivered to King Arthur’s chambers, you know, because I’m such a good friend. So go and woo your man.”

“I’m not going to woo him,” Merlin protests, but he takes the plate anyway. “But thanks, Will. Even though you’re the worst.”

Will salutes him, and pushes Merlin out of the kitchen again. Merlin listens to the warm chattering behind him, and sighs. He forces himself towards the guest wing. He knows what chamber they’ll have put Arthur in, and so he passes the guards on the wing and knocks on Arthur’s door.

It’s Arthur himself who opens, only dressed in comfortable pants and a low-hanging tunic. He seems surprised to see Merlin. “Oh. Prince Emrys.”

“Knock it off,” Merlin says, and pushes inside past Arthur. “I didn’t know if you’d had dinner yet, so I brought some. Hope that’s okay.”

“They did come around with some earlier, but I wasn’t very hungry,” Arthur admits, and comes to stand next to him. His stomach rumbles, and his lips crook into a smile. “I suppose I am now, though. Did—erm, did you have time to eat? We can share.”

Merlin grabs one of the chicken legs and munches on it. “I did, actually,” he says. “You interrupted a family dinner. Not that there’s much to interrupt—Father asks us all what we did, and then complains about the nobles, and Mother calms him down, and Freya and I poke fun. I mean, it’s just—it was nice. To hear you were there.”

“I didn’t know if I would be welcome,” Arthur says slowly, and also takes one of the legs. “It’s a beautiful kingdom, Merlin. And the castle’s very nice—I’m sorry, are you aware you’re still wearing your crown?”

“Oh,” Merlin realises, and cleans his hands on his tunic before he takes it off. “Sorry. Is that—I don’t notice, usually, and I went straight from the throne room to the dragons and from the dragons to here—sorry?”

“It’s not bad,” Arthur says, and takes the crown gently from Merlin’s hand to put it on top of his head again. His fingers brush against Merlin’s ears, and he shivers. “I’m not used to seeing you like this. I didn’t think it would fit you, but it does.”

“It does?” Merlin repeats.

“Well,” Arthur murmurs, and smiles privately. “Everything’s better than those hideous scarves you used to wear in Camelot.”

Merlin pouts. “They’re very comfortable,” he says. “I still have them. My father thinks they’re not very princely, but I like them. I’ll have to pack one, probably—we’ll be riding a dragon, and even in the summer, it gets colder than you’d think—”

He’s cut off by Arthur kissing him. Merlin flails for a second, before he straightens himself out by holding onto Arthur’s biceps. Arthur kisses him like a king, like he’s entitled to it, as if daring Merlin to drop down to his knees and swear fealty despite everything that stands between them; he hadn’t expected Arthur to ever want this loyalty from him again.

He pants into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur pushes him against the table. The plate rattles and falls on the floor, and it breaks their kiss.

“My dinner,” Arthur says stupidly, and then looks at Merlin. “I’m—”

“Shut up,” Merlin says hotly, and pulls Arthur down again. 

Arthur goes willingly, his lips hot against Merlin’s, shoving him on top of the table. It’s not gentle, nor is it anything like what Merlin remembers from that night he gave in—the night he should regret, that he can’t, that he holds onto whenever he thinks of Arthur—

“Three years,” Arthur says, when he pulls away, breathing loudly. He’s leaning half over Merlin, his lips swollen and his pupils large, and his legs are pressed against Merlin’s. Merlin wants him, has never wanted anything more, would probably give up his crown right now if that’s what Arthur wanted. He is supposed to be with him, by his side, and instead they’re being kept apart by these laws, by expectations set by their fathers, by themselves—“Tell me you haven’t been with anyone else,” Arthur demands, suddenly, hotly, as he grabs Merlin’s wrist. “Tell me.”

“No one,” Merlin swears, and turns them around, so Arthur’s pushed against the table. “I couldn’t, Arthur. Not while you’re in this world.”

“Stay with me tonight,” Arthur says, and it’s not a question.

Merlin should say no. The guards have seen him enter Arthur’s bedroom, and they will know if he doesn’t leave. His father will learn where he’s spent the night, which means his mother will learn, and Freya, and Will, and everyone else of significance. Arthur isn’t a secret to be kept—has never been that, but things are complicated, and Merlin really shouldn’t give into him so easily. Not after everything that has happened between them—everything that they are and that they aren’t. He should take this slow, and learn who this king is that Arthur has become. He should leave his crown on top of his head and his heart outside of this room, and assess by himself what he wants of Arthur, and what he can give him.

“Yes,” he says instead, and leans in hungrily as Arthur kisses him again.

Chapter Text

It’s not a secret. Of course it isn’t.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Balinor says brusquely, when Merlin joins him at breakfast in his parents’ chambers. Hunith just smiles tightly, her eyes flitting to Merlin’s in concern.

“You know me,” Merlin says. “I never know what I’m doing.”

“Merlin,” Hunith says, and Freya snorts in amusement. 

“It’ll be fine,” Merlin tells them, “And if we could please stop hinting at it without any outright reason of why I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing—”

“—who, you mean—” Freya whispers.

“—then I don’t think I want to talk about this. With my parents.”

“We just want you to be safe,” Hunith says plainly, and Merlin spits out his water.

“If Merlin dies from mortification, does that mean I’m the new Crown Princess?” Freya asks merrily, patting Merlin on his back.

“Don’t,” Merlin says, and coughs. “Father will never let you handfast with Will.”

Freya smirks. “If I’m the Crown Princess of Dracaneard, I can run away and do whatever I want. You’ve done enough of that, after all.”

“Take the prophecy, too, in that case,” Merlin says. “Would it kill anyone not to discuss my life while I’m sitting right here? Arthur’s waiting outside so we can send off his delegation before he comes with us. He’ll be riding Naimroa with me, by the way.”

Balinor raises his eyebrows knowingly at that. “He will, won’t he?”

“Merlin just likes to hear him scream,” Freya says, and Merlin elbows her. Very hard, in the ribs. It doesn’t stop her from snickering, and Merlin feels the tips of ears go red. Hunith just shakes her head, and Balinor glowers at Freya.

“If he takes Llamrei, he won’t know where to go,” Merlin says, ignoring Freya’s jab. “He’ll need to ride with me if he’s to keep up. And besides, we’ll need to use magic to find Borden. We don’t have the key, so we’ll have to follow him as best we can. I’ve got a few spells in mind.”

Balinor hums. “And Arthur is okay with that?”

He’d not been overjoyed about it, when Merlin had explained that morning in Arthur’s bed, but Arthur had idly been tracing the veins on Merlin’s skin and not interrupted. “He understands the reality of the situation,” he says, clearing his throat. “And besides, it’ll be a good thing to show him. How magic can help, how it can do good things.”

“Magic isn’t only meant for doing things,” Balinor says sharply. “It just is. As you know—”

“And all Arthur’s grown up on are stories of how easily it destroys,” Merlin retorts. “How it’s evil, and how it hurt his family. I have to show him.”

“It’s his destiny, love,” Hunith says, and places a calming hand on Balinor. “You two will be late if you keep bickering, and I expect you to be back again in time for Beltane. It’s the king’s duty to open the feasts, and I want both my men at home for the feasts. If you want to invite Arthur, Merlin—”

“—Hunith,” Balinor says, as if in pain. “Don’t encourage him.”

She smiles. “Don’t discourage him,” she says, and presses a kiss against his bearded cheek. “Now, go. That dragon egg’s important.”

“I’ll see you in a couple of days, Mother,” Merlin says, dashing in to hug her. He darkly eyes Freya, but relents at her toothy grin, and presses a kiss to her forehead. Balinor kisses his wife goodbye, and hugs Freya, and then they’re out the door. Merlin steals two buns; one for himself, and one for Arthur.

Arthur is standing a little way outside, talking animatedly to Leon. His first knight doesn’t seem pleased, and presumably has just been told it’s really only Arthur that can come. Merlin understands Leon’s apprehension, and he joins them with an apologetic grin.

“Got you something,” he says, and tosses the bun to Arthur. “No sausages, sorry. Don’t want you to get fat. Hi, Leon.”

“Merlin,” Leon says tersely. “Are you sure there’s no way for me to join?”

“I’ll take good care of him, I promise,” Merlin says, and grins. “Besides, I don’t think the dragons would like it. Kilgharrah only lets me and Father ride him—I think a few of the knights have ridden the other dragons—well, not Ekaitza, she’s too violent—but they don’t just let anyone do it, you know.”

“Not even if you commanded them?” Leon demands.

Merlin shrugs. “Not a Dragonlord yet. You’d have to try my father, and I’d wish you the best of luck convincing him. Hi, Father.”

Balinor comes to stand next to him, all dressed in leather armour and with his sword Caliburn hanging on his hip. He looks gruffly at Arthur, who shuffles on his feet. “Are you ready?” he asks, and sighs heavily. “I’m not going to pretend to be pleased about this, Lord Arthur, but you can at least do me the honour of pretending you’ve not spent the night with my heir, and stop looking as if I’m going to eat you alive.”

“My lord, my men are all ready to leave the citadel,” Arthur says, and meets Balinor’s gaze. “And I have no intention of hiding anything, my lord.”

Merlin sighs. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” he says wearily, and ignores Leon’s shrug. “I’ve already seen the dragons. Our court sorceress, Aoife, can see out your men, Leon. I promise we’ll return Arthur to Camelot safe and sound. We’ve no intention of starting anything here—we just want the egg.”

“I believe you,” Leon says, and clasps arms with Arthur. “Do be careful, my lord.”

“I always am,” Arthur says easily. With a nod to each other, Leon leaves. It leaves the awkward party of three, and Merlin claps his hands.

“Right!” he says, cheerily. “Dragons. Do you want the long explanation of how to ride one, Arthur, or the short one? Don’t worry, Naimroa won’t let you fall. I think. And otherwise, I know a lovely little spell to stop someone in mid-air!”

“Moron,” Arthur says, but it’s affectionate, and Merlin can’t help but grin at him.

~*~

Arthur shouts. A lot.

To be fair, Naimroa’s not being very kind to him. She’s taking a lot of unnecessary turns, and flaps her wings very inconsistently. Even Merlin, who’s ridden dragons since childhood, is feeling a little sick by the time they’ve spent an hour on her back. Arthur’s clutching at Merlin, and while it normally wouldn’t be an unwanted feeling, his nails are digging rather painfully in Merlin’s thighs, like tiny little swords.

“Naimroa,” Merlin says, eventually, his voice a little strained. Just ahead of him, Kilgharrah’s flight is perfect. “For the last time. I need to focus.”

“Dragon Prince,” Naimroa says, but at least she relents a little bit.

“Evil creature,” Arthur gasps, and the turbulence starts up again.

Merlin digs his heels into Naimroa’s scales, and she takes the hint. He turns to Arthur, only to feel his nose pressed into a headful of golden strands. Arthur has pressed his face into Merlin’s shoulder, and when he does look up, he looks a little greenish.

“It’s not normally this bad,” Merlin says. “Can you—hold on a little less tightly? I want to try and find Borden.”

That awakens Arthur’s curiosity, at least. “How do you do it?” he asks. “Is there—I don’t know, do you feel him, somewhere?”

“I don’t, but magic does,” Merlin says, and flashes a grin. “Fortunately, magic and I are very close. There’s this spell—it’s not a very good one, so we usually don’t use it for tracking, but I’m hoping the presence of the Triskelion—the key with three parts you mentioned—anyway, the Triskelion’s very magical. I hope it may give us a more accurate fix, because we don’t have anything that belongs to him to track him with.”

“Right,” Arthur says faintly. “Even now that I know you’ve got magic, you still don’t make any sense, Merlin.”

“Just let me focus,” Merlin says, and stretches out his hand. “Āsmēa.”

He can feel the magic stretching, and everything’s so alive, in the moment. For an instant, Merlin forgets that he’s on a dragon, and he is the trees and the stream—he is a smithsman, crafting a sword, he is a stone on the bottom of the water—he is a baby screaming for her mother, and he is a butterfly on a leaf. The magic surges, and he is a witch with her medicine, he is a magical amulet on a woman’s neck—he is a sorcerer burning on a stake, he is a druid whose eyes grow gold as they scream—

“Merlin,” Arthur says, shaking at him. “Merlin! You’re almost falling off. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Merlin shudders, trying to feel as if he isn’t on fire. “Sorry,” he mutters. “As I said, not a very accurate spell. I think I found him, though.”

Now that his senses aren’t overcome by everything else, he thinks he’s found something that feels familiar. The Triskelion is partly made of a dragon’s magic, and that is something ancient. He senses it, and he senses a man who carries it—a goal, a greed, a guilty desire. Yes, it is Borden. It must be.

“Where is he?” 

“Dǣlaþ,” Merlin murmurs, and puts his hand on Naimroa. She grumbles and swerves to the east. He’s shared his sense of Borden’s presence with her, and she will find the way. It’s a wonderful thing, his connection with his dragons, and he smiles as they breathe in rhythm.

“I didn’t know we had the key,” Arthur says, suddenly. “There’s so many things in our vaults—I’ve always meant to look at them, but Father was always so secretive about it. Morgana has been asking to go down for ages, but it can be dangerous. I think I just didn’t want to find all his conquests, really. I didn’t want to deal with my father’s greed.”

“It’s not your first priority, Arthur, I think that’s understandable,” Merlin says, and looks at his own father as Naimroa passes Kilgharrah, who grumbles in annoyance as they speed past. “We’re going east. I think I’ve located him.”

Balinor’s grin is easy. “My own didn’t work. I had a feeling you’d have more success.”

“Work very hard, and maybe you’ll be as good as me, one day,” Merlin tells him, and Naimroa swoops away from them. Arthur holds tightly onto his waist and Merlin smiles back at him.

“He’s not like I thought he’d be,” Arthur says. “You know, when you were my manservant, I always got the sense you were afraid of him. It’s not—I always wanted you to myself, during Beltane, but I was worried when you’d go home. I always checked you for bruises, afterwards, and you seemed fine, but the way you’d get this distant look in your eyes, sometimes…”

“It’s not the way it was a couple of years ago,” Merlin admits. “He wanted me to follow the old gods and the Priestesses, you know—be this beacon of the Old Religion. I was a religious figure, not a son. He had these ideas—well, it doesn’t matter now. We’ve made our peace with that.”

Arthur frowns. “You’re not following the Old Religion? But I thought—”

“Oh, parts of it,” Merlin says. “Not everything. They’re not one and the same thing, you know, the Old Religion and magic. Didn’t Morgana explain?”

“She just said something about the anger of the Priestesses,” Arthur admits. “I wasn’t listening very closely. She’s met up with some of the druids, you know.”

“She told me you’re letting them back into the citadel,” Merlin says. 

Arthur shrugs, and their closeness makes it so that Arthur’s shirt rides up a bit against Merlin’s back. “They’re not harming anyone. Which I can’t say of everyone who practises magic. I’ve had Gaius and Morgana tell me of the assassination attempts, you know—there’s more of them than I would like. And not that I mind putting my life in Morgana’s hand, but she’s…”

“Smug?” Merlin asks. “Try living with yourself for a day.”

Arthur pokes his side. “Very funny, Merlin, truly.”

“No, you’re right,” Merlin tells him. “Not everyone has good intentions. But that’s dark magic, Arthur—the majority of us don’t practise it. The Priestesses do, at times. At Samhain, a bit of dark magic can be considered a good thing, really, but that’s—well, depends on what Priestess you ask, and what gods you follow. It’s a bit complicated. The Disir probably wouldn’t mind, but that’s—well, once you find yourself in need of the Disir’s help, you’re probably already not in a good place.”

“Why is it not the same as magic?” Arthur asks. “I don’t understand—I thought they were one and the same.”

“That’s because Uther liked to see them that way,” Merlin says wryly. 

“Dragon Prince,” Naimroa interrupts. “We’re nearing the Triskelion. If we want to remain out of Borden’s vision, we should consider landing here. He will notice us, and fear the dragons in the sky.”

Merlin closes his eyes. The thrum of the tracking spell is already much closer, and he slowly nods. “We can find our way on foot from here,” he tells Naimroa, and she lowers. It’s a bit difficult to find a place to land, especially for Kilgharrah, but they drop them near a clearing in the forest.

Merlin slides off Naimroa’s back with practised ease and extends his hand to Arthur. Arthur hesitates for a moment, and then allows it. “Very princely of you,” he says, his lips quirked into a wry smile.

“I’ve learnt from the best,” he says, and Arthur’s eyes on him are very intent, so Merlin turns away to shake the weight behind that gaze. Balinor joins them, sliding from Kilgharrah’s back. He says something to the dragons—presumably telling them to hide themselves away until they are called for again, because they don’t go back up in the air. “Spell says it’s that way,” Merlin continues, and nods his head towards the north-east. “No idea if we can walk that road, though.”

“Emrys,” Balinor says patiently.

“Right,” Merlin says, and murmurs, “Lēċ.” The path becomes clearer to him, and he follows it with his magic for some time. There’s some trickier parts, but he thinks it’ll be doable for three healthy men, and he shakes away the spell. “No obstacles as far as I can see.”

“You’ve done that before, haven’t you?” Arthur says, and frowns. “You know, Merlin—suddenly some of those hunts we went on make a lot more sense.”

“Really, I just wanted to get back to Camelot earlier, most of the time,” Merlin says. “If I’d left the tracking to you, it’d have taken ages.”

“The knights had a betting pool going about how long it’d take you to just wander in a direction, you know,” Arthur says, amused. “They’d wait during hunts for you to start muttering around and walk one way or another. Now I know why you always seemed to have such a good instinct for getting home.”

“My sense of direction is still very good,” Merlin says, and Balinor snorts. He shoots his father a look. “It’s true!”

“Emrys, you’ve relied on magic to tell you where anything is since you were two,” Balinor says. “I don’t think you’d find the way around the castle without using it.”

Arthur grins. Merlin looks between them and shakes his head. Just because he uses magic doesn’t mean he still isn’t right. “Come on,” he says. “Unless you’re afraid I’m going to lead you astray, that is.”

“Lead on, Merlin,” Arthur says, and brushes his hand along Merlin’s waist for only a second before he moves past him. Merlin shudders, and starts walking.

~*~

They walk most of that day in silence, and it’s remarkably easy to fall in pace with his father and Arthur by his side. They are not necessarily friendly to one another, but they have come to a wordless agreement not to bring up all their differences, and Merlin doesn’t want them to.

So they track the spell, Julius Borden’s location tugging at Merlin. It makes it hard for him to feel restful, even when they make camp—Arthur gapes openly at the shelters Balinor and Merlin’s magic create, and promptly closes his mouth when Merlin smirks at him—and it’s only when Arthur rolls on top of him and kisses him soundly that Merlin finds some peace of mind.

In the morning, though, he’s the first to wake, and so he sneaks out of Arthur’s embrace to make a fire and cook some breakfast. It feels oddly like his days in Camelot when Arthur joins him and presses a kiss against his cheek, even though they never boasted this sort of closeness when Merlin was his manservant.

“How far do you think he is?” Arthur asks quietly. Snores still drift from Balinor’s shelter, and Merlin smiles at the sound of it. “Julius Borden, that is.”

Merlin presses his lips together in concentration. “Another day, I think,” he says eventually. “I don’t think he’s moving now. Do you want eggs?”

Arthur looks at him in amusement, although he does take the offered breakfast. “You truly astound me, Merlin,” he says, and takes a bite. “It’s so… normal to you, isn’t it? Tracking a man with your magic, riding dragons to meet them—it must have been so dull for you in Camelot. And then you turn around, after doing these feats that no other man can dream of, and you make eggs.”

“We all need to eat,” Merlin says, shrugging. “I liked Camelot. I felt like I couldn’t breathe for the lack of magic, sometimes, and of course I was afraid, at times, but mostly it just felt like I’d come home. And sometimes it just felt… quieter, without everyone doing magic in the same citadel. I don’t mind, but it can be a bit overwhelming. I feel it, you know. And mostly…”

“Yes?”

“Well, it had you,” Merlin says.

Arthur stares at him. “Will you come back?”

Merlin drops his pan in surprise and curses quietly. Arthur’s eyes haven’t left his face yet, and Merlin can feel his cheeks burning. “This reminds me of another certain conversation we had in another forest,” Merlin says wryly, and thinks back to that first time Arthur had confessed to having any feelings at all—those few days before he’d been supposed to marry Princess Astrid, and the days before Merlin had gone back and spent Beltane with Edwin, and the day before Merlin would have to turn him down for a year because his betrayal would be too great if he slept with Arthur while keeping his secrets.

“I understand,” Arthur says, and grabs Merlin’s wrist. “I know why you never told me, Merlin, God, and I wanted to hold it against you, but I never could. And I came here, while I rightly should have—I should’ve had the dragon egg captured and destroyed. It’s what my father would have done. But all I could think of was you on your dragon when I fought Deorham, and I couldn’t.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and gently pries Arthur’s fingers from his wrist. “I want to. I do, I—you don’t understand what it means. But I can’t hide away like I used to—your men know who I am, and I can’t—by the gods, magic still isn’t legal. What would you even tell them?”

“That we are making peace,” Arthur says, and Merlin’s heart leaps. It’s all he ever wanted, and Arthur is offering it to him so desperately. This is how his prophecy will be fulfilled—this is how everything must start. They will make peace, and Merlin can be by Arthur’s side as he unites Albion.

Merlin presses himself against Arthur, and it’s clearly unexpected, because their noses smash together clumsily. But Arthur moulds himself against Merlin within a second, kissing him deeply and eagerly. And Merlin can have this—it’s only one word away.

“Yes,” Merlin mutters, against Arthur’s lips. “Yes, yes. I’ll come with you.”

“They’ve done without you before, and they can do it again,” Arthur says, his hands in Merlin’s hair. Merlin is ravenous for him, for the entire sensation of Arthur, his body tingling with the need to press their bodies as close as he can get them—he wants a spell that binds them together, a way to merge their hearts and souls, and he deliriously thinks, by the dragons, I want to have a handfasting ceremony with Arthur Pendragon, and then, Iseldir would do it, and his kissing turns more gentle.

If Arthur minds, he doesn’t show it; he cups Merlin’s face like he is something precious, like they haven’t spent the last two nights together already—like Merlin is fragile, and maybe he is, a bit, after what Arthur has asked of him.

Arthur has asked him to come home.

“Just because I’ve made my peace with it,” comes Balinor’s weary voice, “doesn’t mean I have to like the sight of it. Merlin.”

Merlin falls back, and feels the heat rise to his cheeks. When he glances at Arthur, he sees a similar red-faced expression. Arthur’s pressing his lips together, though, as if he can’t stop himself from smiling. Merlin wants to run his fingers over those lips, and memorise the softness of them with his mouth and tongue and hands.

“Sorry, Father,” he gets out, and gets the pan from the ground. The eggs are still sizzling when he puts it back on the fire. “Eggs?”

“For on the road,” Balinor decides, and peers into the thick foliage. “We need to keep going. If you think you can find the time for our missing dragon egg, of course.”

Merlin wisely refrains from pointing out Balinor was still sleeping only ten minutes ago, while he’d been making himself useful by making breakfast. He wordlessly grabs the bread and presses the egg in between, and cleans up behind him with a quiet spell.

“If you think you can keep up, that is,” Merlin says, and hands Arthur the bread.

Balinor eyes him, his eyebrows raised. “You’re my son, but please, Merlin, my heart can’t take this. It’s bad I’ll always have to remember the time I had to find Edwin, of all people, in your bed, but now it’s the King of Camelot—”

Arthur makes a wounded noise. Merlin winces and offers another piece of bread to Arthur. 

“If you never mention that again,” Merlin says to his father, “I promise you’ll never have to see it again.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Arthur says, and his hair’s still standing upright from Merlin’s ministrations, and his cheekbones are spotted red. Prophesied king, Merlin’s mind chants, because Arthur’s anything but a lonely prince right now, and the shuttered light in the canopy still paints his hair as golden as any crown could be. Merlin only wants to run his fingers through it again, but he has time now.

He will go back to Camelot. It won’t be in time for Beltane, probably, but all the days after that—Merlin has every one of them. They can figure it out, the two of them, just as destiny foretold.

“Oh, you prat,” Merlin just says, and pushes Arthur into the right direction to follow Balinor, who has already started walking. Arthur goes, easily, and Merlin’s chest glows at the trust he’s showing. “Do you really want me to promise I’ll spend the rest of my Beltanes with you?”

“Yes,” Arthur says lowly, and glances at Balinor, but he’s far enough that he can’t hear them. “I do want you to promise that. And, Merlin, I want you to tell me that’s not your court sorcerer Edwin that he was talking about, because I distinctly remember that man in my throne room three years ago—”

“What if it is?” Merlin scowls.

“You could do better,” Arthur tells him, and runs his finger over Merlin’s wrist. Merlin shudders at the touch.

“I have,” he points out, and when Arthur smirks with pride, Merlin adds, “Or at least, Will would certainly tell me that my taste has only gone downhill since we were teenagers—” and runs away as Arthur starts to chase him.

It’s a good morning.

~*~

They make good time, and Merlin can feel his senses tingling. It means that magic is coming nearer—the Tomb of Ashkanar, maybe, but also certainly Merlin’s spell on Julius Borden. It can be hard to tell spells apart, at times, but Merlin’s reasonably certain they’re making better pace than Borden is. Maybe because he relies on the key to find where they’re going, or perhaps he’s removing his traces—Merlin doesn’t care, as long as they can find Borden before he does something to the egg. His concern for it sits in the pool of his stomach, to the point where even Arthur’s occasional touches and soft murmurs don’t help.

It means that Arthur and Balinor have started conversing amongst themselves, as Merlin tries to focus on his spell and figure out what path will go fastest. Inevitably, the subject turns to magic.

“—and the use of knights?” he hears Arthur say behind him. “You still have them. Magic isn’t the only way to protect a kingdom—not even the most reliable one.”

“Why would you say that?” Balinor asks, with the tone of someone who’s talking to a particularly slow toddler. “Dracaneard is impregnable. Our shields keep anyone with the intent on harming us outside, and not even Uther managed to attack us. You had to go to war with Gawant to even lure out our men.”

“I never wanted war,” Arthur argues. “But even so—magic’s nearly gone from Albion. You can’t possibly expect it to be returned on that scale. The politics alone—one would have to get the entirety of Albion to work together. The kingdoms are too divided. And if it got to that point, how could you possibly argue that magic is the best defence, after it was nearly eradicated?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, a warning in his voice.

“No, I want to understand,” Arthur says. “I know my father was wrong about a great many things—but he was a good king, even if he was a bad man. But how could he have driven back magic, if it’s as powerful as you claim? My father didn’t use magic.”

“It’s not as simple,” Merlin tells him.

“It is, in a way,” Balinor says, and shrugs as both Merlin and Arthur look at him. “Sorcerers have been feared for a long time. It’s why they were driven back—it is why my father made Dracaneard into a kingdom, into a haven. Uther’s Purge didn’t come from nothing—there was fear, even before, and he made use of that. Besides, he knew much about the old practices, once, and he used it against us.”

Merlin blinks. “But if we’d used dark magic, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. That’s what you always taught me—if we’d given into that darkness, their fear would have been rightful. And so we drew back. We never attacked. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, but Nimueh could’ve acted better,” Balinor says. “Uther didn’t know the full price he’d pay for the High Priestesses’ cause, and he assumed all magic was dark magic. And you are right—I didn’t want to win the war against Uther only to lose the war against all of Albion, when we’d be feared and hunted to the ends of the world. It would’ve meant the end of this world, Emrys, but you—you will show them it’s a beautiful thing, instead. That is what you were born to do.”

“Father,” Merlin says wearily, and rubs his eyes. It’s a good thing he can focus on the route, still, and so he leads the path. He expects that to be the end of it—Arthur is clearly not interested in the prophecy. 

But Arthur doesn’t drop it. “What do you mean, the full price?” he says. “My father didn’t consort with any High Priestesses. He hated them more than anyone else.”

“You don’t know?” Balinor demands. “He never told you?”

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, turning towards him.

Merlin slows, looking at Arthur. “Don’t ask me,” he says, bewildered. “I actually don’t know. Nimueh was in Camelot?”

“You’ve gone to the High Priestess so many times, and she never told you the story?” Balinor says, and runs a hand through his grey beard. “I thought you knew, for the old gods’ sakes. Emrys, have you ever paid attention to a word Nimueh has said to you? Have you ever asked her for her perspective on our history?”

“Not really,” Merlin says, although he’s now starting to wish he had. “I don’t like the Priestesses. You know that.”

“You spend too much time with Iseldir,” Balinor mutters, and shakes his head. “Nimueh was a friend of Ygraine, Uther’s wife and your mother, Arthur. When it became clear she was barren, they turned to magic. But you know the old gods, Merlin; they never give anything for free. A life—”

“For a life,” Merlin finishes, his eyes wide, and looks at Arthur. “Is that why Nimueh hates Uther so much? Is that why the Purge started? I didn’t know—I thought—”

“It’s not general knowledge, but I assumed she’d told you,” Balinor says, and looks at Arthur. “And I assumed your father told you. Although I suppose he never came to terms with it. Nimueh fled to Dracaneard in the aftermath of all that followed. Uther razed Albion to the ground in his war against sorcerers, all because he didn’t like the price he had to pay for a son. For you.”

Arthur stares at them. “That can’t be true. Surely my father wouldn’t have turned to a sorceress—”

“He did,” Balinor confirms. “And I never wanted to prove Albion right in their fear of sorcery, King Arthur. That is why I never waged war. Uther may have killed innocents in his rage, but the safety of my people is paramount. We stayed away, and provided protection for anyone who sought it. It is what we always have done, and it is what we will continue to do until the day Albion is ready to accept magic.”

“Are you okay?” Merlin murmurs to Arthur, slowing to walk next to him. Arthur is pale, and looking down at the path. All his earlier bluster has disappeared, but he doesn’t seem overly upset, given what he’s just learnt. 

Three years ago, Arthur would’ve held his sword against Balinor’s throat. Today, Arthur is a king, and he knows more about magic than Uther ever wanted him to. Merlin slowly slides his hand in Arthur’s, and Arthur gives him a curt nod, but does loosen his hold to walk in front. Merlin lets him go, willing to accept he’ll need to come to terms with this by himself first.

“I really thought he would know,” Balinor says, his voice kinder than Merlin thought it would be, as he joins Merlin’s pace. “But perhaps I was foolish to expect Uther to have any perspective. He’s always blamed magic for his wife’s death.”

“It is to blame,” Merlin says. “He didn’t know what he was asking for, but it did kill her.”

“The High Priestesses were supposed to talk about this with you,” Balinor tells him, and his eyes harden. “I don’t know why they never did. Are you sure Nimueh never mentioned it to you? Or Morgause, perhaps?”

“I don’t think they like me much, either,” Merlin offers. 

Balinor snorts. “Nor does Kilgharrah, at this point,” he says. “He kept asking me to make sure you’ll be aware of any witches, and a druidic child. If the Great Dragon thinks you’re being foolish, Emrys, perhaps it’s time to reconsider the steps you’re taking.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Merlin says, and after a heartbeat, he adds, “Arthur asked me to come back to Camelot. To make peace.”

Balinor’s eyes are heavy on him. “And you want to go?”

“I think it’s what I should do,” Merlin says. “He’s willing to learn—it’s clear, isn’t it, that he wants to be better? He doesn’t know if it can be done, but we’re supposed to bring back magic together. I can’t do that if I’m in Dracaneard.”

“We’ll talk about it after Beltane,” Balinor says, and rests a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Let’s first make sure the dragon egg is safely in our hands, and then we’ll talk about your future with your king.”

It’s not a refusal. Merlin’s heart beats very fast, and his eyes fall on Arthur, still walking in front. It doesn’t matter if none of his people believe in Arthur, because Merlin knows him—knows he will get past this, knows he will learn from it. Together, they can rebuild Albion.

But for now, they have a dragon egg to save.

Chapter Text

Merlin can’t sleep with how badly the magic is pulling at him, when night sets, so they decide to keep going. They’re only hours away from catching up with Julius Borden, and Arthur has let go of the topic of his mother’s death to pull Merlin back in the here and now whenever the spell makes it harder to realise where he is. Balinor has pulled up a light orb to find their way, and that also makes it harder to concentrate.

If either Arthur or Balinor are tired, they don’t show it. Merlin is, mostly because his senses are all screaming at him.

“We’re close,” he says, and shudders. 

“Let the spell go,” Balinor tells him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “We can find it from here. It can’t be too far—the Temple must be nearby. We need—”

Whatever they need, Merlin doesn’t find it out; both Arthur and Balinor are fixed on him, and Merlin can’t really focus on anything but the spell he’s frantically trying to control. It’s why the man who comes charging at them comes entirely out of the dark, and it’s only the sound of the clash of his sword against Arthur’s that saves their lives, as it is.

Arthur is fast, and responds more out of instinct than anything else. Merlin falls back as Balinor drags him by his tunic away from the sudden swordsman, raising Caliburn with his free hand. In a second, he lets the tracking spell fall away and it helps clear his mind. Balinor has his sword stretched out even as Merlin gets his bearings on the ground, and he commands, “Belūc.”  

Their attacker stops mid-parry, and Arthur takes a careful step back, his sword still pointed at the stranger.

Or not so much a stranger, really.

“Gwaine?” Merlin manages to get out, and scrambles up to his feet. Even in the relative dark, he recognises Gwaine’s scruffy beard and the set of his jaw. 

“Merlin?” Gwaine says, and grins at him. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“You know him?” Arthur demands, pointing at Gwaine with his sword. 

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks, and pushes Arthur’s sword down at the same time he undoes his father’s spell. Gwaine stumbles to the ground, but then he crushes Merlin into a hug. Merlin can sense Arthur stiffening, but at least he isn’t raising his sword back up.

“Look at you!” Gwaine says, grabbing Merlin by his shoulders and inspecting him. “You finally did find a knight to protect you, didn’t you? Just a shame it wasn’t me.”

“Emrys,” Balinor says, his eyebrows raised, and sheaths Caliburn again. “Would you care to introduce us?”

“Sorry,” Merlin says sheepishly, and tugs himself free of Gwaine’s grip. “This is Gwaine. I met him—well, a couple of years ago, when I went to the Crystal Cave.”

“Saved him from a couple of bandits, is what he means,” Gwaine says, grinning down at Merlin. It’s as if he’s already forgotten he attacked them in the first place. Then again, Gwaine very much seems like the sort of man who can flirt one minute and fight for his life the next.

“I wouldn’t call it saved,” Merlin says, wincing. “More like—helped out. Gwaine, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, my friend,” Gwaine says, and lowers his voice. “I happen to be here to make some easy money. A man has hired my sword for a few days to make sure no one bugs him as he goes out to check some Temple.”

“Great, he’s a mercenary,” Arthur says, throwing up his free hand. “You’ve a wonderful taste in friends, Merlin, truly.”

“A better taste than he has now, clearly,” Gwaine says cheerfully, but Arthur glowers at him darkly. Merlin sighs, and turns back to Gwaine.

“Can you take us to him?” he asks. “Borden is trying to find something—dangerous. Something he really has no claim to. We’ve been following him for some time, but what he means to find in that Temple—we can’t let him, Gwaine. Please, trust me.”

“I would love to, truly,” Gwaine says, “But I did make a deal with the man, Merlin. And it’s a lot of money.”

“We offer more,” Arthur says. “I doubt Borden offered more than two kings can. You’ll lead us there, and you don’t have to do anything else. We can deal with Borden ourselves.”

Gwaine stares between them. “Two kings, you say?” he says eventually. 

“I am King Arthur of Camelot,” Arthur tells him, and gestures to Balinor and Merlin, “and this is King Balinor with his son, Prince Emrys, of Dracaneard. Is there any sort of problem you have with that?”

“Prince Emrys,” Gwaine repeats thoughtfully, and taps his sword twice. “Can’t say I don’t understand the secrecy, really, but truly, Merlin, I’d hoped we were better friends than that.”

“Sorry,” Merlin says, and shrugs. At this point, trying to keep the secret is useless, and at least Gwaine doesn’t seem that upset. 

“Well!” Gwaine sheaths his sword, and smiles brightly. “Turns out it’s your lucky day, my fellows. Let’s go find my former employer!”

“The Temple of Ashkanar is close,” Balinor says. “But this is our fight, in the end. We’ll deal with Borden ourselves, and hand him over to Camelot after we find the egg. That is agreed upon.”

He aims that last bit mostly at Arthur, who simply nods. Merlin leans into him for a moment, exhausted by his tracking spell and the day of walking. He thinks about using an energy spell for a moment, but it didn’t pan out for him so well last time, when he’d more or less fainted into Arthur’s arms. Maybe later, if it’s necessary. 

“Temple’s just over there,” Gwaine says, and nods his head a bit further into the woods. “He spent a couple of hours trying to find an entrance, and he went in—oh, an hour or so ago. Hasn’t made it out yet. I can take you there.”

“Thanks, Gwaine,” Merlin tells him.

“Wait a second,” Arthur says, and raises his sword again—just halfway, just enough to pose a potential threat. Gwaine just smiles beatifically and doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Why are you helping out? Mercenaries don’t care about royalty, and if someone figured out you betrayed your employer, it won’t be good for business.”

“Princess,” Gwaine says, and puts his hand on Arthur’s sword just to push it down. “Just because he’s giving me money doesn’t mean I think he’s a good man. And just because you’re noble doesn’t mean you’re much better than him, is usually the way of things. Besides, he hasn’t paid yet! I’m just doing this because I trust Merlin.”

Merlin can’t help but grin back at Gwaine’s winning smile. Arthur lets his sword fall, and Gwaine winks at him and disappears into the bushes. “You trust this man?” Arthur asks, whirling back to Merlin. 

“I’m thinking about knighting him, honestly,” Merlin says, and laughs as he follows Gwaine deeper into the forest.

~*~

The night is pitch black when Gwaine shows them to the entrance, and it’s only Balinor’s hovering blue light ball that allows them to see at all. The entrance is askew, and Merlin tries to peer into the darkness of the Tomb. The magic surges here, and it bolsters his energy a bit.

“Can you stand guard, Gwaine?” Merlin asks, finally, turning back. “Father, Arthur and I will go in, and the three of us will deal with Borden and the egg.”

“He should’ve come back out by now, shouldn’t he?” Arthur asks. His face is sharp in the blue light, and the furrowing of his brows makes him look older than he is. He’s nearly pressed against Merlin in the entrance, but he is distracted. Merlin’s heart beats very fast at the sight of him.

“The Tomb is large,” Balinor says, “and Ashkanar was a clever man. I expect he’s put some safety measures in place to avoid the egg from being stolen.”

“And now we’re walking into it,” Arthur mutters, and runs a hand over his face. “Great.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Gwaine asks, deceptively lightly. “Merlin?”

Arthur glares at him for that. Merlin smiles thinly, and says, “No, thanks, Gwaine. We’ll need someone here to make sure he doesn’t get out. If we aren’t back tomorrow, go back to Dracaneard and find the queen. She’ll listen to you.”

Because we might be dead, is what Merlin doesn’t say. He doesn’t think it’ll be that dire, but Ashkanar wasn’t a fool, and he thinks Borden won’t be, either. Gwaine inhales, but nods at Merlin’s words. And Merlin trusts him.

“Let’s go,” Balinor says brusquely, and guides them in.

The Tomb’s hallways are small, and it’s cold and dry. The only sound Merlin hears is their own ragged breathing, and Arthur takes hold of Merlin’s hand in the darkness. He squeezes, and Arthur squeezes back, and they don’t let go of each other.

There’s not much in the way of pathfinding. It’s one straight hall, and Merlin keeps his senses alert for any sort of trap. He finds very little, but then again, the amount of magic in this place is a little overwhelming, and he only hopes he would sense something before they’d accidentally rig it.

Balinor’s blue light keeps flickering, slowly growing smaller and less vibrant. Merlin would think it’s his imagination but for the way Balinor keeps quietly cursing at it, and reviving the spell. Merlin would offer to take over, but the magic here is so overpowering that he feels his spells might not be as efficient as they’d normally be. It’s an odd sensation, to feel so overpowered in the light of this ancient magic. It’s not anything he’s ever felt before.

A door is opened already at the end of the hallway. Balinor raises his hand to stop them, and turns back. “He’s already in,” he whispers. “I don’t sense him. Do you?”

“No,” Merlin admits, and stretches out the tendrils of magic. He feels nauseous at once. “I think it’s warded against magic users, though. I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Please don’t,” Arthur says, and kneels by the door. He lightly runs his fingers over the sawdust, and peers up. His eyes reflect Balinor’s blue light. “The dust isn’t disturbed. He’s left very few marks. I’m not sure this is the way he came.”

“The Tomb’s magic,” Balinor tells him. “It could be a spell.”

“Or the door moves,” Merlin supplies. There’s mazes like that he knows of, where the walls move and the doors shift. He’s never encountered one himself, but he’s heard stories from the druids, and he doesn’t doubt Ashkanar would’ve had such magic.

Arthur’s eyes are dark. “Or,” he says lightly, “it’s a trap. Merlin, is there anything you can do to try and spring it? Just to be sure?”

“Mann bodiġes,” Merlin commands, his fingers outstretched. The phantom of a body falls through the door, its weight real although it’s only a trick of reality. As it passes through the door, three arrows strike it in the neck. The arrows clatter on the ground as Merlin’s spell ceases to exist, and Arthur raises his eyebrows at Balinor.

“There might be many doors,” Arthur says, “or Borden tricked it. We should be careful if you can’t sense it. Let me go first.”

“I’ll go first,” Merlin says, and pushes himself past Arthur. “I can protect myself better.”

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur says, and grabs his shoulders. “I didn’t know you’ve also been trained as a warrior from birth, and therefore have superior reflexes and a higher agility. Because it seems to me like you might really not be fast enough to duck out of the way!”

“Prat,” Merlin bites out. “I’m magic, and I can stop any arrow from hitting my body before you even have time to see they’re coming!”

“I’m the king, and you’re a prince, so you’ll listen to me,” Arthur says, and sneaks past the door before Merlin can comment. He turns back to Balinor, but his father only shrugs. Merlin’s sure he wouldn’t have let Arthur’s comment slide in any other circumstance, but it seems Balinor is more than willing to let Arthur walk into danger headfirst.

Merlin glowers at him, but then dutifully trods behind Arthur. Balinor makes up the last of their group, and Merlin focuses on their quiet breathing as they walk deeper and deeper into the Tomb.

It takes them a while—Merlin thinks they’ve been wandering in the Tomb for over an hour already, but it might just as well be three already—until they find another door. Arthur makes them go slowly, carefully checking the walls and floor. Merlin keeps on sending spells throughout the hallway, and they uncover two more traps that they carefully pass.

This door is different, though. It’s locked, and when Arthur knocks on it, he concludes it’s made of stone. It’s hard to see in the muted light, but there are decorations around the door and the walls. 

“It’s the Tomb,” Merlin murmurs, and runs his fingers over some druidic letters on the door. “I don’t think it’s locked—it’s just heavy. Arthur?”

“I don’t see anything odd,” Arthur tells him. “No traps, I think.”

“You trap the building, not the tomb itself,” Balinor says, and splays his hand over the stone. He commands, “Begíne,” and the door slowly opens, the stone groaning as it scratches the floor. The spell responds more slowly than usual, and Merlin narrows his eyes at the twisted sense of the magic, but then he’s distracted by the sight.

They see the wide hall of Ashkanar’s tomb for only a second, before a greenish smoke comes at them. It hits Arthur first, and he folds into himself as he coughs, a hand over his mouth. Merlin covers his mouth with his neckerchief, and throws up his hand. Wordlessly, the smoke is dispelled, even though his eyes still prickle with the sensation. 

It’s only the tears that make him respond too late. Borden’s sword glints in the blue orb, and Arthur throws himself up, the steel of his blade first. They collide, and Merlin steps back in confusion. The clashing sound is unexpected and Arthur falls back on the ground, still coughing loudly.

“Stop!” Merlin yells, but Borden pays him no heed. 

“The egg’s mine!” Borden says, making ready to plunge his sword into Arthur, but Balinor is faster than Merlin. He reaches up his hands, and Borden chokes as he’s lifted in the air. Balinor’s eyes glint a dark golden, and Merlin exhales deeply, falling to his knees to make sure Arthur is alright.

“That egg belongs to the Dragonlords,” Balinor says, dangerously low. “And I see you haven’t taken it yet.”

“It’s trapped,” Borden manages, just barely. His hands are on his own neck, and he uselessly kicks in the air. “But you will take it for me, and hand it over.”

“Why would we do that?” Balinor demands. 

The shine in Borden’s eye is dangerous. It’s telling, and it’s dreadful, and Merlin later wishes he’d seen it earlier. Right now, the only sign he has of Borden’s plans is the sound of Balinor’s gasp, as Borden kicks at Balinor. Balinor drops him, surprised at the sudden hit. A glint in the dark is all Merlin can see before Borden’s knife cuts into Balinor’s neck—shallow enough not to kill him at once, but deep enough for the blood to start slowly pouring.

“No!” Merlin shouts, jumping to his feet, but Balinor’s spell is fully broken and Borden grabs hold of him, his bloodied knife now against Balinor’s throat. Balinor’s eyes flutter closed, and he gasps uselessly. Arthur, still coughing, gets up on one knee, grabbing his sword and lifting it.

“Spare me your magic,” Borden snarls. “It’s the Tomb of Ashkanar. Didn’t you think he’d prepared something against sorcerers? Your magic isn’t nearly as potent here as you’d like it to be.”

And maybe that’s the sensation, then, Merlin thinks weakly. The way Balinor’s light kept fading, and the nauseous feeling that overcame Merlin when he’d stepped foot in here. The reason Borden managed to break Balinor’s chokehold. It’s not overpowering magic—it’s a spell meant to depower them.

“Let go of him, Borden,” Arthur says, his voice rough. He has one hand up in the air, but he’s still pointing his sword at Borden, as if he can’t quite decide whether he wants to placate him or attack him. Merlin forces himself to be still, trying to decide how to get to his father in time to save him.

But the blood. By the dragons, the blood’s slowly streaming down his neck and chest, and Balinor’s gone pale and slack in Borden’s grip. 

“Give me the egg, and I’ll let him go,” Borden says, and gestures with his head to the podium. It’s where the egg sits, and Merlin only now sees it—glowing slightly, white and perfect. He can sense it, even despite Ashkanar’s spell. 

“It’s rigged?” Arthur asks, calmly. Merlin wants to shake him, wants to attack Borden, but he can’t think of any spell currently that wouldn’t hit Balinor at the same time, and his magic still feels repulsive. He’s in the centre of it, now, and his magic is like a blanket thrown over him, one he can’t quite manage to wrangle his way out of.

“I don’t care if you manage to get past it or if it kills you,” Borden says, and presses his knife deeper against Balinor’s throat. “But I don’t think your king has much more time, does he?”

“Father,” Merlin whispers, and turns his eyes towards the egg instead. He runs for it, heedless of any traps—he can hear Arthur’s desperate shout, but he can only think of his father’s pallid face, the fluttering of his eyelids; Merlin runs, and gets to the platform.

The only warning he has is the sound of a woosh. Then an arrow buries itself in his shoulder, and Merlin cries out in pain. He leans over the platform, falling to his knees. His mind is whirling, but the adrenaline is more powerful than the pain. He grits his teeth together, gets to his feet, and grabs the egg.

The Tomb starts rumbling.

Arthur makes use of the distraction. With one fluid motion, he hits Borden in the head with the pommel of his sword, and grabs Balinor; Caliburn clatters to the ground loudly. He gently lowers him to the ground, and Merlin runs back, dragon egg safely in arms and bleeding all over it.

“Father!” Merlin cries out, falling down next to him. “Father—please, I’ve got it, I can—Gehælan. Gehælan!” The healing spell doesn’t work, and Merlin can feel the sweat on his brow. His head aches at the spell, but it doesn’t matter how exhausted he is, or that his shoulder is pierced by an arrow—his father is lying on the ground, only barely breathing. His throat is dark red with blood.

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly. 

“No, I can do this,” Merlin says desperately. “I can do anything, that’s the point—I’m Emrys, I can heal him, magic is supposed to obey me—Gestepe hole! Þurhhæle! Come on, come on—please, Licsar ge staðol nu! Father, please!”

Balinor’s eyes flutter open, and he weakly grabs the hand Merlin has placed on his neck. “Merlin,” he says, the sound guttural and weak. It sounds nearly like the dragon language, and Merlin weeps, bleeding and crying as he leans over his father. Balinor’s hold weakens. “ Take care—dragon. Merlin.”

“Come on!” Merlin cries out, his vision blurry with tears.

“Merlin, we have to leave,” Arthur says urgently, and gets to his feet. The Tomb’s still rumbling, but Merlin doesn’t care—he can’t leave his father here. Balinor sighs, and goes very still. His hand falls out of Merlin’s grip, and his eyes are blankly fixed on the unconscious Borden, only a metre away.

“No!” Merlin cries out, and shakes his father’s body. “Come on! Father, wake up! Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ! It should work! Why doesn’t it work? Wake up, please. Please.”

Arthur’s risen up, and his sword glints in the blue light. The remainder of Balinor’s spell still floats, and Merlin takes it as hope—until he realises it’s his light, that it pulls at him. He must’ve unconsciously taken it over when his father—died.

Because he’s dead.

Arthur strides over to Borden, raising his sword. And it’s no more than he deserves, but Merlin wants to—it’s Merlin’s to have, not Arthur’s. “No!” he cries out, and stumbles to his feet. He’s clumsily holding onto the dragon egg with his one good arm, but he is a sorcerer. He doesn’t need a sword. “Arthur, don’t kill him!”

The sword comes down. Borden dies quietly, and Merlin falls to his knees again, next to Balinor’s body. He tries to tilt at it, but the pain of his arrow wound is overpowering, and Merlin sobs helplessly as his shoulder screams. 

“Merlin, we have to leave,” Arthur says, and pulls at Merlin to get him up. His sword is dark with blood, and he eyes Balinor for a moment. “The Tomb’s going to fall apart any moment now. We need to run!”

“No!” Merlin says, and with a strength he doesn’t know he possesses, he yanks himself free of Arthur’s grip to fall back down to his father. “I need to—I can save him, I can, please, just let me—I can’t leave him here, Arthur, I can’t—”

“Merlin, he’s dead,” Arthur says, and crouches next to him to grab hold of his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “I know you’re in pain, and I know you don’t want to believe it, but we need to leave. Or we’ll be dead too.”

He doesn’t wait for Merlin’s answer—pulls at him again, instead, and Merlin allows himself to be tugged along; the only thing he can do is grab Caliburn next to his father’s body before he stumbles up. He can’t help sobbing, and he only goes where Arthur leads. His shoulder screams at him, and he wants to wail and fight and return, because he can’t leave him there—but the Tomb starts crumbling behind him.

It’s Balinor’s tomb too, now. Buried with his killer and a king of old.

“I can’t,” he says, eventually, as Arthur pulls him further. His legs have gone weak, and the dragon egg and his father’s sword in his arms are as heavy as lead. 

“No, you can,” Arthur says, desperately, and hoists Merlin up as much as he can. “You can, Merlin, come on! You can’t give up on me now—not after all this, not now! Merlin, come on!”

“Let me go,” Merlin cries out, because he can die here and it won’t matter, but Arthur should live. He’s only dead weight, and he didn’t save his father, and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to let the Tomb fall over him and encompass him too, and then he won’t have to think about any of this, won’t have to feel this—

“Got you, Princess,” Gwaine says, strained, and pulls at Merlin. Merlin was already half raised in the air by Arthur, but now Gwaine takes him over. Arthur runs ahead of them, and Gwaine follows. Merlin just weeps in his arms, and his shoulder jostles painfully whenever Gwaine makes an odd turn. 

They should’ve left him there. 

But they don’t, and Merlin doesn’t even really notice at first when they break free of the Tomb. It’s just as dark outside as it was in there, and it’s only when Gwaine carefully sets him down that Merlin realises he can feel the soft caress of the wind on his tear-stained cheeks.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and kneels next to him at once. His fingers ghost over Merlin’s shoulder wound, and then his other hand cups Merlin’s jaw. “Are you in pain?”

His tone is awkward, but he’s gentle, and his concerned expression makes Merlin cry all over again. He can’t stop the tears, it seems, and behind him sits the ruin of what once was the Tomb of Ashkanar. Gwaine is quiet, his eyes solemn.

“I need to find him,” Merlin says, eventually, his voice breaking at about every word. He tries to stumble up, but Arthur gently pushes him back down. “I need—please, Arthur, you don’t understand—I need to find him, I can’t just leave him under here—”

“Of course I understand,” Arthur says, and presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead. “Please. We need to take care of that injury, and make sure it doesn’t get infected. Merlin, you can’t go in now. You’re exhausted, and in pain, and you’re in mourning. I know.”

“I should’ve killed Borden,” Merlin sobs out, letting his head fall against Arthur’s shoulder. “It should’ve been me.”

Arthur gently embraces him, careful of his injury. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But I was glad to do it for you, and you were wounded. Here, give the egg and your father’s sword to Gwaine.”

Merlin does, mostly because he’s too numb to make his own decisions. Gwaine wordlessly takes them, and crouches down next to Merlin. “That’s not a pretty wound,” he says lightly. “We can remove the shaft, if it’s in the way, but we shouldn’t take it out until we find a physician. The blood loss combined with the shock might yet kill him.”

Arthur lays a hand on Merlin’s forehead. “He has to call the dragons, but I’m not sure he can,” he says to Gwaine. “He’s entirely out of it; I barely got him to come with me. We have some supplies in a bag somewhere—it should have some salves, and bandages. Can you dress a wound? I’ve done it, but I’m not—”

“Stay with him, I’ll make sure we’ve got everything,” Gwaine says, and disappears from view. 

Merlin lets out another tired sob. The exhaustion pulls at him. “He can’t be dead,” he says, and his eyes start watering again. “Arthur, he can’t be dead. He’s my father, and he’s—I couldn’t make it work. It’s all my fault, and he never should’ve been here. And my mother—by the gods, what am I going to tell my mother? And Freya? We can’t even—there’s not even a body to put on the funeral pyre. I can’t—please, Arthur. I can’t do this.”

Arthur holds him tightly. “You’ll be fine,” he murmurs quietly. “You’ll be fine, Merlin.”

Merlin falls asleep in his arms.

~*~

He’s not entirely sure what happens in the next day and a half. He drifts in and out of consciousness—one time to scream, because he’s pretty sure Arthur is trying to get the lodged arrow out of his shoulder, and Gwaine holds him down forcefully, and they’re lucky that Merlin’s so exhausted that he can’t even use a spell to blast them aside.

As it is, he doesn’t really remember that much of it. When he wakes up next, it’s to find the sun high in the sky, and his shoulder aching so badly that the pain has spread through his entire body. His headache pounds badly enough to be disorienting, and for a moment Merlin doesn’t remember.

Until he does, and he takes a sharp breath. 

Arthur’s by his side in a moment. “Careful,” he chastises Merlin, but he helps him sit up. Merlin leans against him, and immediately starts crying again. It causes Gwaine to show up, his arms full of wood, and he drops it to sit next to Merlin.

“Is he alright?” Gwaine demands.

“Shut up, won’t you?” Arthur says, without heat, and runs his hand through Merlin’s hair. “Merlin, how’s your shoulder?”

“Who cares,” Merlin says, because that’s such a stupid question, such an Arthur question, too, practical and kingly and wise. Merlin was there when Arthur learnt he lost his father—and Arthur had lost the last of his parents, and was in the middle of a war, with an army that leaned on him—and Arthur hadn’t been shaken to his core. Arthur had done what needed to be done, and only now Merlin realises how unwittingly unkind he’d been that day.

Not that Arthur had told him. It’s just now, when Merlin’s chest aches with the heavy loss, the grief for his father piercing his very soul, that he realises how much he expected Arthur to be a king, that day, instead of a son. How unfair it was, to call him king when he’d been reeling with the loss of someone so close to him. To remind him of duty when Merlin used to remind him of his heart, in the first place.

And can he really blame him for doing the same thing? Arthur’s expression is one of gentle concern, and his thumb uncovers the loose-hanging tunic from Merlin’s shoulder. It must be Arthur’s, Merlin realises; Arthur’s clothes, because Merlin’s were too bloodstained. They’d undressed him and taken care of his injury, and Arthur must’ve dressed him again while Merlin was unconscious.

“I care,” Arthur simply says, after a moment’s silence. “Gwaine, will you get some water for him?”

Gwaine looks at him, and Merlin nods in quiet acceptance. He leaves them alone, but Merlin can feel his eyes on them across their camp.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, and wanly stares in the direction the Tomb stood. Arthur has removed them far enough away that the ruins aren’t directly visible, but Merlin can feel the tug of magic that way, and knows what lies there. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done.”

“Don’t be,” Arthur murmurs quietly, and tugs up Merlin’s tunic again to cover his bandages. “You’re in pain, and you just lost your father. No one’s expecting you to be alright.”

“He’s not supposed to be dead,” Merlin says, and looks at the sky. He can hear birds chirping, and it’s a beautiful day for being out. It’s grossly against everything Merlin’s feeling, currently. It will be Beltane in—two days? Three? Merlin has lost count, but his heart seizes painfully at the thought.

There will be no feasts in Dracaneard this year. They will be grieving their king.

“He’s not,” Arthur says. “And I’m sorry. From what I knew from him—he was a good king, Merlin, and a good father. I could tell he loved you very much.”

Merlin feels tears streaming down his face again, and uses his good arm to scrub his face violently. The constant crying isn’t doing his headache any favours. “I don’t even know what to do,” he confesses. “I’ve got to—well, get back to Dracaneard. Obviously. I’ve to tell everyone—well. But I don’t… they’ll expect me to know. And I don’t. I’m a rubbish prince, and I’ll be a rubbish—” He stops.

“King?” Arthur asks.

“I can’t be king,” Merlin says, and peers up at Arthur pleadingly. “I didn’t agree with my father about half the things we did. I don’t pay attention in court, I can’t sit still through meetings, and I’ve blurted out a lot of mean things about a lot of our nobility when I was a kid and they’re holding it against me. I wasn’t made for this—I was literally born to fulfil a prophecy, not to reign a kingdom. That’s supposed to be you, and not—I’m not good at it. I don’t like doing it, I don’t want to do it, Dracaneard doesn’t even feel like home most of the days—”

Arthur’s finger brushes away a stray tear, and Merlin stops in his tracks.

“But you will,” Arthur says, “and do you know why?”

“Why?” Merlin asks quietly.

“Because you’re a good man. And you understand duty, especially when you realise it means putting your people’s good before your own.”

“You taught me that,” Merlin tells him. “I was—you wanted me to come home. To Camelot. And I can’t—I was going to. I’d already told my father, and he was—this wasn’t how it was meant to be. It’s not, it isn’t, I can’t believe that—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and looks pained. For a moment, he hesitates, but then he plunges forward, kissing Merlin so sweetly and gently that his toes curl for a moment. But not even Arthur can console the gaping darkness in Merlin’s heart, and it lasts only a second, anyway. 

“I’m such an idiot,” Merlin says quietly. “I thought I’d finally figured out how the prophecy was meant to go. I’d come with you, and together, we’d unite Albion, and you’d be High King. But this isn’t it, is it? I’ve to go back to Dracaneard. I can’t leave them. I’m such a moron for thinking I knew better than the gods.”

“I think you’re very wise, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, and presses another kiss to Merlin’s forehead. “Rest. We’ll redress your wound soon, and then I think you should call the dragons. We can figure out everything else later.”

Merlin can’t quite sleep anymore, but he watches Arthur and Gwaine fuss over the remaining supplies. He lets their voices wash over him, closing his eyes whenever they look into his direction, and lets the pain in his shoulder sting at him some more. He could try a spell, but he thinks he deserves the pain, for a bit.

Deserves a scar, too, just to remember this day by.

Chapter Text

It’s the next morning, the day before Beltane, when Merlin calls for the dragons. Arthur, at this point, fusses over Merlin and his shoulder, trying to get him to heal himself now that Merlin’s a bit more lucid. He ignores it though, even when Gwaine starts cajoling him too.

Kilgharrah and Naimroa don’t fit at all in the clearing, and they land less than gracefully. A few trees snap under their wings. Normally, Merlin would think it’s funny, but he can’t laugh at their entrances today. Normally, he’d also laugh at Gwaine’s stunned expression upon seeing the dragons, but even that doesn’t seem nearly as humorous.

“Dragonlord,” Naimroa says, and peers at him in concern. “What happened?”

Kilgharrah is quiet as Merlin tells them of Balinor’s death. He doesn’t include any details, unwilling to relive the moment too soundly. He does show them the egg, though, still glowing slightly in its shell. The dragon inside is healthy, thank the gods, but Merlin wishes they’d never come to get it.

That way, Balinor would still be alive.

“And now you are the King of Dracaneard,” Kilgharrah says, when Merlin finishes. Merlin blanches, and Arthur glowers at the dragon, running a hand over Merlin’s arm. “Where does that leave your destiny, young warlock?”

Naimroa bristles in Merlin’s defence. “Don’t assume you know more than the gods, Kilgharrah,” she says, and bows her head before Merlin. “I can carry you and your companions, Dragonlord.”

“Thank you, Naimroa,” Merlin says, “but I will be riding Kilgharrah. Gwaine and Arthur, you can take Naimroa—she won’t let you fall, and Arthur knows how it’s done. That is—Gwaine, sorry. Do you want to come?”

“I’m not leaving you,” Gwaine says resolutely, and pales as he looks back to the dragons, adding, “although this is not something I’m looking forward to.”

Naimroa smiles with all her teeth.

Merlin pats her warily, and eyes Arthur. “I’ve no right to ask it of you,” he says, “and I know you should go back to Camelot. But will you come? I can’t—I need you.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, and quietly adds, “Don’t be a moron, Merlin. Of course I’ll come.”

“Thank you,” Merlin tells them, almost wanting to cry again because at least he has them—at least he has two men to lean on, even if he doesn’t have his father anymore.

He climbs on top of Kilgharrah, and fastens Caliburn to his hip. He watches as Arthur and Gwaine struggle to get on top of Naimroa. But they manage, and then they fly back to Dracaneard. Merlin looks back only once, seeing the ruins easily from up in the air.

Mentally, he says, goodbye, Father. If he cries again during the journey, only Kilgharrah knows.

~*~

They land in the late afternoon. 

It’s always a bit of a spectacle in Dracaneard when the dragons land in the courtyard circle, especially when Kilgharrah is one of the dragons. A small gathering has assembled to watch their return, and Merlin spots his mother and Freya at the forefront of the crowd.

He breathes in deeply and pats the bag around his hip in which the dragon egg sits. Its presence is soothing, and Merlin wants to be mad about that. Part of him wants to destroy the entire thing, but he knows it’s just grief and helpless anger. It’s a dragon. He should love it, the way his father would have.

He doesn’t think he can do that. Not today.

When Kilgharrah reaches the ground, Merlin slides off. The crowd’s already murmuring—they must’ve seen that Balinor is not there, he realises hollowly. Must be wondering why Merlin is the one riding the Great Dragon, instead of their Dragonlord.

“Merlin?” Hunith asks, hurrying forward in alarm. She gently cups his face, her expression concerned. Freya appears behind her, quiet like a ghost, and frowning as much as Hunith is. “Where’s your father?”

The words are stuck in his throat. Merlin bites his lower lip, and throws his arms around her. There’s nothing he can say that won’t break her heart—no single way he can tell her that won’t destroy the happy world they’ve built in Dracaneard. He knows no steadier love than that between his father and his mother.

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur says hollowly, when he comes to stand next to them. “I wish I could have done more.”

“Merlin?” Hunith repeats, breaking from his embrace to stare him in the eyes. “What is he—what does that mean? Tell me, Merlin. Tell me where your father is—Balinor, where is he—”

“He’s dead, Mum,” Merlin croaks. “I couldn’t save him. I wasn’t in time, I couldn’t focus—it’s my fault. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Hunith says, stricken.

“You can’t mean that,” Freya says, rushing forward. She grabs Merlin’s hands, looking between him and Hunith. “He’s not—he can’t be. He was fine, he’s not dead. Merlin—”

“Borden killed him,” Merlin says. “I wasn’t—I should’ve saved him. But my magic didn’t work, and I couldn’t think—”

“We need a healer,” Arthur interjects, and gently takes Merlin’s good shoulder in his hand. “Merlin was pierced with an arrow, and we made do as best as we could—that’s us, his name is Gwaine—but Merlin hasn't healed himself, and we’re afraid of infection. If you come with us, I’ll tell you everything—in a more private setting, I think.”

It wouldn’t be Arthur if he didn’t take charge in a situation without a leader. Merlin’s glad for it right now, allowing Arthur to steer him inside the castle. The crowd’s dispersing, three of their court sorcerers—Aoife, Chossach and Dubhtach—gently steering everything away. They must’ve guessed, Merlin thinks, but he doesn’t have the time to console anyone but his own family.

Merlin mindlessly wanders to Alfric, as Arthur keeps a hold on his arm the entire time. It’s only when they get there that he finds the courage to look back at his mother. She throws closed the door, garnering a shocked look from Alfric, and sits opposite Merlin, taking his hands in her own.

“Talk,” she insists, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

And so Merlin tells them.

~*~

Things are arranged at a much faster pace than Merlin can keep up with.

Not that he is trying to keep up with it much. He is the one who informs their court sorcerers of what happened at the Tomb of Ashkanar, and unlike when he told his mother, there’s no Arthur or Gwaine to look for when he falters over his words.

So he stumbles through an explanation, tracking back when he realises he’s left gaps in his story and hackling his way through all the actions taken by all the participants in the tragedy that has left his father dead in a foreign kingdom.

He knows they’re eyeing him with a combination of distaste and sympathy. If anyone, they are the ones who know best the nuances of his relationship with Balinor, but they’re also the ones who have been training Merlin since he came up to their knees, especially the older court sorcerers, and Merlin can’t help but feel like he is letting them down by his inability to string two sentences together.

That he might be letting his father down, too.

At least it means that they’re leaving him alone. As they prepare for Beltane, with the heat already lingering in the air, they also prepare the funeral rites for Balinor. It is a bad omen, of course, to lose a king at the cusp of the summer feast, but the people of Dracaneard seem determined to make the best of it nonetheless and to say goodbye to their king.

Even if Merlin wasn’t even a good enough son to bring home his body.

“They’re waiting for you, you know,” Freya says, the second day after he’s come home—the day of Beltane. Her eyes are red-rimmed with grief, and her lips are pressed together. “To start the festivities.”

“Festivities,” Merlin repeats, evenly. “I’m sure they are.”

“Merlin,” she snaps. “You are their king now, even if you haven’t been crowned yet. I know you’re grieving, we all are—but you’re more than a son today. I know you can’t—I’m not—”

She catches on a sob, and Merlin feels himself falter. He takes her shoulders and tugs her into his arms, and she lets her chin fall onto his shoulder. Merlin takes a ragged breath of his own, and makes sure his eyes stay open. If he closes them, he’ll surely see the Tomb of Ashkanar.

“I know,” he murmurs into her ear. “Sorry, Freya.”

“By the dragons,” she says, and presses a kiss to his cheek even as she clings to him. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, Merlin, but please. Your mother needs you. I need you. And Dracaneard—”

“—has done without me before,” he says.

“Not when we didn’t have a king,” she tells him, and leans back. Her eyes are glinting with tears yet, and she runs a sleeve over her nose in a very unladylike manner. He is reminded of the girl he took in, years and years ago, before he had even known that Arthur was to be his destiny.

How twisted things have turned out, in comparison to the rosy-hued imaginations of the prophecy he’d had, once upon a time.

“I don’t know how to be this,” he admits quietly. “I wasn’t meant to be king.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have been born as a prince,” she tells him, and tugs at his collar. “They love you, Merlin. They’re your people. They want you to tell them it’s going to be alright, and that your father can rest in peace.”

Merlin swallows heavily. “Will you stand with me? I know it’s not really traditional, but—”

“I will,” she assures him. “If you want me to, Merlin, of course I will. What are sisters for?”

He isn’t really sure why that makes it hard to swallow, and his vision grows blurry with tears for another moment. He’s grown used to it, this half-vision, but he doesn’t have the chance to say anything to her as she tugs him up. She must have been waiting to get him moving, because Merlin knows full well that they should have started already.

He just hadn’t managed to get his feet moving.

“Wait,” he says, just before she opens the door, and grabs the dragon’s egg that has been sitting on the edge of his bed for two days. It hasn’t left his side yet, and even now he doesn’t think he can. Panic settles in his chest if he even thinks of leaving it, and he can’t rest until he has his hands on it again.

The egg is warm under his hands, as if to reassure him. Freya stares at it blankly, but she doesn’t comment as Merlin takes the egg and puts it in his bag. He swallows heavily at the white scales, the ancient magic whispering at him—she is ready to be born, he can sense it, and Merlin breathes heavily for a moment.

Then he follows Freya outside.

~*~

The chanting goes on deep into the night. Merlin has escaped to the Tower. He rarely ever uses it, but he’d had a lot of lessons here as a child. He’d even set it on fire, one time, and Balinor had seldom been as angry as he’d been then. Merlin can still hear him, as Hunith tries to console him—he wants to smile at the memory, but he feels more empty than anything.

The Tower isn’t heated, but the dragon’s egg emits enough heat for him to be comfortable. He sits against the wall and just listens to his people lament their king, and wishes he could join them. Wishes he could pour out his grief like that and feel comforted for it.

A knock on the door startles him.

“Sorry,” Arthur says, and grimaces at the sight of him. “Do you want me to leave?”

If Merlin had his way, Arthur would stay forever. His council has already made several suggestions about the impropriety of Arthur’s presence, but Merlin has shoved them all aside. They aren’t happy with him, and nor are the Priestesses; Merlin has ignored Morgause’s appeal to carry out one of their rituals as part of Balinor’s funeral rites.

He should be making it up to them. He can’t quite muster the energy to care.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, and when Arthur sits down next to him, he feels a bit warmer for it.

“When will the dragon be born?” Arthur asks, nodding towards the egg a little awkwardly.

“I don’t know,” Merlin tells him. “Kilgharrah told me a Dragonlord has the power to hatch her, but I didn’t have much time to get into the specifics. It’s a psychic power, you see. I’ve always had it, partly, but now I can just—I feel her, all the time, and the other dragons too. It feels as if I’m not alone in my head anymore. I’ve never been, really, not with the magic knocking me awake every few nights, but still. I think I’m supposed to hatch her.”

Arthur is quiet for a beat. “What are you waiting for?”

“My dad to come back and do it for me, ideally,” Merlin murmurs, and presses his forehead against the egg. “Why are you here?”

“Lancelot told me you would be here,” Arthur says honestly. “We all had a bit of a fight about who would come to get you down. They’re all very worried about you, you know. Gwaine and Will nearly got into a fistfight.”

Merlin snorts against his will and ignores the way Arthur bumps his shoulder against Merlin’s. “Lancelot’s a traitor.”

“He’s a friend,” Arthur says quietly. “You’ve got a great many of them, you do know. I’ve never been quite sure how you do it.”

“It evens out, with the number of enemies I have,” Merlin tells him, and leans back his head. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to do this. I just can’t—they’ll all be expecting things of me, and I’m not going to be able to do any of them. I just—I was going to come back with you. Back to Camelot.”

“You can still come,” Arthur tells him. “We don’t—perhaps it’ll be a few years before we can properly have peace, but that doesn’t mean there needs to be tension. You and I both want what is best for our kingdoms, Merlin.”

“Are you going to repeal the ban on magic?” Arthur’s expression morphs into a frown. It’s complicated, Merlin knows that, but he still can’t help the stab of betrayal that runs through him like a shock. He smiles bitterly. “See. It doesn’t really matter. We can’t be allies, not even if that’s what we both want. Not until we’ve sorted out the fact that most of my people would be thrown onto the pyre for setting a foot in Camelot. And I can’t be a mediator if I’m a king.”

“I haven’t thrown anyone on the pyre,” Arthur says.

“By the dragons, Arthur, you’re missing the point,” Merlin snaps. “We can’t. Don’t you think I’d drop this crown and come running if you wanted me to? I don’t care about destiny, and I don’t care about being a king, but I have to. If I had a choice—if I could just change the way things were, I’d have gone back to that moment three years ago and made sure Balinor never came to Camelot to get me. I’d have stayed with you.”

“Because you’d rather be my servant than a king?” Arthur asks, dubiously.

“I’d rather be anything but a king,” Merlin says. “I’m not you, Arthur. I love my kingdom, and I love my people, but I’m not—this isn’t something I’m good at. All I understand is that it would be unfair to anyone with magic if I did follow my heart and come with you, because as it turns out, I’m the one person who’s supposed to give them a haven to exist in. If it’d been anything else, I would’ve been gone.”

“I do understand, you know,” Arthur tells him. In the unlit Tower, all they have is moonlight to see each other by, and it paints Arthur silver rather than the gold that Merlin is used to. Especially now, when Arthur isn’t wearing any crown or anything more complicated than his mother’s ring to suggest his standing.

They don’t feel like kings, or even princes, as they were years ago. It feels less complicated than that, even despite their conversation.

“I know you would,” Merlin sighs. “You’re better at this than me. I suppose that’s sort of the whole point of you being the Once and Future King.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Arthur murmurs, and runs his finger past Merlin’s jaw. “You’re more capable than you think, Merlin. I’ve listened to you prattle on for years, so you can take my word for it. You just need to trust in yourself, and in that you are doing your best for your people. And then, one day, I’ll manage to wear out my advisors and find a way to do right by all my people. Even the ones I don’t understand.”

Merlin’s heart surges in his chest for a moment. “Are you really willing to think about lifting the ban? You’re afraid of magic.”

“But I’m not afraid of you,” Arthur says. “I’m not afraid of Morgana. I think there are ways—there must be ways that this can be done. You can’t expect too much of me, Merlin. Above all else, I’ve to keep my people safe. If returning magic won’t do it—”

“Magic isn’t evil.”

“I know,” Arthur tells him, and holds up a hand when Merlin wants to continue. “I’ll try, Merlin. You’ve given me more to think about than you know. But it’s not even about lifting the ban, necessarily—it’s about what the other kingdoms will do if we allow it back in, and how we will manage it. It’s not about my fear, it’s about Camelot’s. Even if I agree, it will take years. It will change things far beyond our own borders.”

“You will unite Albion, you do know,” Merlin says.

Arthur grimaces. “I barely believe I can cling to Camelot, some days,” he says. “Let’s not put too much faith in a destiny that has served both of us ill in the past, Merlin. One step at a time.”

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?” Merlin asks. He hasn’t spent much time with Arthur since their return from the Tomb. He hasn’t had the chance; even if he hasn’t had much to do in arranging Balinor’s funeral rites, he was still expected to listen to other people's plans. He can barely remember anything but vetoing the Priestesses’ rites.

“Leon will kill me with his bare hands if I’m not back in Camelot within the week,” Arthur confesses, and grabs Merlin’s hand. It’s cold, if only because Merlin has been warming his on the dragon egg between his thighs. “I don’t—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Merlin says. “It’s not your fault.”

Arthur exhales deeply. “Isn’t it?”

Merlin considers him carefully for a second. If Arthur hadn’t come, they wouldn’t have known about the dragon egg. Balinor wouldn’t have come with them. They all would still be in their own kingdoms, and they would all be alive.

He closes his eyes and rests his head against Arthur’s shoulder. There is a moment of hesitation from Arthur’s side, but then his calloused fingers are carding through Merlin’s hair. Merlin breathes in deeply, trying to settle himself. 

“This is the first time we’ve spent Beltane together, you know?” he asks weakly. Outside, if he focuses on it, he can still hear the chant for his father’s death, now intermingled with prayers for a strong winter time to come. It’s a vivid shock to him, because he is the one responsible for them now. “Like you were asking me for, years ago.”

“This isn’t how I wanted to share it with you,” Arthur murmurs, and presses a kiss to his hair. He keeps his head bowed over Merlin’s, as if they can tangle themselves up like this and stay. And Merlin has given his heart to him, and more besides, but the one thing that isn’t his to offer up is his kingdom.

Isn’t it a cruel twist of fate, that if they’d been anyone else, Merlin could have come with him?

“My king,” Merlin whispers, trying to blink away his tears, and doesn’t resist as Arthur kisses him.

~*~

She is waiting for him when he rises. He isn’t sure if she’d known when he’d be up, or if she had guessed, or if she’d used magic—in all fairness, he doesn’t care.

“Morgause,” he says evenly, the morning of his coronation. It’s so early that dawn hasn’t touched the edges of Dracaneard yet, and these hours of the day certainly aren’t among Merlin’s favourites, but if he wants to avoid people, it’s best done now. 

“Lord Emrys,” she returns. She sounds calm, but Merlin can feel the rage bubbling in her magic, the way she rigidly keeps herself under control. It annoys him more than it frightens him.

“Why don’t you join me,” Merlin says, faking his politeness as he turns on his heels and makes way for the gardens. Morgause walks by his elbow carefully, making sure not to fall behind. Such a sign of respect would be beneath her, no doubt, Merlin considers sourly. It really is too early in the morning for him to have to deal with the Priestesses.

Morgause doesn’t wait one more minute than she has to. As soon as they set foot outside the castle, several servants hurrying past them with large, anxious eyes turned towards them, she pounces on him. “You have not shown the Priestesses the respect they deserve during Beltane.”

“During my father’s funeral, you mean?” Merlin says bitterly. “I thought it would be more appropriate this way.”

“Even if you barely made any arrangement yourself,” she says, and smiles with all her teeth, the same way that Naimroa so often does. It takes him aback more than her power does, that similarity to the dragons.

“My father,” he says, slowly, “tolerated you. He did not agree with your view on the Old Religion; he did not accept the way you are so insistent on claiming your path is the only one that can be walked to please the gods. For your power and your standing, you’ve been an important part of Dracaneard, but don’t think that I was going to let you be any part of his death.”

Morgause considers him carefully. “Your father saved Nimueh when she was accused of killing Uther’s wife,” she says. “I don’t think you fully appreciate your father’s opinion on the High Priestesses, Emrys. He valued us more highly than you think.”

Merlin is tired, and it’s not just the sleepless nights and the grief. He is tired of this division of himself, and of his own kingdom. He is tired of the Priestesses pushing their views on him, and he is tired of Morgause playing games with him when she is his lowest priority.

“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t know everything my father thought. But even if he may have thought more highly of you, Morgause, then know that I don’t. The Priestesses are welcome in Dracaneard as they’ve always been, but don’t expect me to condone your hate. I want to unite the kingdoms, not tear them apart.”

“I see,” she says. Even the faked sincerity has disappeared from her face, and all Merlin can see when he looks at her is the bottom of cruel viciousness. “And support the king that you’re still hosting, undoubtedly? Is he more warmly received in Dracaneard than its own people?”

“If you touch Arthur,” Merlin says, “you’re dead.”

Morgause huffs. “I wasn’t going to touch Arthur Pendragon,” she tells him. “But your words are heeded, Emrys. You’ve chosen your allies and your enemies. For your sake, I hope you’ve chosen them wisely.”

“I’ve chosen them on their merits,” Merlin bites. 

The first rays of light touch the hills of Dracaneard, orange, warm and glowing with something that Merlin supposes should have felt like hope. Summer has reached its peak, and slowly the days will shorten again. For now, the air is crisp and warm in the morning, and Morgause’s eyes are cold, cold, cold.

“Long live the king,” she says contemptuously, and disappears.

~*~

Merlin makes a morning out of disappearing. He warps himself into a bird, and very few people are aware of this ability. A part of him wishes he could fly to Gaius and take his comfort in his Uncle’s awkward sort of affection, but he knows that his days of fleeing Dracaneard are now behind him.

This will be his stead. He has very little choice in the matter.

For the early hours of the day, he avoids people. First, he goes to his father’s old study, where he’d returned Caliburn to its proper place; he thinks it probably won’t be picked up again. Dragon-burnished swords are rare and very, very dangerous; Merlin doesn’t want to wear it, and he knows of no one else who has the right.

Then he watches Arthur from a distance, who mostly sticks with Lancelot and Gwaine. He hadn’t entirely realised how much Arthur must be feeling out of place in Dracaneard; certainly he hadn’t told Merlin about it, which in hindsight feels like the exact sort of thing Arthur wouldn’t tell him. Merlin had felt out of place in Camelot before, but never to this degree. He’s glad for Lancelot’s friendship now, and for his and Gwen’s kind hearts.

He also watches his mother as she quietly returns to the pyre they’d built for Balinor yesterday. It had burnt itself out through the night, and Merlin perches on a tree branch and watches as she folds her hands in front of it and prays. He doesn’t know his mother as a particularly religious woman, either for the Old or New Religion. Sometimes he thinks he takes more after her, in that regard, the way he sees magic as a separate entity.

He can imagine what she’s praying for now, though. He thinks of the ghost-raising the Priestesses do during Samhain and distantly wonders if Balinor will come back. Perhaps he has burnt his bridges with the Priestesses too badly for that.

He doesn’t know if he wants to. As much as he yearns at the thought of seeing his father one last time—for his last word not to be that haunted “Merlin,” that he still hears in the silence of the night—he isn’t sure if he can stand to know what Balinor thinks of what has happened. Ghosts are notoriously turbulent with their emotions and visions, and the father that he would see is not necessarily the father he’s always known.

It shouldn’t be his choice, though. So instead, he watches as Hunith falls to her knees, and wishes he was brave enough to join her, and to grieve with her. He’s barely spoken to her since he told her about Balinor’s death.

She hasn’t searched him out. He isn’t sure if that’s because she knows he couldn’t bear it or if she’s disappointed in him the same way that he is. Even as she cries, he can feel his own grief tearing at him. He can’t carry hers, and he feels like he’s letting her down as much as he did Balinor.

He flies towards his own open window and morphs back into a person. When he gets used to the sensation again, he grabs his clothes and the egg and sets his course towards the dragons.

~*~

“Here,” he says, and puts down the dragon egg with no little amount of force when he’s entered the cavern. “Is that worth it?”

They’re all here, even Kilgharrah, presumably to grieve for Balinor by themselves. He was their Dragonlord, after all, just as close to them as they are among each other. The same way Merlin is, but it is hard to feel that way just now, as he sees them grieving for his father, who had died to save their kin.

He loves the dragons, and he always has. But he finds something a bit colder in his own heart when he looks at the dragon egg, simply because he’s not so sure he can consider it worth it. Because he hadn’t told Arthur that he wasn’t to blame.

Maybe he’s just grasping onto things to blame other than himself. He isn’t entirely sure. 

“Warlock,” Kilgharrah says, taking the lead for them all. Naimroa shifts in the corner, and Merlin’s eyes flit to hers automatically even as Kilgharrah rumbles. “I did not think you would visit us mere hours before you would assume your crown.”

“Neither did I,” Merlin says. “But I’ve got to know, because there’s all this—grief, and loss, and the entire reason I’ve got to do this is because of this egg. So tell me. Is it worth it?”

“That is not for us to decide, Dragon King,” Naimroa says. 

“It’s a dragon,” Ekaitza says in disbelief. “Of course it’s worth it—they are our kin, and they are glorious, and there are so few of us left…”

“A Dragonlord died for her,” Merlin says, and being close to them all with his newly-awoken psychic link is nearly painful with the heightened emotions they’re all sensing. “My father died to save this dragon, and we don’t even know her, we have no idea what she’ll even do—”

“It is a Dragonlord’s duty to care for his dragons, young Merlin,” Kilgharrah says. Behind him, Rathuris shuffles awkwardly, and Ekaitza bares her teeth in protectiveness towards the egg. “It is your duty to hatch her, and to take care of her, and to teach her. We will be our family, but you are her lord. Whether she will be worth it is entirely up to you.”

Merlin stares at the egg and swallows hard. It seems so unassuming, but now that he’s among the other dragons, he can finally clearly feel how hard she has been tugging at him to hatch her. She wants to live—she is so full of it, so ready for the air on her scales and the fire in her throat, and she doesn’t realise that the man she depends on saw his father die for her.

For her, the youngest of dragons who has no understanding of death.

“What do I do?” he asks, and sinks to his knees. He presses his forehead to the egg, breathing in raggedly. He can smell the sulphur from the dragon burning in his nose, and the warmth radiating from the egg makes him sweat. The dragons are all fixated on him, and he can feel them in his soul.

“Call her, Dragonchild,” Naimroa says, more kindly than he has ever heard her. “She will come for you. She has a bond with you.”

He doesn’t even remember the words. They start as a whisper, but they burn itself through his throat like a dragon’s flame. They are not his—they are as old as the dragons themselves, carried through time like magic itself. He is sure his eyes burn gold as he calls her into life, and then ends with giving voice to her name for the very first time.

“Aithusa,” he says, hoarse. “Aithusa.”

The egg breaks. Merlin leans up, and watches carefully as her head appears. She is white, glowing like the moon, and he is the first thing she sees. Something oddly like love settles into his chest, even if he doesn’t know her, and she chirps at the sight of him. Their psychic bond snaps into place, familiar as if it’s always been there.

Aithusa. The dragon he called into life.

“She is a good omen,” Kilgharrah says, above him. “You named her after the light of the sun. An apt name for a dragon born the day after Beltane.”

“You’ll be worth it,” Merlin decides, and she settles onto his arm when he holds it out for her. It feels right, and the relief floods his chest when her claws dig into his skin and she rubs her face on his arm. “Aithusa. You’ll come with me, won’t you, when I’m crowned? Yes, you will.”

“She’s not a kitten, Dragon King,” Naimroa says. “She can’t be carried around everywhere you go. She is a dragon, and she must be tamed like one.”

“My father died for her,” Merlin says. “She will show my people that something good has come of his death. We have a new dragon. She’ll be there.”

He’s not sure Naimroa agrees, but none of the dragons speak up in the face of Merlin’s certainty. Aithusa chirps, and nearly falls over when she tries to flap her wings. A bit of eggshell still sticks to her scales, and Merlin carefully runs a finger over the small tips on her head and gets to his feet, the dragon still perched on his arm.

It’s time for his coronation.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE II

When Arthur was a child, his father told him many stories about Dracaneard. In his imagination, it had been a land filled with dragons and monstrous beasts, and sorcerers killing each other haphazardly and with no control. Their king, he’d believed, would be a horrible, manic, power-devouring man with no love for anyone.

He hadn’t believed that when he was older of course, with the hindsight of adult vision. If anything, Dracaneard must surely be more peaceful than he’d thought, because if a kingdom full of magical beings wanted to wage a war, Arthur is pretty sure that war would have been waged.

And then he’d met Merlin, and then he’d lost Merlin, and when Gaius had told him what that key that Borden had attempted to steal actually was, well—

Arthur would not have come to Dracaneard without a reason, obviously. If not for Merlin, he would not have come to Dracaneard at all. And now his visit has run too long, and Leon will commit regicide the moment Arthur sets foot in Camelot. 

How can he leave, though, when he knows the other side of this story so intimately?

He hasn’t spoken with Merlin today. He hadn’t been able to find him, and not even Lancelot had had the answers this time. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Merlin can go unseen in his own kingdom, but Arthur can’t help but feel the stab of worry when the Prince of Dracaneard finally appears in the throne room for his own coronation, later than everyone else. His face is drawn, and his eyes a stormy blue that Arthur recognises very well from when Merlin is in conflict. 

A tiny, white dragon sits on his shoulder, and Arthur can hear the whispers even from his secluded place, protected by Lancelot and his men. A baby dragon hasn’t been seen in centuries, he’s been told, but Merlin carries it inside as if he has not thought about it at all; as if it belongs there, peering curiously at the audience to Merlin’s coronation.

The dragon must have hatched today. Arthur feels himself staring at it like everyone else does, but allows his eyes to linger on Merlin as well. He can’t normally treat himself like this, when he is either watched by his own people or by Merlin himself—but today all eyes are trained on the new King of Dracaneard, and Arthur won’t be the first nor the last to stare.

Unsurprisingly, it’s a solemn affair, if an entirely different one from Arthur’s. He remembers his own coronation as if it was yesterday; he’d stared at the little merlin perched on Gaius’ shoulder for the entire duration of it, he thinks. It had flown away before he could talk to Merlin again, like they’d agreed, and there is an odd sort of symmetry to being here for Merlin’s coronation, only two and a half years later.

They have become king at the same age, Arthur realises suddenly. 

Merlin has more people with him beside the throne. Freya is on his left, and Hunith on his right, her dress a deep black in her mourning. She is just as pale as Merlin is, and she is the only one not looking at the dragon, Arthur thinks; instead, she just looks towards her son, who does not return her gaze as he stops before Balinor’s throne.

Merlin’s throne, now.

The eight court sorcerers—Arthur can’t remember their names; the only one he knows is Edwin—are assembled behind it. The eldest of them holds a crown, very similar to the one Merlin had worn only a week earlier when Arthur had first laid eyes on him. Merlin nods tersely at him.

Arthur knows how nervous Merlin gets. He knows Merlin, even if lies and secrecy had made it seem like he hadn’t for a long time. And what he is seeing makes him concerned—he’s been ignoring the gaping hole of anxiety since he’d torn Merlin away from his father’s body, crying and kicking and screaming. Merlin has crossed over to the side of apathy; he had refused to heal himself, and Arthur hasn’t yet see him break down over his father’s death since he came back home.

It’s not like Merlin. And he’s not even sure if Merlin notices how much he’s holding in. It isn’t Merlin’s first instinct to hide himself away if he doesn’t have to, and Arthur wishes that it was easier to know why.

Of course, he shouldn’t expect to be the first person to know why. He’s not even entirely sure if Merlin has forgiven him for his inadvertent role in Balinor’s death. And why should he—Arthur vividly recalls Merlin’s pleas when he’d come to tell Arthur of his father’s death, and his less-than-considerate reaction. Things have never been simple between them, and never could be.

“I’m worried for him,” Gwen murmurs, quiet enough not to be overheard, next to Arthur. She grabs his arm and peers up at him. “You talked to him, last night, didn’t you? I’ve barely spoken to him since he came back.”

“I don’t think he has spoken with anyone,” Arthur says. “Not truly.”

“Freya said he seemed barely there, right before Beltane,” Gwen says, her nose scrunched up. “It’s just—it’s not Merlin, is it? Please, Arthur. I know you’ve got to leave, but if he’d listen to anyone, it would be you.”

“Merlin doesn’t listen to anyone,” Arthur tells her, but squeezes her fingers nonetheless. “Not until he’s ready to listen. I can’t stay for long, Gwen. I won’t have time to talk to him, and God knows when I’ll even see him again.”

“But he loves you,” Gwen presses, and oh, doesn’t that twist the knife in Arthur’s heart that bit further? To hear it for the first time from lips that don’t belong to Merlin, when Merlin’s grief is etched into his face. 

Whatever fate Merlin believes in, whatever path he thinks is carved—it’s a cruel twist of destiny, and Arthur won’t be part of it. To tie them together only to have Merlin in half-dreams, forever out of reach, and to leave the space by Arthur’s side empty for anyone who might even come along. No one is like Merlin, the only manservant he has ever been able to keep. 

“I promise,” Merlin says, the answer to a question Arthur didn’t even listen to, and it rings in the throne hall. His face is entirely blank, and he doesn’t stare at Arthur for this. His gaze is fixed somewhere blind, and the white dragon chirps. Merlin holds it tightly as the silver crown is lowered on his head, and it is unfair how much he takes Arthur’s breath away, even when he doesn’t mean to.

“I have crowned you, Merlin, son of Balinor,” the druid says solemnly, “those we call Emrys—King of Dracaneard, for now until your death.”

Merlin rises. Arthur remembers this moment, too, and the trickling joy and relief despite the averted war and the death of his father at becoming king. To him, it is both a burden and something he could never give up. Camelot is his land and his love, and it has his loyalty and his oath—she is his first child and he is hers, and he will wear her crown as long as he breathes.

He doesn’t see that same relief in Merlin’s face. He doesn’t see much of anything, except when he cradles the tiny dragon, a naked sort of desperation and faith, similar to when he’d spoken to Arthur about their joined destiny.

Arthur isn’t quite sure what Merlin believes in, but he knows that it isn’t in himself.

When the applause thunders, and the dragons roar outside, Merlin finally meets Arthur’s eyes and smiles—quietly, grimly, as if he knows that things won’t be alright, even if they pretend they will be.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE III

“You’ve done so well, sister,” a gentle voice comes, and Morgana finds herself shaking; Merlin’s face is pale and he reaches out his long fingers to her, and the absolute betrayal on his face has her turning her head away.

She knows why she does this; she knows why she must—“I did it for you, sister,” she answers, and takes Morgause’s fingers; Morgause’s eyes are kind and deep, and she smiles, and says—

“Come find me, Morgana, come—”

Gaius’ face is lined with worry when Morgana finds her way back to her own chambers. Her visions have always felt real, but she had hoped that once she learnt to control them better, she would not be so caught up in them.

Her heart beats loudly in her chest, despite the fact this is the third time she’s had the same vision.

“Well,” Gaius says slowly. “It must mean something important, if it keeps coming back. But there is really no way to say without consulting a more experienced sorcerer, Lady Morgana. If you think Morgause has something planned…”

Morgana doesn’t know Morgause very well. She’d felt the Priestess’ eyes on her at times, and they’d prickled her skin. It’s why she had sought out Nimueh instead of her, when she was in Dracanaerd, even before Merlin had inadvertently caused her to join Iseldir’s clan instead. But the Priestesses are strong, undoubtedly, and she hunches in on herself.

“I don’t know,” she says unhappily. “I’ve rarely had visions more than once, Gaius. Can’t you really make any sense of it?”

Gaius hums. “Ganna is the court sorceress in Dracaneard most experienced with visions,” he says. “It’s hardly my domain, but I’m sure Merlin would not begrudge you a visit to speak with her, if you’re concerned.”

“I think Merlin has other things to worry about,” she says bitterly, and they both fall silent. Arthur’s letter hadn’t been very clear, his own concern for Merlin obvious in every word, but Morgana knows the pertinent details. King Balinor is dead, and the throne now falls to Prince Emrys, his one son and heir. 

She thinks back to Uther’s death, and the grief she’d begrudged herself for so long. She wonders if Merlin, who never seemed to know how to feel about his father at the best of times, is feeling about it all. It can’t be good.

“Perhaps when a few months have passed, if the visions keep coming,” Gaius says reasonably. 

“Perhaps you can go,” Morgana says, and grabs Gaius’ hands. “You’re his uncle, and you’re Queen Hunith’s brother, aren’t you? Surely they’ll welcome your presence now that they’re grieving, and you’ll know far better what to ask than I do. I can’t impose on them, and besides, Gaius, I still have to be here for Arthur.”

Gaius presses his lips together, casting down his eyes. “I doubt Merlin has ever thought about it, Morgana,” he says, and gently taps against her knuckles, “but I’ve not set foot in Dracaneard since Merlin was newly born, and it was for a very clear reason. Balinor used to respect me well enough, but he would not have me there, seeing how I remained in Camelot during the Purge. He’s never seen these things the same way I do, and although I’ve always remained very fond of Hunith… well, we’ve never been truly close.”

“I’m sure she’d be glad to see you,” Morgana murmurs, and thinks of Arthur, inevitably. 

“She was but a toddler when I left home,” Gaius says. “But perhaps there’s some sense in your words. I’d like to see Dracaneard again, one day. And I’ve missed Merlin.” There’s something melancholic laced in his words, and Morgana wonders what would keep an old physician in Camelot when his sister sits on a throne in Dracaneard. 

None of them had thought of it in the past, and she presses a quick kiss to Gaius’ cheek. Before she can say anything, though, there’s a rapid knock on the door before it creaks open.

“Morgana?” Arthur says carefully, and steps in. He’s still dirty from his journey—he must’ve come in without cleaning up beforehand and his bright red cloak sweeps in dust. “Hello, Gaius. I’m sorry, I just thought I’d come—”

“Welcome back, Sire,” Gaius says.

Morgana stands up from her bed and embraces him. He even smells of dust and sweat, and tentatively pats her on the back, as if he’s still not used to Morgana’s sisterly affection. Perhaps he’s not; she knows how hard Uther has always been on him, and those are wounds that last long. She’d know, if anyone.

“Hello, brother,” she says, and grabs his shoulders to look him in the eye. He’s rubbish at hiding anything from her. “How is Merlin?”

His expression clouds over at once. “Crowned King of Dracaneard,” he says darkly. Uther would’ve sounded the same, but for entirely different reasons. “With a new dragon by his side. I rather think he’d have preferred it if I never came to get him. At least I wouldn’t have gotten his father killed.”

“My lord,” Gaius says. “Surely Merlin does not think of it like that.”

Arthur wrestles himself free from Morgana’s grip and stands by the window. There’s nothing to see outside in the dark, but Morgana gracefully decides to let him. He’s had a hard week, and his jaw is set when he peers into the oily midnight.

“He didn’t say it, but he knows as well as I did,” he says. “And he’s not doing well. I wouldn’t have left him, if we hadn’t—well. And it wasn’t… he was so lovely, before. He was going to come back with me, and…” He swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. I was a fool to think the court would’ve accepted any stride I make towards accepting magic as it is.”

“Yes, because you’ve been trying so hard,” Morgana says sardonically. If Arthur wants to legalise magic for Merlin’s sake, that’s alright, surely, except she can’t help the bitter taste in her mouth at the thought he hasn’t brought it up for her sake. “Do you ever consider that perhaps you can be the first step towards convincing people, and not Merlin?”

Arthur half-turns to her, his face sharp in the candle light. “I hardly know enough about it,” he says, almost off-handedly. “I only know that my father used—well. That’s not important. Please, Morgana. I didn’t come to discuss this again, I just—wanted to tell you I’ve come home, and to check up on you. How are your headaches?”

“Only worse, for your presence,” she snaps at him. She doesn’t want to be mad at him, but he makes it so easy, and she’s never been able to still that fire in herself. He is her brother, and he’s so like Uther and so unlike him at the same time that Morgana is left reeling with her own complicated feelings every time she looks at him.

It’s worse when they talk about magic. She’s just as locked here as she always has been, except Arthur knows about her magic and Merlin is gone, and she doesn’t even have Gwen anymore to keep her company. Arthur is all she has, and he still doesn’t understand.

Arthur takes a breath and runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Good night, Morgana. Gaius.”

Gaius nods at Arthur, a sign of respect, but Morgana just crosses his arm when Arthur leaves. The candles flicker when the door falls shut behind him, and she blinks for a second, just keeping her eyes pressed close for long enough that the voice comes—

“Come to me, Morgana, come find me, and I’ll explain everything—”

And really, the only thing Morgana truly wants to know is why Morgause calls her sister. The vision disturbs her, the way Merlin’s pale face swims before her eyelids. The darkness she feels pull at her, despite herself, and she should stay away from the Priestesses. She knows it logically; she knows their hatred and their darkness, because she is more familiar with it than she thinks Merlin ever guessed, and it’s as if she feels compelled to put her fingers in the flame and be burnt.

“It’s late, Morgana,” Gaius says kindly, and stands up. “These aren’t thoughts we should linger on in the night. If you keep having these visions, perhaps we can write to Ganna and ask her for advice. But visions are only visions, and they can’t come true unless we act on them.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Morgana says pleasantly, and lets him out of her room. When she falls back on her bed, she banishes the flames with a simple spell, and sees Morgause’s face in her dreams all night.

Except they aren’t dreams, and Morgana is stuck between a rock and a hard place—Arthur and Morgause. The hatred against magic, and the hatred inside magic.

And then she hears another voice entirely.

Morgana, Mordred says, and his light eyes flash before her vision; he stretches out a hand and smiles, a face now more adult than when she had known him, two and a half years ago. Morgana. I can explain.

Chapter Text

PART VIII

Merlin has set fire to the Tower before, but he’s never done it with a dragon. Perhaps it would be fitting, though, he thinks to himself, even perched precariously on the roof as he is. He can turn into a bird and fly even if he falls off, no matter how nervous it makes Hunith to find him up here.

They’re all too worried, Merlin maintains. Even Aithusa has set large eyes on him, chirping at him in clear distaste for the height, and she’s a dragon. She can’t fly yet, of course, but it’s not as if Merlin would let her fall. Still, her anxiety chips at him, and he presses a hand to his forehead as if to try and stop the oncoming headache. The psychic link he has with Aithusa is far stronger than it is with the other dragons—part of having been the one to hatch her, Kilgharrah informed him coolly, when he’d asked. Presumably, it’s one of those Dragonlord things that Balinor should’ve taught him.

“One of these days, you will be able to fly,” he says to her, and holds up the arm she’s perched on. “And it’ll feel odd that you didn’t do it now.”

She chirps at him again. Merlin sighs and leans back, careful not to jostle her too much. She puffs a cloud of greyish smoke at him. In the midst of winter, the warmth of it is more than welcome, especially since Merlin didn’t care to dress himself especially well.

Rhonan is particular about things like winter wear and timeliness and the right amount to eat for dinner, and Merlin’s just tired of it all. His entire day is set out for him, and there’s no flexibility to go and see the dragons if he wants to, or to tease Will about his concerns of when to ask Freya to handfast. As a prince, he’d felt the chains of duty; had been torn in two by them, the love for his kingdom and the way his heart beats for Arthur. He does, however, understand now why his father had allowed him to take the trip around Albion when he was eighteen.

Because there’s no way that Merlin would’ve had time for anything like that as king.

Rhonan, although he’d been a wonderful manservant for Balinor, drives Merlin mad. He understands now what drove Arthur to throw socks at him, when he’s woken up in the mornings and when he has his dinner set out for him. Merlin doesn’t think he can deal with another day of court meetings and Samhain preparations, so he’d sneaked out of his window before morning had come. Rhonan will have gone insane with concern.

Merlin, very distantly, wishes he cared.

“Come on,” he says, instead, to Aithusa. “Just one little trip around the Tower. I’ll remove gravity, if you want me to. Or I can turn into a bird and fly with you. It’s been a year and a half. You can do it.” She chirps and burrows herself inside his jacket. Merlin sighs. “Yeah, maybe you can’t,” he murmurs, and stares up at the grey sky.

“My lord.” A familiar head appears, ducking out from the door to the roof. Lancelot turns up his nose at the iciness of the roof as he runs his hand over it.

“No,” Merlin says. Lancelot is fifteen minutes later than he expected to see him; it’s something of a blessing, all this stolen time. “I’m not coming.”

Lancelot sighs. “Your mother specifically asked you to be at this meeting, Merlin,” he reminds him gently. “You can’t just leave her and Lady Freya to deal with all this alone, you do know that. I know you know that.”

“Oh, look,” Merlin says flatly. “I can be a rubbish son as well as a rubbish king. What a surprise.”

“You’re not a rubbish son,” Lancelot says, and finally heaves himself on top of the roof, his arms outstretched to maintain his balance. Merlin doesn’t say anything when his First Knight slowly makes his way over, huffing out an exasperated breath when he sits down next to him. Aithusa peers up at Lancelot, and Lance pats her head a little bit. “And neither are you a rubbish king.”

“She did ask me to be there,” Merlin says, and curls and uncurls his fist. “I just. I can’t, Lance. I know that it’s the second Samhain we’ll have since he died, but… by the dragons, I barely survived the first. I can’t do it.”

Lancelot is quiet for a moment. “What if you let the Priestesses raise the ghosts this year?” he says, and winces as Merlin turns incredulous eyes on him. “Perhaps, if they can show you to him again, and if you manage to talk to him—”

“I was five,” Merlin interrupts him, “the first time I spent Samhain with the Priestesses. They raised several of my forefathers, and I screamed really, really loudly. There’s a man—my father’s grandfather, I think he told me later—that just laughed hard, and told me that the great Emrys must see many ghosts in his time. And they didn’t care about me. It was just about the prophecy, because everything is about the prophecy.”

“If it’s a chance to see your father again—” Lance says determinedly.

“But it won’t be,” Merlin tells him firmly. “It’ll be a ghost—some sort of mimicry, a powerful spell, but not actually him. And what good will it do me? The Priestesses can’t bring him back. He’s dead.”

The truth of it is that Merlin doesn’t think he could bear to face his father like that, as things are. If Balinor tells him he is proud, that he is doing well—then he’d be lying, and perhaps that would be worse than if he tells Merlin how disappointed he is. No, the only thing that could’ve fixed the sting of Merlin’s grief is if his father had lived.

And he hadn’t. So there’s that.

“Merlin,” Lancelot says quietly, and lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’re stronger than this.”

“I’m not going to the meeting,” Merlin repeats. “Taliesin knows what I want for Samhain. I’m not stopping the Priestesses from celebrating in their own way, and I’m not stopping their magic. I’m not Uther. I know the values of dark magic, Lance, and that I can’t stop it—I’m not trying to, I swear. But no more ghosts. No more Stones of Nemeton. The dead should stay dead.”

“What if your mother wants the Priestesses to perform the ritual?” Lancelot asks quietly. Merlin takes a deep breath—it sits cold in his lungs, but Merlin doesn’t feel warm these days regardless. Not unless one of the dragons sits near him.

He sits up, and his bones protest winter. He really hasn’t dressed comfortably; Aithusa’s head peeks from the jacket he used to wear in Camelot, and this time, he didn’t even bother to pick any of his neckerchiefs to go with it. His chest aches for want of a different time.

“I’ll talk to her,” he says.

“I’m sure she’d be delighted to talk to you, too,” Lancelot says pointedly. “In the meeting.”

“Fine,” Merlin snaps, and hands Aithusa to Lancelot, who immediately blinks at the tiny dragon in his hands. “Consider it practise for the actual baby, won’t you? I’ll go to the meeting.”

It’s unkind, Merlin knows, the way he leaves the two of them on the slippery roof of the Tower as he transforms himself into a bird and takes to the cold skies. It feels like the only bit of freedom he has left, at times, as if he needs to hold with both hands the thought that he can just morph himself into a bird and leave if he wants to. There is nowhere he could go, but the thought remains.

He flies until he finds an open window—rare, in winter, but necessary for the crisp, fresh air to come in so that the castle doesn’t smell so musty and mildew-y. Merlin lets himself in through the cracked-open window of the throne room, and sets himself on Freya’s chair.

Ten pairs of eyes stare at him—eight of them belonging to their court sorcerers, and the other two to Freya and Hunith. Merlin just chirps and raises a wing, as if to say, Well?

“It seems our king has taken the precious time out of his schedule to attend the meeting after all,” Adwin says dryly. “Welcome, my lord.”

Merlin shuffles.

“King Emrys,” Aoife says, her lips pressed together. “Might I ask you to please change back into your regular form, so that we can properly discuss the plans for the upcoming Samhain festivities?”

Merlin should feel bad for the fact that Wynna actually holds up a bag of Merlin’s clothes, at that. It’s not the first time he has done this, and probably it won’t be the last. Merlin has never been prudish—he’s been washed by too many servants as a child for that, and escaped too many of the same baths to run around the courtyard in the nude—but he still doesn’t manage to stop the dark rush of blood to his cheeks every time he ends up here.

And he still does it. Balinor surely would have something to say about it, and Hunith regularly does, and yet.

He morphs back behind his own throne, and hastily puts on a pair of trousers and an old tunic as his council looks away. He’s not even wearing his own crown, and he crosses his arms as he takes his seat. He thinks he may be wearing his trousers inside out, and doesn’t bother to check.

“I don’t want to be here,” he says petulantly, and feels like he’s sixteen all over again.

“We know,” Taliesin says, and kindly pats Merlin’s arm from his right side. “But we’re glad you came anyway, my lord. You should be part of this.”

“It’s Samhain,” Merlin says, and huffs out a breath when none of them say a word. He doesn’t meet his mother’s gaze, at the other end of the table; he doesn’t think he can. “I’m really not necessary. I do everything you ask of me—I show up to mediate between our people, I write letters to Godwyn and King Rodor of Nemeth, I do everything. Why can’t I get out of this one thing?”

“Because he was your father, darling,” Hunith says, and Merlin closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s exactly why I don’t want to be here.”

“Anyway,” Aoife says, and taps her finger on the table. It echoes loudly in everyone else’s silence. “It is only a week away. I talked to Morgause, and the Priestesses are not happy about your decision to not allow them to talk to the dead, my king. I understand—the sensitivity involved in it last year, but King Balinor has been dead for a year and a half.”

“And not properly buried,” Merlin says, without humour. “Are those ghosts usually kind, in your experience?”

“My lord, you don’t even have to be there,” Wynna points out. “The Priestesses and their followers feel slighted, and I cannot blame them. They are some of the strongest sorceresses in this kingdom apart from this council—”

“And there’s a reason they’re not on here,” Dubhtach points out. 

“Fine, yes,” Wynna says in exasperation. “But dark magic is still magic, my lord. We cannot ban it, nor the rituals.”

“And I haven’t,” Merlin tells them, resting his chin on his fist. “They’re free to do whatever they like.”

“My lord, you haven’t liked the Priestesses since childhood,” Aoife says. “ They know it, and we know it. But you are being hard on them, whether you realise it yourself or not. Not allowing them to participate in King Balinor’s funeral was a heavy statement to make, and everyone understands you were grieving and trying to respect his wishes and balancing your own responsibilities at the same time, but ever since then—”

“You must be careful not to upset the balance of what Dracaneard is, my lord,” Adwin says heavily. “We are the haven of anyone with magic, and you are our king.”

Merlin exhales, and the throne room falls silent. They’re all still staring, and Merlin, for the first time since he’s entered, turns towards his mother and Freya on his left. Hunith’s face is pale, her lips pressed together in the familiar combination of worry and frustration. It’s only over the last year and a half that Merlin has become so intimately aware of how they pull at her face, and he knows it’s all because of him.

Freya, instead, just looks blankly at him. He’s grown a bit used to that too.

“And what do you think?” he asks, and lets his voice drop. 

“Lady Freya and the Queen Mother—” Dubhtach starts, but Merlin cuts him off.

“I asked them.”

“Merlin,” Hunith says, and hesitates. “Your father didn’t mind the Priestesses. And I fear for you, and what will happen if you cross them for even longer.”

Merlin exhales. “They will do,” he says pointedly, “nothing. Nimueh doesn’t have the cunning for it, and Morgause may, but she doesn’t have the power. Magic abounds here, and I feel it, day and night. They can’t do anything to me.”

“That’s not the point—” Aoife says sharply, and Merlin holds up a hand. His council falls silent, and even the ones who haven’t spoken yet—Edwin, Ganna and Chossach have yet to utter a single word—shuffle in their seats. A bird chirps outside, and Merlin feels that same longing to fly away, so dearly that the magic nearly pulls at him.

“Since clearly we’re not going to agree on Samhain anytime soon and how to deal with the Priestesses anytime soon,” he says dryly, “is there anything else we need to discuss? Since I’m here.”

He’s sat in on so many councils he can’t even count anymore; his own, as Balinor’s heir, and the three years he’s spent in Camelot as Arthur’s servant. Never have they been as bad as now, wearing a crown of his own and everyone looking at him. Merlin vastly prefers disappearing into the shadows; he can’t think, not like this, not even to wonder to himself how Arthur would be handling this. Arthur had taken charge not an hour after he’d learnt of his father’s death, even if he hadn’t liked it.

But Arthur was born to wield that power, and Merlin has had to learn. His neck itches from his tunic, and he refrains from scratching it.

“Lady Freya’s coronation as your heir, my king,” Adwin says eventually. “Everything is set in order for tomorrow—I only wanted to assure you know the proper words to invest in Lady Freya the power to be the Princess of Dracaneard.”

Because they don’t trust Merlin to get that right, either. He smiles a little sourly, tapping his feet. He wants to go, to be gone, to never have to come back either to see their hesitant looks and their fingers tangled together as they pray to the gods and dragons for Merlin to become a proper king. Merlin gets so little right these days, and it swallows up all the energy he has left to even think about how Arthur would’ve gone about anything at all, let alone to try and emulate that sort of leadership.

He feels the bile of nostalgia rise up his throat, and bitterly swallows it down.

“I know, Adwin,” he murmurs. 

“My king,” Ganna says, suddenly. She is the Seer of his court, a strong one. Merlin doesn’t like visions much—although he wonders how much of that is because of the ones that plagued him as a child, and the ones he’s had in Arthur’s service—but she can be relied upon to have better visions than Merlin. Visions that can be impacted, that is; more subtle things, not the visions of unalterable fate that cling to Merlin.

“Yes, Ganna?” he says, and taps his fingers impatiently on the table. 

“As relieved as we all are to know that there is an heir to the throne, should anything go amiss,” she says, and glances at Freya, who has a stubborn set to her jaw as she stares at Merlin, “there remains still the question of your—marriage.”

It’s inevitable that it gets brought up once every few months. Balinor and Hunith may have dropped it, after that one time they’d thought of marrying him to Elena, but the rest of the council hasn’t, and Merlin tamps back a groan. He’d thought he’d have a bit more leeway after the last time he’d told them in no uncertain terms that he won’t marry.

“There is no marriage to speak of,” he says instead. “We’ve discussed this before, and I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Because of Pendragon—” Dubhtach starts.

“Because Freya is my heir, and I won’t have another,” Merlin tells him. Gods, he wishes anyone but him could deal with this. “I’m not going to marry, not for duty, not for love, not for anything, and if that was something that was fated, don’t you think it’ll work out by itself?”

“King Emrys,” Ganna says. “You do not understand. I have Seen it. Your handfasting ceremony.”

Merlin’s finger stills; the tapping stops, and the room is unbearably quiet. “What?”

“I have Seen war and destruction,” she says, her lips pursed, “and you in the middle of it, as you cried, my lord. I Saw your handfasting, and I Saw that you did not want it, and I Saw that you knew you must.” She stills, perhaps at the sight of Merlin’s expression. “I’m sorry, my king. My visions of the future have grown muddled as of late, and I cannot give you the answer you seek. But I saw a crown, golden, and I heard a battle cry, and the vines wrapped between your hands and those of your spouse.”

“Arthur?” Merlin croaks out, quietly.

“I don’t know, my lord,” she murmurs. “But considering your feelings—I have my doubts. I only know you weren’t in Dracaneard.”

A handfasting ceremony outside of his own kingdom, and tears as he goes through the rites of the most holy union he knows of. His heart constricts and he lets out a shuddering breath. Ganna frowns and Taliesin pats Merlin’s arm for a moment.

“Right,” he says, and tries to sit up right. “A battle cry?”

“Perhaps a sign, my lord,” Ganna murmurs. “Perhaps to show you that we are in dire need of allies, both within and without this kingdom. King Godwyn is King Arthur’s bannerman, and Camelot’s laws still forbid magic, and so Gawant must as well. We teeter on an edge; all I have seen is a loss of magic in one hand, and the return of it in the other.”

“The prophecy,” Merlin surmises, and she nods carefully.

“My lord, none of us can guess what the prophecy will entail precisely,” Aoife says, leaning forward. She sounds kinder than she did before. “All we can do is focus on the present, and to deal with the issues as they come our way. And the most pressing of these—”

“Yes, no, thank you,” Merlin says in a hurry, and stands up. His chair scrapes over the floor loudly, and he winces at it. “Fine. Let the Priestesses wake their dead, if they must—but not my father. They can’t touch my father.”

Aoife’s shoulders slump. “I think that’ll be agreeable, my lord,” she says.

“If that’s that, then,” Merlin says, and takes the first step.

“Wait,” Hunith says, her voice echoing. Merlin winces and lets his head fall down. “You’re all dismissed. Merlin, I would like to talk with you, if you think you have the time.”

There’s a hard edge to her tone. Merlin waits, standing absolutely still and unable to meet her eyes as the court sorcerers, one by one, leave. Freya is the last one; with a touch of hesitance, she comes up to him and kisses his cheek, and then she’s gone too, the last of them to abandon him with his mother.

“Mother,” he says quietly, and leans against his chair.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and comes up to him. She takes his head between her cold hands, forcing him to look up at her, and she frowns at him. “My poor son. My baby. Lancelot shouldn’t have had to come and get you like that, my dearest, dearest Merlin.”

“I can’t,” he manages, and lets himself slump forward in her arms. She cards her fingers through his hair, and he feels the dry press of lips on the crown of his head. “They all think they’ve got something meaningful to say, but it’s all just—the same concerns, over and over, and I don’t care what the Priestesses think or do—”

“Merlin,” Hunith says sternly, and he falls silent. “You are their king now. You serve your people, and not the other way around. If anything, I’d hoped you would know that.”

“I’ve been serving them my entire life,” he says bitterly.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she murmurs. “You won’t come to dinner; you won’t let yourself sleep. All you’re doing is trying to train your dragon, and Merlin, Aithusa is still a baby. She does not need to fly or talk—she needs to be loved, that is all. You are avoiding your family, and we need you, Merlin. Freya does, and I do.”

“Aithusa’s not here now,” he mutters.

“A miracle beyond miracles,” Hunith muses, and takes his shoulders to look at them. “I don’t know what to do with you, Merlin. I’ve given you your space, and I have tried to stay by your side. You are twenty-five, and I can’t scold you for things beyond your control; not anymore. I don’t even care if you’re not a good king, my dearest child, but you’re not happy.”

“Thanks for that,” Merlin says dryly. “Lovely to hear you think I’m a lousy king as well.”

“My darling son,” she says, and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “I hear of your future, and I’m worried. Any mother would be. If there’s anything I could do to make it easier, I would—but I have spent more than two decades learning what it means to be queen, and let me tell you now, I don’t think I managed to be anything but a burden to your father for the first five years. And you are insisting on doing this alone.”

“I’m not marrying,” Merlin tells her, and feels an odd sort of anxiety bubble up in his chest at the thought of Ganna’s words. “You know how I feel about Arthur, and I’ve sworn to him—and I may never get to handfast with him, or marry him, but I promised him, no one else—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hunith says, tapping his nose. “I don’t know what Ganna’s visions mean, love. I’ve no idea what lies ahead of you, but if you don’t want to marry, don’t listen to them. That is your personal life. But the rest of it… you have your council, and you have us. Freya will be your heir tomorrow, and you’ve been pushing her away, and I know she has been hurting. You may as well listen to them, and not pretend as if you have to have all the answers yourself.”

“But neither do they,” Merlin points out.

Hunith sighs. “The Priestesses are as stubborn as you, Merlin,” she reminds him. “Let Morgause and Nimueh have their rituals.”

Long live the king, he remembers Morgause saying, right after his father’s death. And they have been pushing back against each other ever since. 

“We’ll see,” is all he says. Something complicated crosses Hunith’s face, but then she presses a dry kiss to his forehead.

“I am proud of you, and you are my son,” she says. “No matter what you think. I wish you would remember that as well, my dearest Merlin. My little bird.”

A part of him wishes she would hold Balinor’s death against him, even if once, but she is too sincere. He presses his eyes shut for a second, and lets himself linger in her love and her forgiveness, and then snaps right out of it again. It is as if Hunith can sense it, or perhaps it is just Merlin’s tainted sense of belonging that slips away, and he steps back.

“Mother,” he says, and slips out of her grasp. He leaves her standing there, and follows the rest of his council out, his heart beating fast.

~*~

Since Aithusa was hatched, the dragons’ cave is fuller than it has ever been. Not necessarily because of Aithusa, who stays either in the cave or in Merlin’s personal chambers about equally, and who barely takes up any space anyway. It’s mostly because Kilgharrah, who used to have a tendency to come and go on his own whims, has been sticking around more often.

They all peer at him as he enters and Merlin bows his head at them as he does. Aithusa chirps where she sits in between Rathuris and Naimroa, coming to run towards him clumsily with her too-large claws. Her tail swishes over the ground as she comes and Merlin holds out his arm for her to jump on.

“Dragonchild,” Rathuris says, peeking at him through the dark. Kilgharrah just grumbles.

His relationship with the dragons has shifted, as it has with nearly everyone. They defer to him more, except Naimroa and Kilgharrah, who have always been the bluntest of the four, and even they now have their limits under Merlin’s abilities. He is a Dragonlord now, and he can command them as he wishes.

He rarely wishes. Still, it’s something they’re all keenly aware of, and Merlin wonders if they treated his father like this.

“Good morning,” he says weakly.

Ekaitza swishes her tail. “We heard you are picking fights again,” she says in sincere delight. “With the Priestesses. Will there be a great battle, and will we get to munch the bones in the aftermath?”

“Ekaitza,” Naimroa says evenly, and turns her eyes on Merlin. “Dragon King.”

“We see you appear once again before a coronation,” Kilgharrah says. He is the largest of them and has picked his spot at the back of the cave, where it curves just so to allow him to lie comfortably. 

Merlin shrugs, and Aithusa leans against him. “I’m surprised you even remember,” he says. “I thought you only cared about prophecy and magic, Kilgharrah. I don’t think you’ve ever talked about Freya.”

“She is not of the line of Dragonlords,” Kilgharrah says. “But she will have her own role to play in destiny, I imagine. If only because it revolves around you, and you have picked your allies and enemies, young warlock. The hour is too late to change your allegiance.”

Merlin rubs his eyes. In the midst of winter, the sun has not even come out over the hills of Dracaneard, and he hasn’t slept well. In the castle, Freya will be nearly ready to stand before the people of Dracaneard and pledge herself as his heir, the way he’s asked her to. And Merlin should be getting ready too, and instead has found himself here.

“I wasn’t here to discuss destiny, for once,” he murmurs. 

“A wise decision,” Kilgharrah grumbles. “Since you’ve so rarely heeded my advice as it is. And once again, I would implore you—”

“And I wasn’t here to discuss your advice,” Merlin grumbles. 

For several months now, Kilgharrah has been asking Merlin to take Aithusa to the mountains. Merlin isn’t sure what the reason is for it, or if that’s the reason Kilgharrah has been sticking around. Perhaps Gaius still has some books about dragons lying around—he always did have a talent for finding the most obscure works—but otherwise there is very little information left about the rearing of dragons.

So perhaps he should take his advice. But that would mean giving up Aithusa for reasons that Kilgharrah won’t elaborate on other to say that it is tradition, and for many years, besides.

His father’s last demand had been that Merlin take care of the dragon. And he won’t disregard it so easily, not even for Kilgharrah. Not for anyone, and he lets his eyes fall down towards Aithusa, so trustingly perched on his arm.

He is hers, and she is his.

“Tell us if you will strike down the Priestesses,” Ekaitza insists, a dark glint in her eyes as she bares her teeth in anticipation.

“He will not,” Rathuris says mildly, before Merlin can even answer. “He is a king of peace, as was prophesied. You know better than to expect blood from him, Ekaitza, please.”

“He brought Naimroa to battle,” she points out. 

Merlin holds up his hand. “I’m not planning on doing anything like that ever again,” he says, and feels a little sick as he remembers the battlefield. He still dreams of it, sometimes, the vines he’d used as a shield and the relentless hacking into them. If Arthur had been later—

Merlin, for all his magic, would be dead.

And a great many problems would’ve been solved, perhaps, but that’s a thought he only goes down in the midnight dark. For now, he grimaces a bit at the way Aithusa digs with her claws into his clothes.

“You may not have a choice in that,” Rathuris says, and eyes Kilgharrah. Merlin murmurs a prayer to the Old Gods under his breath. “In your destiny—”

“A king of peace,” he says, and unwittingly thinks of Arthur, “shouldn’t attempt to go to war. I’ll deal with the Priestesses on my own terms, no matter what they want. How do you even know about that?”

“You think about it,” Naimroa says, laying her head down on her claws as she stares at Merlin very pointedly, “very loudly, Dragon King. Psychic connections do go both ways. They have been on your mind, and so they have been on ours.”

Merlin slides down the cave wall, not minding the way the rocks painfully scrape his back through the thin cover of his tunic. Aithusa settles herself on his lap instead, and he pats her absentmindedly. In the castle, Freya will be readying herself for her coronation, and he should be by her side to support her.

And finds that he, once again, has to let her down.

“The Priestesses are of no importance,” Kilgharrah scolds from his distant corner. “Our concern is Aithusa.”

“I haven’t heard the other dragons mention it,” Merlin says.

Rathuris shuffles; Ekaitza just snorts, the way that dragons would normally do if they were about to breathe fire, and that she has never been able to do. Naimroa turns her head away, as if she has heard this discussion enough. Merlin wagers she has, because Kilgharrah hasn’t shut up about it to him either.

“There are traditions,” Rathuris hedges.

“Not more important than my promises to my father,” Merlin says strictly. 

Kilgharrah hoists himself up; he neatly fills up the whole cave with his presence, and Ekaitza’s wings flutter at the perceived threat. Merlin sits still, and keeps his palm on Aithusa’s scales—hard and cool as metal, and twice as strong.

“You have duties,” Kilgharrah snaps. “And you have been avoiding your destiny, Merlin, as I may be the only one to unduly remind you of, a fate to set free—”

“If you mention this to me again,” Merlin interrupts, his voice even and cold. He does not even need to raise it—it cuts right through Kilgharrah’s words, and the eyes of all the dragons are on him. “I will command you, Kilgharrah. Aithusa stays with me, where she belongs.”

Kilgharrah meets his eyes for a long second. Merlin does not break the gaze, and just stares back. He hasn’t known how to keep his family and friends near him, after his father’s death, and he still doesn’t know how to pull them back. He is drifting, further and further, but he still has Aithusa, and his ties to the dragons can never be broken.

And he refuses to let them, even if it costs him Kilgharrah.

“I see,” Kilgharrah says, and stumbles past them. His wings come close enough for Merlin to touch, and then Kilgharrah stretches out of the cavern and into the sky, and he is gone. Merlin watches the dark, grey sky as Kilgharrah disappears into it and feels Aithusa’s wonder pushing at him.

He pushes it down, a little snappishly, and strokes her tail when he feels her ache.

“Dragon King,” Rathuris says carefully. “Kilgharrah means well. We don’t doubt what your oath means to you, but perhaps—”

“I’ll command you as well, Rathuris,” Merlin says, and burrows his head between Aithusa’s wings. She smells of fire and the cave, and that same ancient, dusty magic that runs through the blood of all their kin. “Don’t make me do it.”

Naimroa grumbles, whether in defence of him or the opposite, he can’t quite tell. He isn’t sure where Naimroa stands on this matter at all, because she hasn’t spoken about it and he hasn’t asked. Perhaps it’s for the best, because she may be the only one to make him think again on it, and Merlin would hate her for it, a little bit.

And already hates the thought that he can be persuaded to reconsider, if just not by Kilgharrah. 

“Your time is running out, Dragonchild,” she murmurs to him. “They are sending a man. I can smell him in the air. He is near.”

Merlin lifts up his head weakly and rubs his eyes. “Lancelot?”

“No, not the noble one,” she says. “And the others smell all the same to me.”

He doesn’t have to wonder about it long. Gwaine stumbles into the cave, as if on cue, and blinks upon seeing Merlin as if he hadn’t actually expected to see him there.

“Hullo,” Gwaine says, smiling tightly towards the dragons. As much time as he’s had to get used to them, Merlin thinks he’s never become used to knowing they just live there, same as he does. “Coming to collect one human king for a crowning ceremony, if you don’t mind.”

“You can have him, knight,” Naimroa sneers, and removes her tail. Merlin misses the warmth of it at once, and mournfully stares up at Gwaine.

“Ten more minutes?” he needles. “It’s not that late, is it? And where’s Lancelot?”

Gwaine sighs, but slides down next to him. Naimroa stares daggers at him and Merlin sends her a quiet, Settle down, before he eyes Gwaine. It has been a year since he knighted him, and Gwaine has quickly taken up a space in his life that had been previously unoccupied—the only knight to have sworn to Merlin rather than to Balinor, and very sincerely, too.

Merlin can’t really fathom him out most days, but he’s accepted that Gwaine will just be Gwaine; fiercely loyal, bone-breakingly kind, and topping it all off with some booze and faked humour when he’s not willing to tell his life’s story. 

“I see how it is,” Gwaine sighs mournfully. “You’d rather have Lance, is that it?”

“Lance is more willing to come see the dragons than you are,” Merlin counters.

Gwaine shrugs and curls his fingers to scratch Aithusa’s ears. She whinnies at him, nearly falling over in Merlin’s arms. “Fair enough, I suppose. No, he’s helping Freya and Will, because she’s in a bit of a panic, last I heard. And the lady wife would rather have him in the castle, last I heard, since the pregnancy’s so hard on her.”

“I should’ve come to help Freya,” he says, and thinks back to his own coronation. He remembers little of it, truth be told; he’s still a little surprised he said the right words at the right time. If anything, he remembers the solemn faces of his family and friends most of all; his mother’s pale face and Freya’s tear streaks. He remembers Will biting his lower lip and Lancelot’s quiet nod when Merlin had stood up.

He remembers the darkness in Arthur’s eyes, the stern dignity in the way his jaw clenched. Yes, Arthur had understood, and Merlin can’t help but wonder at what he’d seen. If he’d have guessed Merlin would be as bad at this as he’s turned out to be.

“Honestly, I doubt you could’ve helped her much,” Gwaine says. “She might’ve thrown something at you for putting her in the position, and then we would’ve been forced to arrest her, us knights. That’s a bad look, arresting the Princess on the morning of her coronation.”

Merlin lets out a snicker and falls silent again. “Is Gwen really doing so badly?”

“Not seen much of her either, huh?” Gwaine asks, and smiles tightly. “It’s the last stretch. The baby will be there sooner rather than later, and she’ll be fine. They were born parents, don’t you think?”

“They must be,” Merlin says. “Lancelot deals with you all the time.”

Gwaine jostles his shoulder against Merlin’s good-naturedly. “And you,” he says.

“Yeah,” Merlin murmurs, and closes his eyes as he rests his head on Gwaine’s shoulder. Gwaine smells of chainmail and soap, with a whiff of nature about him—it’s a comforting smell, if anything. “I suppose I’m like one, too. Did Lance tell you that I left him on the roof yesterday?”

“He might have mentioned,” Gwaine says. “But he doesn’t hold it against you.”

“Oh, right, that makes it better,” Merlin huffs out. “I’m being horrible to everyone around me, and I don’t know how to stop it, and everyone’s just letting me. Gwaine, will you please cuff me over the head if I ever become—”

As bad as Arthur, is what Merlin had been about to say, and then swallows his tongue. It is the Arthur of seven years ago that he’d thought of, the Arthur that had stumbled upon Merlin in Gaius’ rooms when he’d arrived in Camelot for the first time. But Arthur is not like that anymore, and Gwaine wouldn’t have known him like that. It is Merlin who’s lost a bit of himself, and he feels the tears prickle at his eyes.

“Oh, damn,” Gwaine says, and embraces him awkwardly. “You’re doing fine, Merlin.”

Aithusa scratches at his chin, and then Naimroa involves herself, casting her wing over Merlin even as she gives Gwaine a deadly stare. “Dragon King,” she says, and Merlin holds up a single hand to touch her scales. “If your enemies require to be burnt, you have your dragons. But do not fight yourself in a darkness none of us can reach.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin says, and lowers his arm again to rub his sleeve against his face. His face will be all blotched, and he has an image to uphold. “It’s Freya’s day. It’s a good day.”

“D’you want to see her?” Gwaine asks gently. “She’s stressed out, but she’ll want to see you.”

“I thought you said she’d throw something at me,” Merlin murmurs, and swallows heavily.

Gwaine shrugs. “She might, but I’ve been told you’re very good at ducking,” he says, and stands up. He offers a hand to Merlin. “So, what do you say, my friend? Are you ready to crown the Princess of Dracaneard?”

“I’m ready,” he says, clearing his throat, and takes Gwaine’s hand. Aithusa chirps in protest when he’s up, and works herself up onto Merlin’s shoulder. Gwaine pats his back when he’s tugged Merlin upright, and gently leads Merlin back to the castle.

~*~

Freya does throw something at him, but it’s only a blanket and she misses anyway, because she’s never had the keenest aim. Then she throws herself at him, clearly heedless of the intricate dress she’s wearing, and that one does reach its goal.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, and presses a kiss to her dark hair. He doesn’t remember the last time he held her like this. “It’s lousy, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t even born into this family,” she says, and she is crying. Will is standing behind her, awkwardly patting her back and shrugging at Merlin when he meets his friend’s eyes. “You can’t just make me a princess, Merlin, I was just a cursed druid girl, and if not for you, I’d have died like that—”

“You did say yes when I asked,” Merlin reminds her. That had been half a year ago, and he’s actually surprised she accepted, considering how he’s been avoiding most of them since his ascension to the throne.

Freya turns betrayed eyes on him. “I didn’t know what I was saying yes to,” she says petulantly, and runs a hand over her face. “I think I’m going to throw up. Did you throw up when your father crowned you his heir? I don’t remember.”

Merlin was fifteen when he was crowned—early for heirs to be officially named, admittedly, but considering his position as Emrys, no one had thought it odd. He’d nearly climbed out of the window in an attempt to get away, but Lancelot had stopped him just in time. He thinks he was mostly alright about it once he’d had to get into the throne room to kneel before his father.

He remembers Balinor’s booming voice, calling the same words that Merlin will say in only an hour or so to Freya. He remembers feeling very, very small.

“I didn’t, and neither will you,” he says, and steers her towards the sofa. Gwen is already sitting there as well, one hand folded over her belly and the other sympathetically coming to rest on Freya’s shoulder. Lancelot is frowning at the both of them from where he’s leaning against the window.

“I am,” Freya says. “I don’t know how to do this. By the dragons, I can’t be a princess. Merlin, you’re out of your mind.”

“Yes, he is,” Will says, a little bitingly, “but not about this. Besides, Queen Hunith approved, and clearly that means it’s a better decision than anything our Merlin could make.”

Merlin smiles vaguely. “Thanks, Will.”

“You are going to be a wonderful princess, Freya,” Gwen says, sending the both of them a look that Merlin thinks means she wants them to shut up, very kindly. “You’ve already sat in with the council for a long time, and you understand the kingdom and its people so well. They love you as much as you love them, and that is the most important part.”

Freya swallows heavily. “That can’t be enough.”

“Listen,” Merlin says, and crouches before her. “Gwen’s right, and you know why she’s right? She’s seen this in two kingdoms, and she knows exactly what the people care about. She’s made me see sense more than once. You care, Freya, and I wouldn’t have asked you to be my heir if I didn’t believe you to be more than capable. And I don’t know how to do this—the gods, I clearly don’t know how to do any of it, but the kingdom is still standing, and that’s because of you. That’s because I may not be good at any of this, but I’ve people around me who do know, and that’s how we’ll manage it. Together.”

It feels like a lie. He tries to mean it.

“Merlin,” Freya says, and sniffles. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and leans in to hug her. “I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

Gwen comes in to lean forward too, and then there’s Will around them, and Gwaine who has been loitering in the doorway. Lancelot is the last to join them, and then they’re just pressed together; all the friends that Merlin loves in Dracaneard and the people he relies on the most, even when he can’t confide in them.

It feels a little bit like hope, to be on the inside once again, and he wishes he could grasp onto it and hold on. But then Freya pulls away, her smile as fragile as Merlin’s promise to be there, and he wishes that he could be a better king to them—a better brother, and a better friend. 

Sometimes, he thinks that part of him burnt with his father’s empty pyre.

Chapter Text

There is a large feast still ongoing inside. It has been a while since they last hosted such a large event inside the castle; Merlin thinks it may have been the anniversary of his parents’ handfasting ceremony, the last time they had one. Beltane and Samhain are usually celebrated outside, nearest to nature, and Dracaneard is no Camelot, which feels the need to host tournaments and feasts every two weeks.

His own coronation hadn’t been nearly as festive, obviously. He’s glad that Freya’s is more of an event, if only because she’s the only heir they’ll get out of him. One or two advisors have already brought up the fact that he’s the last remaining Dragonlord, in an attempt to make him marry, but Merlin can’t even consider that a good reason for procreating. The dragons will be fine without him. He knows they love him, but without a Dragonlord, they’ll be free to do as they like. He has no doubt Freya will welcome them as she always has, and her heirs after her. 

Aithusa burrows herself against his chest, deeply asleep, as Merlin stares over the forests that make up so much of his kingdom, looking as if they are on fire in the orange light of the  setting sun, and the faint glimmer of the magical barrier in the distance. If he stretches out his magic, he can feel how it lives here, all cooped up inside this one small haven that they’ve made out of it—and then he reaches further, and it nearly dizzies him, to feel all the magic of Albion spread out over the lands—

“My lord Emrys?”

Merlin is forced back into reality, a little lightheaded. He looks up at the faint outline of a vaguely familiar figure—one of Taliesin’s apprentices, he thinks. Mordred, he remembers suddenly, the druid boy that Morgana had been so taken with four years ago. He’d been just a child then, no more than thirteen.

He is nearly an adult now, holding himself easily as he slides down the wall next to Merlin. The magic in him is strong, but Merlin can sense a measure of something else in him, something that his magic is tugged towards. Fate, he thinks.

“You’re not enjoying the feast?” Merlin asks, and looks back over the kingdom. Over the glowing hills, he will find Camelot, and Arthur. Gods, how he misses Arthur.

“Oh, it was a good feast, my king,” Mordred says, and cocks his head. “I’m still not used to being around so many people. My druid clan was small, and there were rarely so many visitors.”

“Iseldir’s clan,” Merlin murmurs. “Yes, I know. Do you still talk to him?”

“As much as you do, I expect,” Mordred says lightly. “He is friends with Taliesin, so I see him more than most other druid leaders. But I have made an attempt to keep in touch with those I deem important.”

Important to himself or to the kingdom, he doesn’t say. Merlin is too weary to ask, or to try and figure out Mordred’s motives for being here. The druids are usually not as straightforward with things they want from him, but Iseldir’s clan is familiar with him, and might not be so reluctant to share their true aspirations. Perhaps Mordred is really doing what he claims he’s doing.

“Are you enjoying the apprenticeship?” he asks instead. “I remember Taliesin’s lessons. He’s very… strict.”

Mordred smirks faintly. “He is,” he says. “But I am, my lord, thank you for asking. It is my aim to become one of your court sorcerers one day, if I can. It would be my honour to serve Emrys.”

Merlin inhales. “I’m sure it would be.”

“My lord,” Mordred says, and frowns. He plays with his fingers for a second, which is not at all like the confident young man that Merlin has seen walking around the courtyard and following Taliesin. “I would ask you something.”

“Well, I’m here,” Merlin says, and gestures at himself. “Until Will or Sir Gwaine drags me back to the feast, that is.”

“The lady Morgana,” Mordred starts, and that is not at all what Merlin expected him to bring up. “Have you heard from her recently? I do know that she is—well, she has been very kind to me. We’ve kept in touch since her return—mostly we scried occasionally, but she did tell me she wrote you letters. I haven’t heard from her in several weeks, and I admit that I may have some—concerns.”

Merlin blinks. Admittedly, he hasn’t been keeping up with Morgana’s letters as well as he should have. As much as he enjoys her writing, and as much as her reports on Arthur’s activities have been a bit of a lifeline in his darkest moment, it’s also a reminder that Merlin doesn’t want to be here.

He did send a letter back, though, several weeks ago. And Morgana is usually much more prompt than Merlin is about responding.

“I don’t think I have, actually,” he admits, and taps his fingers on his thigh. In the distance, the sun finally sets, and it paints the sky darker. “But I’m sure there is nothing to be worried about, Mordred. She must be busy with her own duties in Camelot.”

“I would think so too,” Mordred says, “but last time we talked, she confessed to me some… frustration with King Arthur’s inability to let magic return to Camelot. And that is not to say I don’t believe in your destiny, Lord Emrys. I’m just—concerned for her.”

Merlin has sensed it too, even if Morgana is not as clear about it to him. Then again, she knows very well how Merlin feels about Arthur, and she might not want to start a discussion through letters, where these things aren’t so easily resolved. That is not to say that Merlin isn’t frustrated that Arthur hasn’t tried a little harder, knowing what it means to him. To Morgana. To a whole kingdom of people.

But he hasn’t actually spoken to Arthur, so he has no idea what Camelot’s golden king is thinking. All he knows is the distant news he hears from his knights when they come back from their journeys, and through Morgana’s letters. He knows of Arthur’s new alliance with Nemeth, and that the union with Bayard is holding steady.

Prophesied king, he thinks to himself, and finds himself missing his lonely prince a little bit.

“I’m sure it will all work itself out,” he says. “Morgana is a very capable sorceress, and Arthur wouldn’t let harm come to her. He loves her, and there’s nothing she can do that will change his regard for her. He’s stubborn, you know.”

Mordred doesn’t look as placated. “If you say so, my lord,” he murmurs. “I’m sure you do know her better than I do. Camelot must be the best place for her.”

“It’s nice that she has been in touch with you all this time,” Merlin says. “She never mentioned it to me. What do you talk about?”

“Mostly just druid rituals, my lord, or magic spells we’ve been learning, and sometimes the Priestesses,” Mordred answers easily. “We both have difficulty controlling our visions, so we’ve been exchanging tips on that. It is what drew her to me the first time I met her—there’s a sort of sense for someone who has been touched by the gods like that, to be chosen to see what is to come. The gods’ touches are all over you, Lord Emrys.”

“The Priestesses?” Merlin says, and runs a finger over Aithusa’s scales absentmindedly. The rest of it is not new to him; he’s been told he’s as good as a deity since he was born, and that his magic stands out starkly in this world. What he doesn’t know is why Morgana would ask a druid about the Priestesses.

Mordred looks surprised that he’s asking. “Nothing much, my lord. Just what I thought of them, and the interactions they’ve had with the druids. What their rituals entail in comparison to the druids’. All very innocent, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Merlin says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Surely Morgana is only trying to understand more about her own magic, and magic in general, and she’s just asking Mordred for the examples she knows. There are magic users other than druids and High Priestesses, but they don’t generally group together. Most other clans have long fallen into oblivion, some distant, forgotten past; the Dragonlords, for one, and many others besides.

“Lord Emrys,” Aoife says suddenly, coming in from the dark. She is not at all the person he expected to come out looking for him, and Merlin smiles gently at her. She is one of the youngest court sorcerers, barring Edwin, just over forty. That is quite the achievement, considering the importance of her job.

“I’ll come back,” he offers, before she even has to ask. 

“The Princess Freya is asking for a dance,” she says, and her eyes flick towards Mordred. “Good evening, young Mordred.”

“Good evening, Lady Aoife,” he says politely, and Merlin stands up. Aithusa whines in his tunic, and he pats her dropping head gently. 

“It was nice to speak to you, Mordred,” he says, and after a moment’s hesitation, he adds, “If you do hear from her again, please come and tell me. I want to make sure she’s alright as much as you do.”

“I will, my king,” Mordred says, and if he doesn’t look quite as surprised by the personal invitation to the king’s circle as a seventeen-year-old court apprentice should be, well. Merlin has never wanted to be seen as the prophesied saviour he’s always been told he is.

~*~

The knocking on the door is far too loud for this hour in the morning. Merlin groans, and covers his head with his pillow. The knocking is incessant, however, and a muffled voice comes through the door. “Lord Emrys. Lord Emrys!”

“What is it,” he snaps, and the door falls open. He vaguely recognises the woman, and then realisation settles in; it’s one of Gwen’s doulas. They have been around several times, especially with the birth inching closer, mostly at Lancelot’s insistence. 

But Gwen’s not supposed to give birth for five more weeks. Merlin’s heart surges in his throat.

“It’s the Lady Guinevere, my lord,” she says, and seems suddenly a little terrified about bothering the King of Dracaneard in the middle of the night, as if she hadn’t realised earlier on whose door she was knocking. “She is in the middle of her labours. My lord, the babe is—we need your help.”

“Alfric?” Merlin asks at once, even as he nearly jumps out of his bed. Thank the dragons he doesn’t sleep in the nude—he only has to grab a tunic to be somewhat presentable, and he follows her without hesitation towards Lancelot and Gwen’s quarters. “The other healers?”

“Alfric is gone, my lord,” she answers quickly. “There was an emergency just outside the citadel—a bit of a squabble, is all I know, and Alfric went to help. We do have some of the healers, but none who specialise in childbirth—the babe is early, my lord, and we’ve done all the magic we can to ease her labour, but it’s been three hours, and it won’t come. It will cost the lady her life, if we can’t—”

“No, it won’t,” Merlin says grimly, and takes large strides. The doula nearly has to run to keep up with him, but she doesn’t complain, not even when Merlin unceremoniously bursts in the door to Gwen’s chambers.

And is treated to a spectacle at once. He hasn’t seen Lancelot this anxious before, not even when they were supposed to go to war with Camelot and Deorham. He looks about ready to tear his hair out, and that’s not even considering Gwen, pale and with sweat pouring down her face. 

“Merlin,” Lancelot says urgently. “Please—if you can—”

“Healing spells aren’t my forte, Lance,” he says, but doesn’t hesitate to push past the three women next to Gwen’s bedside. “But I’ll do what I can. You know I will.”

Gwen grabs his hand, the naked desperation written on her face nearly overpowering him. “Save my child,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. Lancelot falls to his knees on the other side of the bed, his face drawn as he grabs her other hand. 

“What is your name?” Merlin demands of the doula, wringing her hands next to the bed.

“Camma, my lord,” she says, and swallows. “The babe won’t turn. We’ve tried everything, but the magic is too gentle, and the babe’s will is strong. We dare not use any stronger spells for the child’s health, and the mother’s—”

“Find Alfric and get him to come back,” he orders, and looks Gwen in the eye. “Gwen. I promise you, you will be fine. Your child is strong, as are its parents, and he’s just fighting us a little bit, because he doesn’t understand what we’re doing. But I’ll help, okay? I’ll help.”

“Him?” she asks weakly.

Merlin smiles, and kisses her forehead. She tastes of salt and pain, and she presses her eyes closed. “Him,” he says. “I can feel him. He’s this close to life, and he won’t give up now. And neither will you, do you understand me?”

She doesn’t say anything, but Merlin knows. He can sense her pain, if he focuses on it, and he pushes it away. Adrenaline surges through his blood, and he breathes out and closes his own eyes. He tries to let the world fall away, and let only the healing energy run through him. It’s not just healing that is required—but Gwen needs her energy, and the baby is demanding to be born.

“Gehælan!” he murmurs, and with a shudder, recalls the last time he’d used this spell—sees his father in front of him, his throat dark with blood, and the way that magic had refused to come. It had been Ashkanar’s intricate spell, of course, but it must as well have been Merlin’s emotions in turmoil, and the way he hadn’t managed to control himself.

And he is magic. That is truly why the healing magic has come so poorly to him, he’d realised later; it requires control, and it requires him to just breathe, with no other thoughts. Let life slip away, and become something else. Magic cannot be emotion—it’s the poorest conduit, and that is what the Priestesses will never understand.

“Licsar ge staðol nu,” he says, and repeats his spells, over and over, until they no longer feel like words. He focuses on his breathing, and forgets all about the presence. Magic is all he feels—the force of it in the people around him, dormant in Gwen and Lance and at the fingertips of the doulas; he senses his sorcerers in the castle, all fast asleep, and the dragons, shining like a beacon, in the cave; he senses the druids and the Priestesses and—

Arthur is on his knees, holding the sword; the sunlight catches both the blade and his hair, shimmering silver and gold in turn. The boy in front of him narrows his eyes in concentration, holding onto his wooden blade similarly.

“Very well, Galahad,” Arthur says, and then teasingly adds, “And remember—stick with the pointy bit of it. If you’ve half your father’s skill, you’ll be defeating me in no time. And if you have your mother’s, you’ll have the sensibility not to.”

The boy grins, his eyes dark and familiar to Merlin as he turns around—“But I’ll always be better than Uncle Merlin, won’t I—”

Merlin chokes, because that is not his vision—it’s not even really a vision, not in the same sense that Merlin usually has them; it’s not tied to the universe’s firm will that certain things must happen, but it is a hope, a possible shimmer of things to come, that an unborn child could grasp at Merlin’s dreams and tug them towards himself—

Gwen cries out, and Merlin reels with the sudden sensation of being on the floor, and being in Dracaneard and without Arthur, and there is no boy yet; no such future written in stone, and still Merlin thinks that it’s perhaps the faint hope of it that convinced that small child to be born into the world. He’s dizzy with the sense of it, his own wants stolen by a boy who does not know better, who’d only relied on Merlin to understand why he must come, and had chosen to see his love—

A child cries, and someone grabs at Merlin’s arm. “My lord?” Camma asks, but Merlin waves her away.

“Gwen,” he manages to get out. “Gwen—and the baby, you need to look after them—”

“They’re fine, my lord,” she assures him. “The babe is healthy. Ten toes, ten fingers. And the mother is fine. Can you see them? You helped them, my lord. You were gone for nearly an hour.”

It doesn’t feel like that long. Merlin thinks he wants to throw up, but he’s not entirely sure, as if the nausea is inside his soul rather than his body. If he ever thought the druids were invasive, with the conversations they hold inside their minds, then he’ll now think twice, knowing that Gwen and Lancelot’s child just casually grabbed hold of Merlin’s magic. Or perhaps Merlin left it open for him to grab; he was too far beyond this world to have a cognisant awareness of what he was doing.

She helps him up, and right enough, Gwen and Lancelot are cooing over a child. The agony is gone from both their faces, and Merlin only feels a bone-deep relief that they are healthy, and they will continue to be so.

“Hi, there,” he says, and comes to look at the boy. He is not yet the same child that Merlin saw, but he has the makings of him; the softly-coloured brown skin, the dark eyes, the little dip in his chin. The child shifts in Gwen’s embrace, and stares at him calmly, as if he remembers the vision as well as Merlin does.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Gwen says, and smiles faintly. “Would you like to meet him?”

“I think I might,” he says, and bows down over the child. A child. With its tiny little feet, and its tiny little hands, and its tiny little nose. Merlin breathes out. “Do you have a name for him?”

“Galahad,” Lancelot says, proudly, and carefully kisses his boy’s forehead, and then Gwen’s cheek. “His name will be Galahad.”

Merlin smiles. “A good name—”

Galahad blinks, and his eyes glow golden. Nothing really happens; it’s not nearly strong enough for that, but Merlin can feel Galahad tugging a little bit at the sense of magic, as if he doesn’t understand why it’s not coming to him. 

“Oh,” Gwen says, and swirls her head towards Merlin.

“Right,” Merlin says, and blushes. He’s too exhausted to think too deeply about the implications of him gifting a child with magic. “That… might be my fault.”

“Well,” Lancelot murmurs, and takes a deep breath. “That will certainly make things interesting.”

~*~

“—and then there’s the issue of the cold, my lord,” Taliesin says, his head bowed as he goes through his scrolls. “The druids are doing the best they can to help the farmers still manage their crops, and the cabbages can deal with winter, largely, but this season has been especially harsh. There are not enough of us to keep up—”

Merlin taps his finger on the desk. His head is pounding; he’s had barely any sleep since he’d helped deliver Galahad, and he still feels faintly ill from the sensation. He’s not sure he’s ever been so out of his own body, and he didn’t like it at all.

“Can we change the weather?” Merlin asks, and keeps himself from letting his head drop forward. He’s been hearing issues all day, and now here is Taliesin, on behalf of the druids. 

“Well, my lord,” Taliesin says, and frowns. “There is nothing to be said for certain, but we have some belief that, perhaps, the weather has already been… affected.”

“Affected,” Merlin says, and pinches his nose. “By whom?”

“King Emrys, this is mere speculation,” Edwin says. “The druids cannot know for certain that there is foul play, and if there is—and that is if—then we can hardly begin to guess at who may have done such a thing.”

“There have been signs, my lord,” Taliesin says, fidgeting. “And visions. Lady Ganna?”

Ganna smiles wryly, as if she would rather not have been involved at all. “The shroud surrounding the High Priestesses grows ever darker, my king,” she says. “That is all I see. But I cannot tell if that has anything to do with the issues at hand.”

“And what have Nimueh and Morgause been doing?” Merlin asks pointedly.

“My lord, I have gone to them to tell them that you will allow them to return to their rituals during Samhain,” Aoife tells him. “They seemed pleased, if nothing else. I imagine they have been preparing for Samhain, as we all have.”

“I’ll go to them myself,” Merlin offers. He has been trying to worm his way out of seeing the Priestesses whenever he can, but in the spirit of attempting to be a good king, maybe there is something to be said for trying for a peace offering of his own.

“My lord, this is not the only instance of issues with the High Priestesses, if it is indeed the case that they have been affecting the magic,” Dubhtach says. “This morning, there was an issue between the followers of the Priestesses and some druids. Your… kind offer to allow them their Samhain rituals was not taken well. I believe they feel slighted.”

Merlin presses a hand to his head. In the distance, he can feel Aithusa trying to pull at him, and he dearly misses her for a second, so strongly that he’s half-tempted to turn into a bird and make his way to her. 

Why does everything need to be so difficult?

“Were the Priestesses themselves involved?” Freya asks. She’s wearing her new crown to the council session, and fidgets with it every three minutes. It’s silver, and a bit less ornate than Merlin’s, but it still looks wonderful against her dark hair.

“No, Princess,” Ganna says. “But their followers are anxious, and we do not know what the Priestesses have told us.”

“Rhonan,” Merlin says, and the manservant standing by the door, unobtrusive and nearly-forgotten—that is, if Merlin was capable of forgetting servants, these days, after his own stint as Arthur’s servant in the shadows—snaps to attention. “Please summon Morgause to my chambers for tomorrow morning. Don’t tell her what it is about.”

“Yes, my king,” Rhonan says, bowing deeply and slipping away. 

“Dismissed,” Merlin says, and at Taliesin’s frown, he adds, “We will deal with the crops, later, Taliesin. When we know if the Priestesses are involved, or if there is something else that is going on. Let’s hope it’s just nature.”

If Taliesin agrees with it or not, Merlin will never know. His advisors aren’t that honest with him, not after the decisions that have been made. Merlin sees his own value to Arthur now better than ever, the way he’d refused to spin half-truths and plain lies, except to protect his own secret. He’d not even considered it, back then, that so many people would try their hardest to please their monarch. Maybe he should have. The worth of sage counsel is beyond gold.

They slowly trickle away, his sorcerers and his advisors. His mother presses a kiss to his cheek, smiling kindly at him, and Freya waves before she enters a debate with Aoife about her protection detail. Merlin doesn’t envy her; Aoife has always taken her duties of defending Dracaneard and its royalty very seriously.

“My lord,” Edwin says, suddenly, and Merlin reels. He hadn’t even realised the youngest court sorcerer had remained behind. “I would have a word with you, if you would like.”

“What is it, Edwin?” Merlin murmurs, and glances behind him towards the door. Aithusa still pulls at him, and he wants to visit Gwen again, just to make sure everything is okay. More than all of that, he wants a moment to himself, if only to pull himself together before he has to face the world.

“I don’t like the thought of you meeting the Priestess by yourself, my lord,” Edwin says, concern edged on his face. “None of this sits well with me, and I know you do not trust them either. I know I am not usually in charge of making sure of your safety, and that you will have matters well in hand considering your own powers, but I would… feel assured if I were to remain by your side.”

“By my side,” Merlin echoes. “For the meeting?”

“For the duration of the threat, my lord,” Edwin says, and smiles tightly. “It would not—be the first time we’ve shared such close quarters.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. And then takes another one, just to calm himself. “Lord Edwin,” he says, and tries to sound as neutral as he can. “That was six years ago, and an offer I haven’t taken you up on since then. What makes you think that’s in any way at all an offer you can make me?”

Edwin blinks. “My lord, I mean no disrespect—”

“I was heartbroken,” Merlin says, and can’t help the way he balls up his fists and is forced to look down. “And you were there, and you were willing. It wasn’t anything else, Edwin, and it never would be. For you to come here, and propose such a thing to me, even under the pretence of protection—how did you imagine this would go?”

“My lord,” Edwin says, and bows so deeply that Merlin can’t see his face. “The lady Ganna saw a handfasting, my lord. Your handfasting. And I would not presume, except that I am one of the stronger druids on this council, and you know how tense the situation has become between the Priestesses and the druids. If things become worse, then a spouse among your allies would only be the sensible thing to do, and I am among your chosen court sorcerers. I would only ever search to please you, even if it were not love.”

“I don’t need allies,” Merlin says, icily cold. “And I don’t need to marry a druid to have their allegiance.”

Edwin’s face is tense. “My lord, you will need some companionship.”

“My friends,” Merlin tells him, and doesn’t even care anymore that he’s raised his voice as he gestures towards the door. “My family. The knights I’ve named, and the people I’ve spent my entire life protecting! I don’t need a spouse, Lord Edwin. And if I’m fated to have one, then I’ll surely be forced into that the way I’ve been forced—” He falls silent, choking on the words.

He should not say them in public. He cannot.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Edwin murmurs, and to his credit, he does look abashed. “I will not bring it up again. Please, if you would be so kind, to consider the whole matter forgotten?”

Merlin feels his chest tighten. “Of course,” he says, and watches as Edwin flees the room. His shoulder sag, and he shakes his head. Aithusa and Galahad will have to wait. The kingship of Dracaneard is looming large over him, the expectations and the desires of the people he is supposed to rule, and he doesn’t know how to bear it all when he’s already trying his hardest.

Maybe this is what he was truly afraid of. Trying, and still failing. He swallows, and then strides out of the door. 

~*~

Morgause’s face is entirely blank when she meets Merlin in his chambers. Aithusa is seated on Merlin’s bed, making a mess out of the sheets, and Merlin just lets her. Rhonan has just come by to clean Merlin’s room and bring him breakfast, and surely would be appalled to know his hard work has already been undone by the world’s smallest fire-breathing threat, but Merlin knows well enough how to make a bed himself.

And who is going to refuse the King of Dracaneard some fresh linen sheets, if he goes to ask for them?

“Good morning, my lord,” she says, and takes the seat on the other side of Merlin’s table. Her dress is immaculate; dark green and befitting a lady with more power in her pinky than most other sorcerers possess in their lifetime. The Priestesses don’t dabble in small magic—everything in them is larger than life. Morgana would have fit them very well indeed, even if Merlin doesn’t think that they fit Morgana.

“Good morning,” he returns. He’s never been good at playing this game, although he’s always liked to see Arthur do it—call his people to him for an explanation, try and see things from their side. Arthur has always tried to be more fair about it, though, and Merlin doesn’t much feel like giving Morgause a lot of space to explain herself in.

“I think I know why you called me here, Lord Emrys,” she says, and calmly sets her hands on her lap. “And I mean to assure you, we have not acted against the throne of Dracanaerd at all. Nimueh and I have kept perfectly to ourselves within the boundaries you’ve placed on us.”

Merlin stares at her. She tilts her head, raising a delicate eyebrow. Her hair curls perfectly around her shoulder, golden as a crown, and she would seem the picture of a perfect court sorceress. Then again, she would never have contented with such a position, directly under the King of Dracaneard.

“You do understand why I placed those boundaries,” he says slowly.

She clicks her tongue, and then laughs. “Understand, yes,” she tells him, and leans forward. “Even those with enough magic in their veins to be considered gods must be fearful of something, must they not? And you’re not truly a god, Emrys, not with the human face your powers hide behind so well. Why, I’m not surprised that other gods scare you as much as they do.”

“It’s not fear,” Merlin says.

“No,” she purrs. “It’s loathing.”

Merlin blinks. “Loathing?” he repeats incredulously. “I don’t hate you, Morgause. I’ve never hated you—that’s just the only thing you understand.”

“Oh, you really should have come around more as a child, Emrys, but I understand how deep the druids have their claws in you,” she says, and waves her hand. “And who can blame your father, really, when he was hoping for the same salvation that they were? They’ve loved you since you popped out of the womb, upsetting the balance of things.”

“I want to restore the balance,” Merlin says, feeling oddly put off. This isn’t the way he intended for this conversation to go, and he can feel it slipping from him, from his grasp into hers. “That is the prophecy, Morgause. That Arthur and I will unite Albion and restore magic.”

“Yes, and you’re so convinced that you know the way of things, when you’re still a child,” she snarls, suddenly vicious. “Until your dragon swooped in and told you of the Pendragon’s fate, you were all still convinced that his line would turn to dust before the Once and Future King would step in. But then you fell in love, did you not, Emrys, and now you won’t even consider another path. Not for the love of your people, or for the magic that you were graciously given.”

“The dragons know things you don’t.”

“The Priestesses have their own thoughts on the prophecy,” she says, and stands up. “You are still young, Emrys. Perhaps I should not hold your naivety against you, but I still do. Your father was wise enough not to make enemies out of the Priestesses, but you are arrogant, like the Pendragons. It is no surprise you like them so much.”

“Did you,” Merlin says lowly, “or did you not spell the weather to affect the crops?”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Morgause says. “And neither have I called upon the goddess’ followers to turn against the druids, child. You are the one who has created this schism in your kingdom, and you are the reason it will fall apart.”

Merlin closes his eyes, breathing hard—the King who lost his kingdom—and straightens his shoulder. The flash of a vision comes back to him—Arthur’s hard gaze on him, and the soft curve of his lips as Merlin bows his face, desperate and lost—and he digs his finger in his thighs so that he doesn’t let on.

He has had this vision before. He has had this vision years ago, when he’d duelled Balinor when he’d come home for Beltane, that very first time after he’d gone to Camelot. He can barely remember all that he’s seen, with the many years that have passed. Something like destiny seems to touch Morgause’s words, and Merlin is delirious with the way it settles on him, like an inevitable future.

Like something he has steered his kingdom towards, even in his attempts to save it.

“Dracaneard,” he says, nearly simmering with anger, “is my birthright. Even beyond a prophecy, even beyond what fate has to say—this land is mine, and its people are mine. And I will protect them, Morgause. I’ll let you have your rituals with Samhain, and I’ll let you raise whatever dead you like, even if it has to be my father. But you won’t touch this kingdom.”

“Samhain is when the Priestesses are strongest, Lord Emrys,” she says, and bows her head in a mockery of respect. “And it is when your people are coldest.”

With that, she sweeps out of the door. Merlin stills where he sits, even when Aithusa whines for attention, and feels the pinprick of his magic to tell him that danger has come, and perhaps has gone.

But it won’t stay gone.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Aithusa,” Merlin coaxes, holding up his arm. At least he’s caved to his mother’s wishes and hasn’t gone up to the roof of the Tower this time, but it feels a bit silly to ask Aithusa to fly when she’s only Merlin’s height from the floor. They are in the courtyard, the space his father used to use to summon the dragons, and that Merlin never has.

She grumbles, and little puffs of smoke come from her nostrils. They aren’t nearly as threatening as Kilgharrah’s, who stares at them with a displeased kind of look.

“She is not a horse, Merlin,” he says. Several servants pass them by, eyeing the dragons cautiously. Merlin just waves at them, and lets his hand drop when they just hurry away.

“I know she’s not,” Merlin says, and turns back to Kilgharrah. “I wouldn’t ask a horse to fly, would I?”

“Sometimes, I wonder,” Kilgharrah says, and lays his head on the ground. Merlin feels severely judged, and ignores him in order to coo at Aithusa again. 

“You can fly,” he says, and lifts up his arm higher and taps on her wings softly. She spreads them marginally, peering at him uncertainly. Even when Merlin helps them flap, she makes a noise at him, and the overwhelming sense of confusion settles through their psychic link. “Come on, Aithusa. You’ve seen your siblings do it, haven’t you?”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah snaps, when Merlin moves her up and down, trying to get her used to the motion.

“What,” Merlin says flatly. “I’m trying to help her.”

“You are trying to force her into something she is not ready for,” Kilgharrah tells him.

Merlin snorts. “Oh, right,” he murmurs. “You’d know, of course. It’s not as if you haven’t made wrong assumptions before. You’re clearly the one to know what people are ready for. She’ll fly.”

“You mistrust me so, Merlin,” Kilgharrah says, and raises himself to his full height. It creates a large shadow over the courtyard, and Merlin doesn’t miss the few people who’d been watching them hurrying away as Kilgharrah huffs. There is little that is more fearsome than an annoyed dragon, but Merlin just straightens his shoulders and looks Kilgharrah in the eye. Above them, a bird flies overhead towards the castle; the only one brave enough to pass over a wild dragon.

“You’re kin, Kilgharrah,” he tells him, and smiles wryly. “But I know better than to rely on you to tell me the full truth.”

“But you will trust Naimroa,” Kilgharrah says, and tilts his head to peer down at Merlin. “A dragon half my age and with far less than half my experience. You will ride Ekaitza, the most violent of my kin I’ve known since my birth.”

The winter sun in mid-morning is barely warm enough for people to linger outside, but Merlin loves the touch of cold on his skin. He has this in common with the druids, if nothing else, he thinks: this innate love for the outside he can’t quite shake, and the restrictions of the castle that bear down on him. Now, Kilgharrah casts him in a shade, and Merlin bitterly reflects that it can be used as a metaphor for his adult life.

There was a time he trusted Kilgharrah to have the best intentions with him. He lost that delusion years ago. Despite himself, Morgause’s words linger in his mind—until your dragon swooped in—and finds himself doubting. She can’t be trusted, but Kilgharrah doesn’t share Merlin’s vision either. 

What if he’s got it all wrong, and he won’t know until the end?

“Everyone’s so convinced they know what the prophecy means,” Merlin says. “I’d like for us to be friends, Kilgharrah, like we used to be. But you keep telling me I’ve got it all wrong, and you’re telling me to mistrust my friends. I don’t know what you’ve seen, and I’m sure there’s things you haven’t told me. But would you betray me, if there was a chance I could make things right?”

“You are too soft-hearted, Merlin,” Kilgharrah tells him. 

Merlin shrugs. “You see, you mean that as an insult,” he says, “but I’ll take it as a compliment instead.”

“The life of one or two humans is nothing—” Kilgharrah’s tail swooshes in displeasure, and his nostrils are flared so widely that Merlin can see the ember glowing where he’d spew his fire, “—nothing in comparison to the prophecy. Not even if it was your life, or any of my kin’s, would I spare you for the golden age.”

“You’re as bad as the Priestesses,” Merlin mutters.

“You should be careful.” Kilgharrah stares at Aithusa, rather than Merlin. If she notices the attention, Merlin can’t tell; she’s still holding onto Merlin’s arm for dear life, her claws digging into the protection he’s wound around his skin. “The Priestesses are fearsome enemies to make. Their magic might even rival yours, at the height of their power, and the lowest depths of yours. And they are more cunning than you could ever be.”

“I know,” Merlin says, and sighs. “Not that I can move against them until they do anything I can prove. Not if I want the rest of the kingdom to think that I’m unfairly attacking them.”

“They already think you have slighted the Priestesses without reason.”

Merlin exhales and casts his eyes to the sky. “That’s lovely. That’s just great.”

“You have not heeded your kingship well,” Kilgharrah says. “I have warned you against this, Merlin. You are dividing your allies, and you will have need of them in the time to come. You should tread carefully, for I will not say it again.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Merlin says, loudly enough that Kilgharrah harrumphs at him. It’s not as if it matters—he’s already scared away everyone else who may have come to the courtyard. It’s just the two of them, and Aithusa clinging onto Merlin.

“They would not tell you,” Kilgharrah says, and lays himself down again. Merlin has to peer against the sudden onset of the pale sunlight, and blinks at Kilgharrah. “They are loyal, but you are unwilling to listen. You are testing your people, Merlin, even if you do not see it that way. But perhaps you have grown to expect loyalty.”

Merlin sits down, cross-legged, and stares at Aithusa. “I am trying to do what is right.”

“You are acting like a child,” Kilgharrah says, displeased. “You can forbid me to speak the truth, young warlock, but you know that I have always been on your side. Our goals are the same: we only wish to see Albion united. You have been distracted by your grief, and still, clarity eludes you. You have let the Priestesses plot, and you cling to a dragon that should be growing up in her home—”

“Sometimes,” Merlin says, “I think you’re as bad as Ekaitza. I have let the Priestesses plot? I haven’t let them do anything. I’m—I know I can’t get anything right these days, and I don’t need to be reminded of it, no matter what you tell me.”

Kilgharrah glares. “Then pray, Merlin, why haven’t you done anything about it?”

Merlin closes his eyes, wishing his father were still here. He spent the hour before Morgause’s visit kneeling in front of his father’s old sword Caliburn, which now has a place of honour under the castle with Balinor’s tomb. He’d hoped it would give him some clarity, and he thought it had. 

He feels dizzy with his own disorientation. There is very little he can do, realistically, except go back in time and fix his mistakes with the Priestesses—and then there is the fact he doesn’t really want to. They deserve every word he’s slung towards them, and every ritual they’ve been unable to do is less favour towards their cruel goddesses.

They are the magic that turned Albion against them all in the first place. Merlin takes a deep breath to calm himself, and Aithusa pushes her head into his stomach, clearly noticing his turmoil.

He smiles carefully, and scratches her wings.

“I will,” he says, his words clipped and measured. “The Priestesses will be dealt with. And Aithusa will stay with me, as she’s supposed to.”

“She won’t learn to fly from your lessons, Merlin,” Kilgharrah says sternly.

He opens his mouth, and doesn’t know what he is planning on saying. He’ll never know, actually, because before anything comes out, Freya runs out of the castle, holding onto her dress for dear life.

“Merlin,” she says, and her chest heaves with effort. “You need to come. There’s a letter for you.”

“Can’t it wait?” Merlin asks, squinting at her. 

She bites her lower lip, and slowly shakes her head. “It’s from Arthur.”

~*~

It’s a make-shift council session that follows, when they’re all assembled in Merlin’s chambers. Hunith is there, and Gwaine stands by the door with a solemn expression on his face. Aoife and Taliesin are the only court sorcerers who could come on such short notice. Will has an arm slung around Freya, and neither of them look very confident that Arthur’s letter will have anything positive to report. 

Neither does Merlin, to be honest. Arthur doesn’t write to him; he doesn’t write to Arthur. Everything Merlin knows from Camelot is through Morgana’s letters or reports of those who pass by, and that is the way he’s accepted things must be. The wax seal on this letter is Arthur’s personal one, however, with the Pendragon crest on top of it. It’s still unbroken.

“Merlin,” Hunith says kindly, when Merlin has stared at the unopened letter for probably longer than is socially acceptable. Merlin swallows, and breaks the seal.

“What is it?” Freya asks at once, and Merlin’s eyes scan over the words—wouldn’t come to you if I had any other choice, but there’s no one else who can—and he holds up his hand.

“It’s about Morgana,” he says quietly. Merlin, please. You are the only one who can—

“What about her?” Gwaine asks, eyebrow raised as he nods towards the letter. “Isn’t that family business?”

“It’s not that simple,” Merlin says, and folds the letter—know I am to blame, and I will not hold it against you if you’ve lost your regard for me in this or anything else—and puts it in his pocket. It creaks as he leans against the edge of his table and sighs. “I haven’t heard of her for a while. I didn’t think it was anything important, but then Mordred came to me, and clearly…”

“Mordred?” Taliesin asks. “My apprentice?”

Merlin gestures vaguely towards the forest outside. “He spent some time with her when she was with Iseldir. They’re close, apparently, although I didn’t know until he came to ask me if I’d heard of her. I’m not—I don’t know what to do.”

“What is Arthur asking, love?” Hunith pushes gently.

He runs a hand over his face. “He’s asking me if I want to come and help. She is… attacking Northumbria, apparently. Arthur says she was just gone one day, no idea why, or why she’s so annoyed with King Caerleon. But she’s using magic openly, and he can’t—he doesn’t have the power to retrieve her, and he doesn’t want to…”

“Deal with her,” Will says, and scrunches his nose. “It’s a Pendragon trait, isn’t it?”

Merlin can’t even say anything to that, but he sends Will a warning glance anyway. “She’s risking outright war,” Merlin says. “Northumbria is neutral, but Arthur is trying for an alliance—and I doubt they’ll go for it if Arthur’s sister is attacking them.”

“My lord, Camelot’s alliances aren’t our problem,” Aoife says carefully. “The largest issue is that Northumbria might ally themselves with Deorham. I am not sure King Alined has forgiven your involvement in their war with Gawant. If not for you, they would have won that battle.”

Merlin’s ears glow red. He hadn’t even been thinking about any of that. “I can’t just leave her,” he says. “She’s my friend, and she didn’t even know about her magic until I came to Camelot. She’s upset, but she’s not… evil.”

“King Emrys,” Taliesin says gently. “I advise against leaving while the tension with the Priestesses runs so high. And so close to Samhain.”

Merlin groans, and lets his head drop to the table with a loud thunk. He can hear Will’s sharp intake of breath as if he’s trying to hold his laughter, but no one else says anything. They won’t, he knows, simply because he’s the king, and he’s allowed to do anything he likes, even if it’s acting like a petulant child who can’t make up his own mind. Birthright or prophecy; Dracaneard or Camelot; Arthur or not. It doesn’t make for a good king, though.

He slowly raises his head. They all stare at him in sympathy.

“I don’t think I can let this slide,” he says apologetically, and holds up a hand when Aoife opens her mouth. “I know. I know that it’s not ideal, and she’s Arthur’s responsibility. I know that I don’t have to cave simply because Arthur sent me a letter. But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I think that all people with magic should have a safe haven in Dracaneard, and Morgana hasn’t had one before. She was with the druids for days before she had to go back, which she did for Arthur’s sake. She has been championing our cause with him even when I—”

He falls silent. Hunith carefully slides back one of the other seats at his table, and sits down, folding her hands over his own. “You have a good heart, Merlin,” she says solemnly.

“I think I need to talk to Mordred,” he says, and bites his lower lip. “Maybe he knows where this is coming from. And it’ll—look, if I take Naimroa, it’ll only take me a day to fly to Northumbria, and a day back.”

“And cross the borders with a dragon, my lord?” Aoife asks sharply.

Merlin shrugs. “I think they’ll forgive me for it if I take away Morgana. It’s not Samhain for another ten days—I’ll be back with a week to spare.”

“What we haven’t considered,” Freya says slowly, “is if she’ll want to come with you at all.”

The matter hangs heavily in the air. Merlin has no answers for it, because if Morgana has become mad enough with Arthur’s policies to outright attack other kingdoms, Merlin can’t imagine she’s in a mindset that might allow her to see him in a friendly light, no matter how he thinks of her. The last time he saw her in person was right before Arthur’s coronation, and it has been four years. Letters can’t say everything.

But it’s Morgana, and after everything, that has to count for something.

“I’ll convince her,” Merlin says. “I have to.”

And with that, the matter is concluded.

~*~

The knock on the door echoes loudly, and Merlin winces at the sound of his own fist banging on the wood, no matter how softly he tries to do it. He waits for a second, ready to turn away, and then the door opens to reveal Lancelot’s haggard face, unshaven and with dark shadows under his eyes—and with the most pleased look on his face that Merlin has ever seen.

“My lord Emrys,” Lancelot says, and tugs him into an embrace. Merlin falls in Lancelot’s arms, and carefully pats him on the back. Lancelot smells like sweat, but his odour misses the normal tinge of metal and chainmail. 

“So I see fatherhood suits you,” Merlin says, and can’t help but smile when Lancelot lets go of him. “How are Galahad and Gwen?”

“Fussy, the both of them,” Lance says, but his grin betrays him as he amends, “No, they’re absolutely lovely. Galahad is sleeping, and Gwen’s just in the other room, resting up. We’ve only just finished dinner, and there are some leftovers, if you want to join us.”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” Merlin says awkwardly.

Lancelot’s grin softens, and he pats Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin, I don’t think you can,” he murmurs. “I know what you did when Gwen was giving birth, and if I hadn’t sworn my loyalty to you before, I would have after. I am in your debt.”

Merlin scratches his neck awkwardly. “It’s nothing.”

“Is that Merlin?” Gwen’s voice calls from the other side of the room, and Lance ushers him to their quarters. Lancelot, as the First Knight to both Balinor and Merlin, has always had a good set of chambers, but Merlin had upgraded him as soon as Gwen had announced her pregnancy. Lancelot’s rooms, when he hadn’t yet been married, had been rather sparse, but Gwen has made the space their own. Especially now, children’s clothes and toys are strewn about—in the corner, there’s a wooden dragon toy that Merlin had given them, and he smiles at the sight of it. It lies with Galahad in his crib, in the far end of the room.

“Hi, Gwen,” he says, and leans forward to kiss her cheek. She smiles in bemusement. “I hope you’re doing well?”

“As well as can be expected after pushing a child out of my belly,” she says pointedly, raising an eyebrow towards Lancelot, and then patting Merlin’s arm. “It’s lovely to see you, Merlin. We haven’t had the chance to thank you properly.”

“And you don’t have to, either,” Merlin says. “That is, well. Sorry for accidentally giving your child some magic? I’ve no idea if he’ll grow out of it, really, but obviously I’ll have all of the court sorcerers at his beck and call if he doesn’t and it’s something he wants to pursue—”

“Merlin.” Lancelot crosses his arms. “We don’t mind.”

“Besides, magic runs in the family,” Gwen says, a little awkwardly. Merlin blinks at her, befuddled, and she quickly adds, “Oh, no, not me, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what it’s like. My brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Merlin says.

Gwen shrugs. “He left a long time ago,” she says, and casts her eyes on little Galahad in the corner, fast asleep in his crib. “I’ve no idea if Elyan is still alive. He had to flee Camelot, you see, or at least I think he did. He didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says quietly. He’s heard many of these stories before; families torn apart from the persecution, brothers and sisters; fathers and mothers; sons and daughters running from home to avoid being killed for something they couldn’t control. They deserve better, all of them, and especially Gwen.

“He’s not in Dracaneard,” Lancelot murmurs, and that’s enough to stop Merlin asking. 

“That’s not what this is about, however,” Gwen says pointedly, and smiles at Merlin. “Did you come to visit Galahad? Your mother was over the other day, and he seemed very taken with her. He’s asleep now, though, poor thing. He fussed all night.”

“Sorry, no, as much as I wish I was,” Merlin says, and winces again. “I actually came to ask you about… Morgana.”

“Morgana?” Gwen’s face morphs into a frown. “I haven’t heard from her in weeks. Should I have?”

That’s what Merlin was afraid of. “Arthur sent me a letter. Morgana is attacking Northumbria with magic. He’s no idea why, but he asked me if I can stop her. And bring her to Dracaneard.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen says, and presses her lips together in consternation. “I had no idea. I knew she was upset, but to this degree…”

“What will you do?” Lancelot asks, eyes dark as he looks at Merlin.

“I’ve little choice,” Merlin says, and huffs at his own words. He does have a choice; he’s just already made it. “I’m leaving at dawn. Naimroa will carry me, and hopefully I’ll be back in three days with Morgana. If she’ll come.”

“I will come with you,” Lancelot offers instantly.

Merlin shakes his head. “No. No, Lance, you have to stay here. With your wife, and with your child.”

Lancelot swallows hard, his eyes flitting between Gwen and Merlin. “You are my king.”

“Yes, and she’s the one you promised your loyalty to when you handfasted her,” Merlin points out, nodding towards Gwen. “Galahad was born days ago, Lance. You can’t leave her now, and I won’t let you. I’ve got a whole court of knights and sorcerers at my command.”

“Will Gwaine come?” Lancelot guesses.

Merlin shuffles. “I haven’t picked anyone yet.”

“So you’re going alone.” Lancelot takes two strides to take Merlin by the shoulders, and perhaps it’s a good thing that Merlin never actually managed to spend a night with him in his teenage years, despite all his attempts, because surely that would have made things all the more awkward now. “My lord—Merlin, I can’t impress enough upon you how bad of an idea that is.”

“It’s Morgana,” Gwen says, frowning hard. “Surely she won’t hurt Merlin?”

“Merlin.” Lancelot lowers his head. “I let my king ride off on a dragon last time, and he did not come back. I know you still carry the guilt for that—I know, and it shouldn’t be yours. I was supposed to protect him, not you. And I won’t have it happen again. Not to you.”

“This isn’t the same thing,” Merlin says, although it’s hard to swallow through the grief that surges up. “Lance, I have to go alone. Because I have to show her that I trust her.”

“Lance,” Gwen says firmly, before the knight can open his mouth. His head swerves towards her, although he still holds onto Merlin’s shoulders tightly. “Can you leave us for a moment? I want to talk to Merlin.”

Lancelot stares at her for a second. Slowly, he drops his hands and nods. He eyes Merlin, and then disappears into the other room. Merlin listens to him clutter around for a moment; Lancelot will be restless. He has never been able to stand being left out of these things, not when he feels he must help.

“You understand, don’t you?” he asks, and Gwen half-smiles.

“I do,” she says, and stands up. She gently scoops Galahad up from his cradle, and stares at the little face of her infant son. “I can’t imagine losing him, Merlin. Neither of them. I’ve had so little family, ever since my father’s death and Elyan’s disappearance, and I found it again here. But before that, I had Morgana.”

“I can’t believe she’d hurt me,” Merlin says. “And I don’t want her to think I believe she is capable of it. I trust her, even if she doesn’t trust herself.”

“But I understand Lancelot too,” Gwen adds, and slowly makes her way to Merlin. Merlin can’t help but stare at Galahad, yawning in his sleep, and squirming in his mother’s grip. Little tufts of dark hair stand upright on his head, and Gwen runs her hand over them. “Because Merlin, you are family, too. Mine, and Lancelot’s, and we hope Galahad’s. So as much as I can’t imagine losing Lancelot, I don’t want to imagine losing you.”

“It’s not the same thing as my father, Gwen,” he murmurs. “I’m trying—to be better. For all of you, and for Morgana. If I abandon Morgana, I don’t know what that says about me. I couldn’t save my father, and if I can’t—it’s been hard, and I don’t think I can do it again.”

“You could’ve talked to us,” she insists. “We’ve all lost people, Merlin, and it’s been a year and a half. You’re still so intent on carrying around this guilt, first when you were grieving and now in how hard you’re trying to move on. Perhaps it’s time to let him rest and focus on the future. He’d want you to—”

“He knew I wasn’t ready,” Merlin snaps, and immediately quietens his tone as he looks at the sleeping Galahad in Gwen’s arms. “Everyone says that, don’t you know? That it’s been a year and a half, as if I should’ve—as if I could have… that you get six months to grieve, or a year, and then magically there’s this morning you wake up and you’re fine and I can pick up that crown and be good at this, like I have never been in my life, and that’s just—I haven’t woken up and thought I was alright. Not a single morning. And that was acceptable for the first few months, but now they expect me to be, because they need me to be. And I can’t.”

“Merlin—”

“No,” Merlin says, and wearily leans against the wall, dropping his face in his hands. The tears sting heavily, embarrassment and failure and grief all coming to surface. “He’s dead, and it’s my fault, and I shouldn’t be here. Kilgharrah once told me I wasn’t supposed to be the leader of a kingdom, and that’s because I can’t be. Fate picked the wrong person. But I can help Morgana, and I will come back and deal with all the other messes I’ve made. Because if there’s anything Arthur taught me, it is that I should.”

“You are not doing this alone,” Gwen says sharply. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Merlin. You’re not. Do you think Arthur managed to do it all by himself?”

“I think he’s got just as many advisors as I do,” Merlin says wryly.

Gwen tilts her head to give him a pointed look. “He had you.”

“Not as king.” Merlin exhales. “Not for years, and he’s still doing it.”

“Because he’s doing so well, right now?” Gwen asks. Merlin blinks. And he hadn’t even considered it like that, because Arthur always seems like he’s doing so well. Morgana hasn’t said a word to the contrary, but she may not be the most trustworthy advice to rely on right now. Merlin’s own informants don’t tend to get close enough to the king to give a good account of his well being, and Merlin had assumed.

But he has no idea if Arthur is doing well.

“I understand things are complicated,” Gwen says kindly, and hands Galahad over to Merlin. It’s so unexpected that Merlin can’t even think to protest; from one moment to the next, there’s a baby in his arms, a very content look on his face as he sleeps. The tendrils of magic reach out between them, and Merlin doesn’t know if that’s the magic’s doing or Galahad’s. Slowly, he lets it settle down, and lets it fade back into the world. Galahad weighs nearly nothing, as early-born as he was.

“Hello,” Merlin murmurs.

“He is your family too, if you’ll have him,” Gwen continues, and presses a kiss to Galahad’s forehead. “He has magic as well, and I know you still believe in your destiny, Merlin, no matter what you say. Galahad deserves a future where he’s free to do as he likes, just as everyone else in this kingdom does. Just as you do. So I want you to do what your father did: trust yourself.”

“Thanks, Gwen,” Merlin says quietly, and hands Galahad back to her. She smiles wryly, and then kisses his forehead too, and Merlin lets her.

~*~

“I do not think this is the best way to do this,” Naimroa says, and stares at him with intent eyes. “Kilgharrah will be displeased.”

Merlin shrugs, careful with the precious package tied to him. “I didn’t think you’d care for Kilgharrah’s opinion.”

The pale light touches the hills, and Merlin takes in the cold air. His cheeks burn from the cold despite the many layers he wears; he knows better than to go unprepared on dragonback. He doesn’t have much else with him; food for several days and a blanket for the night, and that’s all. He hopes he won’t need much else.

Well, and he has brought some meat for Aithusa. He has taken his old neckerchief to tie against his body, and she seems rather pleased with the mode of transportation. She chirps cheerfully at him, scratching his chin with her nose.

“My lord,” a voice calls him. Merlin whirls around, only to see Mordred tumble down the stone path from the castle towards the dragon’s den, red-cheeked from the cold and his curls blowing in the strong wind. 

“Mordred,” Merlin says, raising a single eyebrow the way Gaius used to do to him. By the gods, he misses his uncle. “What are you doing here?”

Mordred had come to him late the night before, only to confirm he hadn’t heard of Morgana. He hadn’t seemed all too surprised to hear that she’d found herself in trouble, although Merlin hadn’t confided where he’d be going or what she’d been doing. If he does manage to come back with Morgana, he doesn’t want her to suffer from the same sort of estrangement she had last time. She’ll come as his honoured guest, and not as anything else.

He can’t keep the news hidden forever, not if it’s as bad as Arthur made it sound, but at least he can give her a first impression in Dracaneard’s court.

“I want to come with you,” Mordred says earnestly, his eyes pale and intent on Merlin’s. Please, Lord Emrys. I want to help her.

“First off, don’t do that,” Merlin says, putting a hand to his forehead. “I’ve got dragons in my head already, and I don’t need any druids.”

“—My lord—”

“And second of all, Mordred,” Merlin continues, “You’re an apprentice. It doesn’t matter how much raw power you have, or how strongly you feel about Lady Morgana. You’ll see her if she decides to come with me, and I promise you I’ll do my best to do right by her.”

“I have Seen this, my lord,” Mordred says, and peers up at him. “I want to help. I know she is in Northumbria.”

Merlin falls silent for a moment, turning up towards Naimroa. His dragon only bares her teeth and turns away, content to let him decide. Merlin sighs, and shakes his head at Mordred. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve Seen,” he says wearily. “Visions aren’t reliable, Mordred, Taliesin will have told you that by now. It’s best if it’s just me, and if I were to take anyone else—it wouldn’t have been you.”

Mordred eyes him for a moment, and Merlin stares right back. A thrill of magic runs through him, for a second, something elusive that surrounds Mordred. Not a single muscle in Mordred’s face pulls, and then he steps away, not breaking his gaze at all.

“I understand, my lord,” he says blankly. “If you feel you must go alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin tells him. “I really am, Mordred. I know what it’s like to be told to be on the sidelines when a friend is in danger, and not to be allowed to step in to help.” He pats Aithusa’s head. “I’m not alone, though, and I promise you; I’ll bring her home.” 

Whether Morgana decides that’s Camelot or Dracaneard is yet to be decided. Mordred doesn’t say anything, and Merlin hoists himself on Naimroa’s back when she holds her wing for him to climb.

Then she throws herself in the sky, with Aithusa letting out a noise of distress at the sudden speed. Merlin holds onto Naimroa’s scales, and Mordred’s figure becomes smaller and smaller on the ground.

~*~

Northumbria’s capital lies by the Great Sea of Meredor, which is not nearly so great as the name makes it sound. Merlin has seen the sea before, albeit rarely, but he has never been duly impressed by the crashing waves of grey and white or the way the birds shriek at the coast. No, give him a canopy to lie under and blades of grass to tickle his neck.

Nonetheless, the capital itself is an impressive thing, if not a beautiful one. Merlin remembers the first time he’d looked upon Camelot, and how fascinated he had been by the sight of it. It’s not at all like King Caerleon’s castle, which sits grey and dull on the rocks, as if it guards the world of the earth from the salty water that tries to devour it.

It is, however, the capital currently plagued by Morgana. He’d hoped she might be found near the border, so at least Merlin has the excuse of not coming in to impose on King Caerleon and Queen Annis with his dragon. Undoubtedly, the first people in the citadel will have already spotted Naimroa’s shadow in the sky. He’d used the same tracking spell to find Morgana that he’d used for Julius Borden.

The irony is not lost on him. Lancelot had told him not to treat it as the same thing, and Merlin still feels the memories settle in; Balinor’s grin when Merlin had told him what spell he’d used, and the clear pride he’s always had in Merlin’s abilities. Merlin blinks away the tears and holds tightly to Naimroa.

If she senses anything of his disturbance, she doesn’t say.

“Land outside the city, Naimroa,” he tells her, patting her scales and holding tightly onto Aithusa. The wind makes it hard for him to see, but he’s relying on magic to tell him where to go. He thinks he could do this part without vision at all, the way Morgana is unleashing hers. It’s almost causing him a headache, the way she is disturbing the balance of things.

And it’s not all light magic either. Merlin thinks back to Mordred telling him about her questions on the Priestesses, and concern settles heavily in his chest. 

“Morgana, what have you been doing,” he murmurs to himself, and Naimroa sets in her descent. 

Of course he’s not alone when he jumps off Naimroa’s back, landing on his feet with a huff. Various townspeople, and those who live on the edges of the city, are already coming to warily stand by him. Several of them carry swords and axes, and Merlin raises his hands in defence.

“Are you Emrys?” one of them asks, a middle-aged man whose features seem to be eternally etched into a frown. He doesn’t carry a sword, but Merlin spots the sharp knife on his belt. 

“Erm,” Merlin says. “Yes. Hi. Sorry about the dragons, I promise they’re harmless—” Naimroa huffs out a breath full of fiery smoke, “—well. Relatively harmless. Harmless to you.”

That could have gone better, as far as introductions go, and Merlin winces. Aithusa chitters as if she has a conversation with the stranger herself; Merlin can feel her stinging curiosity at the new faces.

“Are you here about the witch?” a woman asks, stepping forward. A man close to her stops her with a hand on his arm, and the hushed whispers rise up in the wind. 

Merlin breathes out. “Yes. I’m here about the witch. Where is she?”

No one needs to speak to tell Merlin. They all look the same direction in which the magic is tugging Merlin. He nods at Naimroa—she needs no other orders, and simply sets herself down, staring down the crowd. They all take a step back, nearly falling over themselves.

“Humans,” she murmurs, and Merlin shakes his head at her. She bares her teeth and lays down her head on her claws, sheathing them pointedly, as if to tell him that she can be kind, if she needs to be.

“I’ll just—” Merlin says, gesturing in the right direction, and smiles tightly. “Yeah.”

He’s glad Arthur isn’t here to laugh at him for that. Merlin stumbles away, towards the citadel, Aithusa still wrapped in his neckerchief. Morgana is wreaking havoc, but she hasn’t come far within the city; at least the guardsmen are making sure of that. Merlin encounters several of them, unconscious but thankfully not dead; in fact, Merlin remembers the sleeping spell he’d used himself when Balinor had come to Camelot, when several guards had attempted to stop him from returning to the castle.

He shouldn’t be surprised. She’s always been a keen student.

“Stop there—” one guard, helmet down and sword up, calls at him when Merlin walks through the open gates. He must be the only one left here, or perhaps he’d only just come as back-up for all the other guards who’d disappeared; Merlin just holds up his hands and the man falls asleep, right next to his brothers in arms.

“Oh, Morgana,” he mutters to himself, eyeing the path of destruction she’s left. The cobblestones of Northumbria’s citadel have been upended by unnatural roots with pointy thorns, and a path of unconscious guards would lead him right to her if the magic wouldn’t do the trick.

Instead, he closes his eyes, and tugs at her magic. Her confusion bleeds through at once, the vague impression of his name, and then he inhales and takes the magic away from her. He can feel her crying out right away, the loss of it bleeding right into her soul, and Merlin can’t breathe from the loss of it, the gaping echo in his soul where pure sound should be—

He opens his eyes again, and swallows hard.

“Morgana,” he calls, and hears a shriek from several corridors away. He runs, stumbling over the roots and over the uneven roads; he ignores all the civilians shrieking at the sight of him, tumbling away at the unfamiliar sorcerer, and makes his way towards her. She lies against a wall, a cocoon of plants surrounding her, the thorn having scratched her cheek as she’d lost her control.

“Merlin,” she says, and lets out an unholy sob. Merlin’s chest floods with relief, because that is not the sound of someone who hates him; her cheeks are streaked with tears, and her eyes are red. 

“Āċierraþ,” he commands the vines, and the magic obeys him before he’s even uttered the words as they disappear in the cracks between the cobblestones, slithering out of existence as they must have come into it. Merlin drops to his knees next to Morgana, heedless of the hardness of the stones when he embraces her.

“Merlin,” she cries out, and hugs him so tightly he almost can’t breathe. Aithusa lets out a smothered sound, and Morgana pulls back a bit, surprise etched on her face. “I didn’t think you’d come—and with a dragon? I wasn’t—I couldn’t stop, and you took it from me—”

“I’ll give it back,” Merlin says quickly, his nose still pressed in her dark hair, unwashed and greasy, and takes her shoulders to look her in the face. “Morgana, what’s going on? What are you doing here, and to these people?”

Her face twists; for a second, she reminds him of the Priestesses, and that stab of concern makes him think of Dracaneard. Then she runs a sleeve over her face, and she’s more like the proud Morgana he’s always known, if a bit paler. “Arthur won’t change his laws,” she says. “He’s a coward, and all he dares to do is to lift the death penalty. That’s as far as he’ll go. Can you believe it, of my dear brother?”

Merlin swallows. “Is that why you left?”

“Oh, it’s why I left,” she confirms, and the sneer on her face can’t quite hide her desperation. “And then I heard a report from Caerleon killing a poor woman simply for using a magical remedy to cure her daughter, and I can’t—you know, Merlin, you know that these people don’t even have enough magic to defend themselves, so I will do it for them. I will.”

“Morgana,” he murmurs, and cups her cheek gently, as if she might break. Her eyes are wild, nearly unfocused. It is grief in her; not because she has lost someone, but because she has lost all hope that Arthur will act.

And Merlin knows the taste of grief all too well.

“You think me mad,” she says bitterly. “Perhaps I’ve got that from my father.”

Merlin presses his lips together. “I don’t think you’re mad,” he says gently, and is all too well aware of the guards that are coming to surround them, swords carefully raised as if they’re not so sure what to do. “I think you’ve been very brave to live openly in a kingdom where you have to hide. I know what it does to a person.”

“Oh, then surely you’ve dealt with the tyrants of Albion as well,” she snaps. 

Merlin exhales and leans forward, resting his forehead against hers, and whispers, “This isn’t the way to change things, Morgana. I swear to you, there’s a way, and this isn’t it.”

She stares at him, quietly, and Merlin feels as if she is assessing his words and his sincerity. They have both grown up, and perhaps have both grown tired of their respective roles, but Merlin can’t yet give up on the prophecy. Even if fate tricks him once again, and even if destiny will defy all his expectations, that prophecy has been written since the dawn of time, and that means something.

Arthur will unite Albion, and magic will return. Merlin must let go of all expectations but that one.

“I don’t know if I believe that,” she says.

“I’ll believe it for you,” Merlin promises. “Come on. I’ve come to take you back to Camelot, if that’s what you want. And if not… there’s a set of rooms prepared at Dracaneard for you. Gwen’s just given birth to her first child. They’ve named him Galahad. She’d love to see you.”

That, at least, pulls a smile to Morgana’s lips. “She’s had the child?”

“And he’s perfectly healthy,” Merlin tells her, and pulls away further. They have to hurry; Morgana may still be too out of it, and surely she’s disoriented with the loss of her magic after using it so violently, but the guards are slowly amassing, and the first of them have drawn their swords as they approach.

“I can’t go back to Camelot,” Morgana says, and presses her eyes shut. “And I won’t, Merlin. I’ll never return.”

“Come on,” Merlin mutters, and stumbles to his feet. One hand, he holds out to the guards, and they must have thought him too involved with Morgana to notice their advance. Merlin lets the magic surge up, and knows how it makes his eyes glow gold, warning them off. 

The other hand he reaches out to Morgana, and she takes it. He tugs her up, and he exhales loudly as she falls against his chest, her dark hair covering her face from the guards.

“Just let us pass,” Merlin says to the first of the guards; a man with light, curling hair that reaches just over his shoulders, and an unkind sneer that twists his face. 

The guard shakes his head slowly. “She has attacked our citadel, and injured many of our people,” he says, and raises his sword towards Morgana. “I don’t know how you are involved in this, sorcerer, but if you are her co-conspirator, both of you must see justice.”

“I came to help,” Merlin says. Under his chin, Aithusa growls, and a small trail of grey smoke pours from her nostrils. 

If the guard is scared of the baby dragon, he doesn’t show it. “I have my doubts.”

“She is in my custody now, and she will remain so,” Merlin tells him decisively, and takes a second to send to Naimroa, I’ve got her. Come and get us. He senses more than hears Naimroa’s response.

Perhaps these guards were too busy dealing with Morgana to have seen the dragon in the sky, or perhaps they don’t know what it means, because a second guard says, “You will halt, and tell us your name, so we may bring you before our king.”

Merlin smiles bitterly. “I am King Emrys of Dracaneard,” he says, and that is enough to halt the guards in their step. They whisper between themselves at once; presumably, they’ve no idea what to do when a foreign monarch comes to visit on dragonback. “You can tell your king that I’m only here out of courtesy, and that I don’t expect any gratitude.”

“Lord,” the first guard says, and his sword wavers. “She has all but destroyed the citadel’s entrance, and over a dozen men are injured. If you are here to help, then let us bring her to justice. Our justice, and not Dracaneard’s.”

He has a point, truth be told. Merlin really has no business getting involved in Northumbria’s judicial system, except that he knows what they do to those with magic, and King Caerleon is not in the habit of being any more kind than Uther was. And Morgana is under his protection.

“I don’t recognise your laws on magic,” he says, and shrugs. In the citadel, he can hear the alarmed shouts as Naimroa appears, a dark, glittering shadow against the grey sky. The guards are equally stunned, and most of them crane up their necks to watch as Naimroa lets herself fall on top of the roof of a building, sending it crashing. Merlin quickly looks away, trying not to cough in the dirt, and immediately checks that Aithusa is still safely attached against him in his old neckerchief.

“Dragon King,” Naimroa says, and peers down at the guards with an amused expression. They all flee in the dust of the rubble, and Merlin wipes his sleeve over his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks Morgana, who is being uncharacteristically quiet and still pressed against him.

“I am fine, Merlin,” she murmurs. “I’m just not glad about what will come next.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he tells her steadfastly, because magic is the only thing he’s never had to doubt. He lets hers trickle back—not to its full extent, but enough so that she won’t suffer the loss of it. She frowns at him, nearly doubling over at its return, but Merlin just nods before she gets the chance to say anything.

Naimroa extends her wing to them, and Merlin helps her climb it. Morgana’s dress was already torn in places, and now the dust clings to it as well, tiny bits of stone and roof in the cloth and in her hair. Merlin must look equally unclean, even if his clothes haven’t torn, and he grabs hold of Morgana’s middle as Naimroa reaches for the sky. Aithusa chitters in fear again, but Merlin’s focus is on Morgana.

Morgana shudders and holds onto him tightly, even when the citadel disappears behind them. Merlin watches her in concern, and the way her eyes can’t seem to meet his.

“Do you think you can forgive me?” she asks quietly, after they’ve been in flight for nearly an hour. It is the first thing she says, because Merlin hadn’t pressed.

Merlin presses his lips together. “It’s not my forgiveness you’ll need to worry about,” he tells her, and can feel his shoulders slump. “I understand, Morgana. And there’s nothing you can do to lose my friendship.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes.

Chapter Text

It is early in the following morning that they pass the barrier of Dracaneard.

They’ve ridden Naimroa through most of the night, mostly to assuage Merlin’s gnawing concerns about home. When he sleeps—and he only does so restlessly—it’s to dream of the castle burned down, or Freya’s form with a knife through her chest, or Will cursing him for ever leaving his home defenceless.

But when Naimroa touches down, in the middle of the courtyard, nothing seems to have happened. Merlin didn’t realise he thought there would be some retribution until he can feel his heart beating in his throat upon his return, and lets himself fall from Naimroa’s back. It’s still dark out, but Hunith must have waited for him, because she stands there, looking as if she hasn’t slept at all.

“Mother,” he murmurs, and lets himself fall in Hunith’s arms. Aithusa chatters in annoyance as she’s squished between them, and Merlin quickly unwraps himself to give her more space.

“Welcome home, Merlin,” Hunith says, half-indulgent and half-worried, and kisses his cheek. “Did you really need to bring Aithusa with you?”

“Everything’s okay?” he presses, because surely she would have said if it wasn’t, but he can’t help the gnawing doubt. It isn’t as if the Priestesses knew he would be leaving Dracaneard, of course, but still. They can’t touch him, but Aoife can’t watch out over everyone. Not when it comes to the Priestesses’ power.

She runs a hand over his cheek. “Everyone’s safe, love,” she tells him, and watches over his shoulder to see Morgana’s careful approach, as if she’s unsure of her welcome. “It is good to see you, Lady Morgana.”

“Lady Hunith,” she says, and curtsies. She is still pale, but Merlin doesn’t know how much of it is from her recent adventure and from the near-sleepless night.

“We’ve prepared rooms for you, and I had a hot bath drawn as soon as I saw Naimroa,” Hunith says, and lays a hand on Morgana’s arm. She eyes Merlin, as if to ask him a question, and Merlin quietly nods. Hunith smiles, and takes Morgana’s arm in grip more firmly, to steer her away.

Morgana looks back at him, and Merlin smiles at her. “We’ll talk later,” he assures her. He wouldn’t mind a bath himself, or a few more hours of sleep. Aithusa is fussing against him, distraught with the long journey and all the new things she’d discovered.

That’s part of growing, though, and Merlin wearily scratches her ears. 

“Kilgharrah will not be pleased,” Naimroa says evenly. “He cares much for the traditions of our kin, Dragonchild. And now—I do not think it was wise to bring Aithusa.”

“I didn’t want to leave her here,” Merlin says defensively.

“Why?” Naimroa says. She is quiet, soft, and Merlin tries to feel like she isn’t talking to a scared animal, if only because that is not in a dragon’s nature. They are the ones to frighten and to impress, not to console grief-stricken kings.

Merlin feels off-kilter for it, and looks down at Aithusa. “What if something happened to her?” he says. “The Priestesses—well, they could do a lot with a dragon.”

“She would have been kept safe by Kilgharrah,” Naimroa tells him. “And Ekaitza and Rathuris would never let anything happen to her.”

The first streaks of light from the coming dawn paint her scales into a glimmering light, and she stretches her wings. She is not as impressive as Kilgharrah, in full height, but she is still the second-tallest dragon in the world, and Merlin feels his heart jump in his throat for a moment.

It’s only Naimroa. She would never harm him.

“I just—” Merlin says, and stumbles over his words. “I couldn’t leave her.”

Naimroa sits down again, proper as a bird. “You are slipping,” she says slowly, “into a kind of grief we cannot pull you from, Dragonchild. We would protect you, but we cannot see where you go. You must listen.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin says brusquely. He doesn’t want to discuss any of it—not why he brought Aithusa, and not how often he’d thought of his father while soaring on Naimroa’s back. There used to be a time when flying only brought him joy.

“She brings you a peace none of us do,” Naimroa says, and nods towards Aithusa. “But she cannot be the only thing.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin snaps, and turns on his heels. Naimroa doesn’t follow him; right as he’s hopping up the stairs to the castle, her shadow looms over him as she flies back to the cave. Merlin swallows hard, taking a deep breath. Aithusa has fallen asleep against his chest.

The castle is near-empty when he steps in except for several servants hurrying about. They will be dealing with the last preparations for Samhain, no doubt; they have seven more days left before the midst of winter, and Merlin imagines the Priestesses, raising their ghosts at the Stones of Nemeton. He clenches his fists.

He stumbles towards his own chamber, exhaustion settling in from the adrenaline of his journey and the long nights of flying on Naimroa’s back. His hands are a little stiff from how strongly he’d clutched her, and the sling he’s made of his neckerchief is digging into his neck uncomfortably. All he wants to do is fall in bed and sleep the day away, but he’ll consider himself fortunate to get a few more hours.

Will stands in front of his door, eyeing him very neutrally.

“Merlin.”

Merlin stops, nearly struck by confusion. “Hi,” he says slowly. “Will, I’m not—what are you doing here? Is there something you need?”

Will scoffs. “Yes, actually,” he says, and crosses his arms. Merlin has seen Will angry very often; it’s his temperament and his pride to lash out and not apologise for it. It’s rarely been aimed at him, though, except in a well-meaning manner.

In a way, he’d expected this sooner.

“Come in,” he murmurs, and nods at his door. Will huffs out a breath and does, and sits down on one of the seats by Merlin’s table before Merlin has the chance to even offer. He lets the magic spring to surface so that the candles catch fire, and then sits down before Will, folding his hands.

“We’ve been trying, Merlin,” Will says, his voice breaking on Merlin’s name. “We have. We’ve given you time, we’ve given you space, and you’re still not the person you used to be.”

It’s nearly the same thing his mother had said to him. Merlin inhales slowly. “I know.”

“Any time I think we’re getting you back, you just—” Will moves his hands around, “go back to wherever you’re hiding. I grieved for my dad, Merlin. You were there when I did—damn, you were there when I heard of his death, and you’ve dragged me through that and more. I wouldn’t have half the things in my life if not for you. But this isn’t you.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed,” Merlin says.

Will smiles tersely. “Not that much. By the dragons, Merlin, you’ve never liked the Priestesses, but what you’re doing now—you wouldn’t have done that, not in a thousand years. You wouldn’t have clung to the dragons so badly, not when you’ve got your own family here. You’d be trying, and not avoiding meetings and your councillors and your friends. You’d be trying, because you’re a good person, at heart, and you want to do right by people. So why aren’t you?”

Merlin sits still, and slowly undoes the neckerchief. Aithusa sleeps through it when he places her on the table, and he just stares at her instead of Will. “I am trying.”

“It’s not even about this, really,” Will says, and shrugs when Merlin looks towards him. “I asked Freya to handfast with me last night.”

“You—congratulations,” Merlin tells him, taken aback.

“She told me to get your blessing.” Will’s mouth tugs down, in a depreciating half-smile. “I would’ve thought of it myself, normally, but she’s still clinging to the parts of you that show up. And it made me think—I can’t even remember the last time we did anything together. It’s like you’re the ghost, Merlin, not your father. It wouldn’t have changed much.”

“That’s not fair,” Merlin says quietly. “I’m happy for you, you know I am, and you don’t need my blessing. You’ve got it, you’ve always had it. I was thrown into a kingship I don’t want, Will, and what am I supposed to do? Do you know how to rule a kingdom, because I think I might need some tips!”

“You’ve been taught to do this,” Will says heatedly.

Merlin throws up his hands. “I’ve been taught to follow a prophecy that seems to be leading nowhere!” he says. “That no one knows the details of! I wasn’t even here for the majority of my adulthood, because I was too busy playing Arthur’s manservant!”

“You chose that!”

“And I would choose it again,” Merlin snaps, and Will falls silent, leaning back in his chair. Merlin takes a shuddering breath. “This isn’t my place, Will. They’re my people, but any time I have to make a decision for the good of this kingdom, I just freeze. I know what to think, I know what to advise, but it’s not—I look to my right to see the actual king, and forget it’s supposed to be me. I’m not a king. Arthur used to joke that I was a rubbish servant, but if anything, that’s what I am.”

“I don’t care if you’re a rubbish king, Merlin,” Will says. “I care if you’re my friend. And I care that I didn’t even think of asking for your blessing when I asked Freya to handfast.”

The candles crackle quietly; it’s the only sound in the room. Merlin lays down his head on the desk; he could fall asleep like this, if he’d let himself. 

“I’m trying, Will,” he murmurs. “I just don’t remember how.”

Will lays a hand on his shoulder, and despite himself, Merlin drifts off to sleep.

~*~

It’s not a normal headache. 

That little fact makes it even more annoying. Merlin can feel the surge of Kilgharrah’s anger through their psychic link, and he tries to push it down, but Kilgharrah is far more stubborn than Merlin has ever been. It persists, annoying and building up, until Merlin is rubbing his temples every two minutes and Gwaine drags him to Alfric.

“I don’t need to be here,” he complains, even when the physician is measuring his temperature. “It’s not an illness. It’s a dragon.”

“It could be worsened by fever, my lord,” Alfric says sternly. “You have pushed yourself considerably the last few days.”

“Just do what the man says, Merlin, and it’ll be over fast,” Gwaine tells him; and what have things come to for Gwaine to be the voice of reason, Merlin thinks sourly, especially when he has to sound so cheerful about it.

“I’ve got to talk to Kilgharrah,” he murmurs, as another surge of pain lances up. His temple throbs, and Alfric murmurs a minor healing charm that doesn’t do anything. Merlin pushes him away, scowling, and nearly falls over before Gwaine catches him and hoists him back up.

“When you made me knight,” Gwaine says, “I have to admit, I didn’t think I’d be mostly looking after you. Merlin, calm down, will you?”

“I need—” he breathes out, trying to banish the dizzying white spots in front of his eyes, “—to get to Kilgharrah. Alone.”

He gets a vicious sense of victory, and knows that Kilgharrah heard him too. This is about Aithusa, and Merlin huffs in annoyance. It doesn’t surprise him that Kilgharrah wants to speak to him as soon as he knew that Merlin was back; it does surprise him, however, that he chose this way to do it.

“Merlin—” Gwaine tries, but Merlin frees himself from his friend’s grip to brush past him. He feels wobbly; his headaches haven’t been this bad since he first learnt to control his visions, and every sting reminds him of Kilgharrah’s anger. 

Aithusa is in his chambers; he grabs her without fuss, and she chitters in surprise. Merlin blocks her own senses coming through to him, because she’s still small enough that he can do that and he doesn’t think he can handle another dragon’s input in his brain.

If anyone wants to stop him, or to drag him to one or the other meeting he is supposed to be in—well, they must be halted by the thunderous look on Merlin’s face as he sweeps through the castle. He has no idea who he meets, anyway, since it’s all he can do to hold onto Aithusa and make his way to where he senses Kilgharrah is; out in the courtyard, unprompted and unwanted. 

Merlin stops as soon as he catches sight of the Great Dragon, with his wings spread and his teeth snarled.

“King of Dracaneard,” Kilgharrah roars, and it echoes even beyond the courtyard; anyone who even had the idea to walk past it has already long fled.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin returns mildly, and the headache slowly fades away, though the after-pains linger. “You didn’t need to call me like that.”

“I think,” Kilgharrah snarls, “that you and I are long past such friendliness, young warlock. You—you have gone to assist the witch, the one I have warned you about time and again, and you brought a dragon to her side.”

“Aithusa stayed with me,” Merlin says.

“She has no place on the back of another dragon, kept in your arms,” Kilgharrah cries out, and bares his teeth. It’s a sign of violence that Merlin is used to seeing in Ekaitza and Naimroa, and not in him.

Merlin takes another step, and Aithusa blows out smoke. She must be confused, Merlin knows, but he doesn’t have time to consider her. All his focus lies on the dragon in front of him.

“I am her lord,” he reminds Kilgharrah, his voice low. “If I decide she comes with me, she comes with me.”

“You are lost,” Kilgharrah says, “and you should not have hatched that dragon only to bind her to you.”

“I promised to protect her,” Merlin yells.

“And you have failed to do so.” 

Kilgharrah advances unexpectedly. Dragons are always faster than their size would have one believe, but Merlin hasn’t seen Kilgharrah in a hurry in ages; so he isn’t entirely ready when Kilgharrah throws himself towards Merlin and grabs him with his claws.

Aithusa yelps in distress, and it’s all Merlin can do to hold onto her.

“Stop,” Merlin commands, the magic imbued with the words coming without him even having to try to reach for it. Kilgharrah does stop, but it’s a malicious compliance at best; he rams them into the castle wall, and Merlin thinks he feels a rib crack against the white stone. Kilgharrah lets go of him and flies up, and Merlin scrambles to keep hold of himself; it is only his magic that keeps him in place, as vines crack through the wall to embrace him.

None of this is intentional, because it all goes too fast for Merlin to make any conscious decisions; so when he is slammed into the wall and only barely caught from falling several feet down on the ground, he drops Aithusa. Several vines lower to catch her just in time, but Merlin’s heart beats loudly in his throat.

“Kilgharrah!” he cries out, but Kilgharrah’s anger is overpowering; the headache builds up in Merlin’s temple, and he commands, “Hniga,” to the vines. Slowly, they creep lower, and Merlin reaches for Aithusa, wrapped as she is in the green tangles, desperately fluttering her wings. She can’t fly, though, no matter how much Merlin has tried to teach her, and he reaches for her—

Kilgharrah roars, and the appearance of his shadow is all the warning Merlin gets before the Great Dragon grabs both Merlin and Aithusa with his claws. Aithusa screeches, and Kilgharrah’s overpowering anger and her fear are so loud in Merlin’s mind that it’s hard to take. The vines break when Kilgharrah’s claws, sharp as spears, slice through them, and through part of Merlin’s skin besides. He cries out in pain as Kilgharrah flies up into the distant sky, Merlin’s legs dangling uselessly.

“I may be bound to your command,” Kilgharrah says above him, and his voice doesn’t even sound human anymore, but that same rough sound of the dragon language that wasn’t made for a mortal voice tract; it dizzies in Merlin’s mind, and he has desperately grabbed with his one uninjured arm onto Kilgharrah’s claw before the dragon drops him. Merlin isn’t fully certain of his ability to break his fall, his head pounding so hard that he can only barely spot Kilgharrah through the white spots on his vision. 

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin tries weakly, and curls his fingers around Kilgharrah’s claw. “Please—put us down—”

It’s not a command, and they both know it. Kilgharrah is heedless, and flies them further into the air. When Merlin looks down, the castle of Dracaneard is only a miniature version, as if it’s a children’s toy. A shimmering sense of magic suddenly envelops them and then disappears; they’ve left the barrier that protects Dracaneard, and are far above the clouds. Aithusa cries out.

“I may be bound to your command,” Kilgharrah roars again, and tightens his grip around Merlin’s middle; it makes it hard to breathe, “but you have chosen a foolish path, Merlin, and I cannot follow it any longer. You have denied my counsel over and over, and the wisdom of dragons is not spurned so slightly.”

“You only follow your own path,” Merlin says desperately, and tries to focus on Aithusa. She is thrashing in Kilgharrah’s grip, and above all else, Merlin doesn’t want her to fall. Her fear and anxiety is overpowering even Merlin’s own, so that he isn’t entirely sure where his emotions begin and hers end. “No one knows how the prophecy will play out, Kilgharrah. I’m just trying to do what’s right!”

“You are trying to avoid your own grief,” Kilgharrah snaps. “At the price of your dragons. I will take Aithusa, and I will carry her where she must go. And one day, when you have learnt to be the father of your people, she may return to you—or she may not.”

The icy fear that takes hold of Merlin’s heart is entirely his own. With his bleeding arm, he tries to hoist himself up more firmly, but Kilgharrah is intent on making it impossible for Merlin to climb up. “I will command you to stay,” he says resolutely, even though his connection with Kilgharrah feels fragile at best, and his head starts pounding the moment he tries. 

Kilgharrah cannot deny one of his commands, but he can make it impossible for Merlin to speak one. “You may try to,” Kilgharrah murmurs, and his hold on Merlin’s middle softens a bit. “But I hope that you may still recognise that this is for your own good, Merlin, and for hers. This will not be forever—but there are paths you must tread before Aithusa will bind herself to you, and things you both must learn. I do not wish you ill.”

The blood is trailing over Merlin’s arm on Kilgharrah’s claw. It stings viciously, and Merlin has a hard time breathing through Kilgharrah’s deadly grip and the one—maybe two?—broken ribs. He wheezes at the pain of it.

“You’re just like the Priestesses,” he shouts, desperate and in pain and feeling his heart break a little. “You just want me to do what you want, like everyone else, and it doesn’t matter—”

Kilgharrah drops him. Merlin doesn’t even have time to shout; the dragon is there, and then he’s not, and Aithusa’s shallow cry echoes through the clouds. Merlin’s head still feels woozy, and he can’t breathe anymore. There is a distant thought, and he’s not even sure that it comes from him, that he needs to turn into a bird, turn now, fly away—

His clothes are a prison, suddenly, and Merlin hears himself crying out before he’s even aware of shouting; the weight of his tunic drags him down, and his wing is still bleeding. He can’t rely on it, and he crashes down with all the velocity he was earlier. Flying is an impossibility as a bird as much as it was as a human, and any and all spells he knows are gone from his mind, even as Merlin tries to connect with Kilgharrah, with Aithusa, and only receives the backlash of pain—

A dragon’s roar. For a moment, Merlin thinks Kilgharrah must have dived back down from him, but then Naimroa says, “I have you, my Dragonchild, I will carry you,” and Merlin closes his eyes.

~*~

If Aelfric has anything to say about the state of his king, he wisely keeps it to himself. Merlin has tugged his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them, while Aelfric is slowly muttering spells and using a balm on the injury. It is worse than Merlin thought at first, and only the adrenaline must have kept him from passing out.

Merlin has seen Arthur receive several injuries; the worst of them required stitches, and that method seemed highly painful to Arthur, even if Gaius applied the numbing salves first. Arthur had rarely complained about them, but Merlin still has the presence of mind to be thankful that magic rarely requires such crude and blunt instruments of healing.

“My lord,” Rhonan says carefully, entering the room. His manservant’s face is drawn when he looks at the bandages around Merlin’s ribs. Even magic can’t fix everything so easily, and although the process of healing has been sped up, he will still need to be cautious for a few days. Healing magic is intricate and complicated; there’s a lot of theory behind it, but Merlin usually just slams his spells to where he wants them. Theory is more of an afterthought for him, which hasn’t really helped him master healing magic, unfortunately.

Balance isn’t something that goes hand in hand with Merlin’s magic.

“What is it?” Merlin asks snappishly. Aelfric’s eyes glow gold, and Merlin’s injury stings as the skin draws itself back together.

“Your mother would like permission to enter, my lord,” he says nervously, wringing his hands. “I would have let her in, but you did say that you wanted to be left alone—”

Merlin sighs. Naimroa had grabbed him from the sky before he could plummet to his death on the ground; either Kilgharrah had known she would come or he’d imagined that Merlin would be able to save himself. When Merlin tries to focus on his connection with Kilgharrah or Aithusa, all he feels is pain, confusion and an angry righteousness; there’s little he can say through the fog of emotion, and so he has let him go.

Naimroa had brought him back to the courtyard, and Will and Gwaine had carried him to Aelfric, who’d sent them out promptly afterwards, is what Merlin had been told upon waking. When he’d shifted back to his human form is anyone’s guess, but at least Rhonan had brought him clothes and helped him dress, considering the state of Merlin’s arm.

His head still aches in the aftermath of whatever Kilgharrah had done, and the rest of his body doesn’t feel much better, and Merlin doesn’t want to talk about it. He can order Aelfric and Rhonan into silence; he doesn’t think his mother will take to it so kindly.

“Tell her I’m fine,” Merlin says. “And that I’ll talk to her tonight.”

Rhonan hesitates. “My lord…”

“Just—” Merlin presses his good hand to his head, and runs his thumb across his temple. He is still tired from having ridden Naimroa for two nights to get Morgana, and now Aithusa has been snatched from him. He feels numb, and alone, and he doesn’t want to be comforted; he wants to be left alone to languish and to grieve, the way he hasn’t been left alone for years. “Just tell her, Rhonan, and don’t let anyone in until I explicitly tell you to.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rhonan says, and disappears again. Merlin leans back, closing his eyes. The white spots still swim in front of his eyes, and they are especially noticeable in the reddish hue of the sun against his eyelids. 

“You are lucky to have gotten away as you did, my lord,” Aelfric says mildly, and finishes wrapping Merlin’s arm. “If the dragon had put more pressure on your arm, it may have been a lost cause, even for the strongest of magics.”

“I don’t think so,” Merlin mutters vaguely. There’s always more magic, if he so desires it. There are no boundaries, that is what Balinor had taught him, and what Merlin has slowly learnt to see. There are no boundaries except for those that Merlin has put on himself—fear and anxiety and anger will bind him, because his magic may be instinct, but it cannot think for itself.

Merlin is the boundary. For his magic and his kingdom, apparently, shackling all of it up in his own grief. Perhaps Kilgharrah was right, in some ways.

“My lord, he could have torn your arm off before you would have even been aware of it,” Aelfric says incredulously. “You are Emrys, our saviour, our Dragonlord and our king, but today—”

But today, it becomes clear that Merlin’s people have turned themselves against him. It started with the Priestesses, and now it is Kilgharrah. There is a message in there somewhere, one that Merlin knew already—he doesn’t make for a very good king. He isn’t quite sure what to do about it, though, and he smiles grimly at Aelfric.

“Why’s that?” he asks quietly. “Why do you think that being Emrys means I’m your saviour?”

Aelfric blinks in surprise. “It has been written, my lord. The prophecy—”

“What exactly is the prophecy?” Merlin presses. “Do you have the words? Is there a poem in an ancient language no one can read? Because what I think is that we’ve only got interpretation, and no one is quite sure what it means. How do you know that I’m Emrys? How do you know it’s a good thing?”

There is a moment of silence. Aelfric seems taken aback, his lips slightly parted and his eyes large. Merlin supposes he hasn’t spoken so personally with his physician in years; not since Merlin was a little boy who climbed trees and played with fire magic and didn’t quite understand what it meant to be prophesied.

“My lord,” he says quietly, and bows his head. “The druids are loyal to you, and always will be. You may have lost faith in the prophecy, and I—I’ve not spoken to you about it, my lord, and I know that my opinion carries little weight. But I know you have suffered greatly, and you are trying to do right by your people. If nothing else, I trust that your kind nature will lead us, even through hardships. It is the love for your people that keeps you here, my lord, even when your eyes stray far away. And we trust you, even if you do not trust yourself. Perhaps you will let your dearest ones show you the way.”

It is Merlin’s turn to be taken aback. Aelfric juts up his chin, as if he fears Merlin will tell him that he’s overstepped, that he doesn’t want to hear a token of faith. 

But he hasn’t heard one for so long, he realises suddenly. Not from one of his people. And perhaps this is what he meant for Arthur, once upon a time, before the matters of the heart deepened the way they did—perhaps Arthur just wanted to know that he was on the right path, even when he didn’t really know where the path led.

Merlin holds a hand up to his face, and then a sob overtakes him, and another one. “I don’t know how,” he cries, and Aelfric crouches before him. He makes a sort of noise, and Merlin bows before him and cries—for his father, for the pain in his head, for the king he doesn’t know how to be, for the dragons he’s lost, and for how dearly he misses Arthur and his guidance.

Hunith comes rushing in, and Merlin can’t even be mad at Rhonan, who stands silently by the door. She comes, and she takes his hands, and she cries with him.

~*~

Everyone is there when Merlin finally makes his way to his chambers. Hunith has a hand on his arm; he doesn’t think she’s stopped touching him since the second she sprinted to his side. His cheeks and eyes are red, no matter how often he runs his sleeve over them, and he feels entirely emptied out.

Despite the numerous people inside his rooms, it’s deadly quiet when he finally closes the door behind him. Hunith squeezes his arm and he steps forward.

Lancelot sits there with Gwen, and tiny Galahad sleeping contently in her arms; Morgana is seated next to them, still uncertain as if she doesn’t know how welcome she is. Will has an arm slung over Freya’s shoulder, whose face is as blotched as Merlin’s own is. Gwaine is quiet, the frown on his face telling more of his concern than he’d ever admit to openly, and Merlin looks at them, one by one, even as they stare back at him uncertainly.

“Kilgharrah left,” he says. His voice doesn’t break, but it’s a near thing, and it does come out hoarse. Everything had come out, once Merlin had let it pour—he hadn’t known how to stop. It’s not as if he hadn’t cried before—he’d wept before his father’s sword, the last remaining thing Merlin has that Balinor cared for personally—and in the solitary quiet of his room, and with Aithusa pressed against his chest.

But he’s rarely cried with them. 

“We saw,” Will says, in a quiet tone Merlin isn’t used to from him. “He took Aithusa?”

“You’ll call him back, won’t you?” Lancelot asks. He frowns; to him, it must be oddest of all. He knows the dragons best out of the remainder of them, save for perhaps Freya, and he’d know how loyal Kilgharrah was to Balinor.

Merlin is not Balinor, though, as if they needed any more confirmation of that fact.

“No, I won’t,” Merlin says, and sits down. His mother comes to stand behind him, a silent spectre to keep watch over him. She runs her fingers through the hair on his nape, and Merlin takes a long breath. “I can’t, and I’m not sure I should. I’ve been—I haven’t been doing well.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, a warning and a comfort all at once. “You don’t have to.”

Merlin isn’t sure what he means—whether Merlin doesn’t have to explain, or doesn’t have to tell them, or doesn’t have to acknowledge it. He shakes his head. “I was so sure that I needed to know what to do, even though I didn’t,” he says, and catches on his voice. He runs his sleeve past his eyes again; it feels prickly and irritated against his skin, and the faint headache is from crying, rather than from Kilgharrah’s administrations.

Freya stands up, and Will’s arm drops. Decisively, she takes the few steps that stand between them and drops on her knees next to him, and hugs him around the middle. It’s right where Kilgharrah’s claws held onto him hours ago, and Merlin presses his nose in her dark hair.

“We thought we’d lost you,” she murmurs, and tightens her hold. “You wouldn’t talk, you wouldn’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin chokes. “I’m sorry for everything. I’ll be better, that’s what—that’s what I wanted to promise. I’ll be better, and I’ll listen, and I won’t—I can’t do this. Not by myself. I told you we needed to do it together, and I haven’t, and I knew I should have.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen says, and pushes her shoulder at Lancelot. “Hold Galahad, so I can go and hug him.”

Lancelot takes Galahad with an indulgent smile, and then Gwen drops herself next to Freya, and he’s got an armful of women. Merlin hiccups out a laugh when she presses a kiss to his cheek, and then he’s crying again, as if he can’t stop himself. 

“I didn’t know you had such a rough time, Merlin,” Morgana says. She is quieter, too, unlike the sharp noblewoman Merlin used to know in Camelot. He isn’t sure if it’s a permanent change or not, but her eyes are just as piercing as they used to be. “You never said in your letters.”

“I think both of us didn’t,” he murmurs, and her lips tug upward.

“Arthur thought you would,” she says, and swallows hard as she looks down. “He worried about you incessantly, even when I said you would be fine. But perhaps he did have the right of it after all. He won’t be very pleased to hear it, you do know. He’s always been insufferable when he’s right.”

Freya and Gwen both lean back, and Merlin nods slowly. “He is,” he says, and manages to smile a little at the thought of Arthur, even though he thinks his heart may break simultaneously. He wants him here, more than anyone else—not even to hear him speak, or to share a joke, or even to kiss him; Merlin just wants a hug.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had the time to just hug Arthur.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana says, and takes a shuddering breath. 

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin tells her. “I’m glad you’re here, Morgana. I really am.”

“We all are,” Gwen says decisively, and takes a step back to fold her hand over Morgana’s pale one, on her dress. Morgana doesn’t seem to meet anyone’s gaze, but Merlin is vaguely hopeful about it. He has his friends here, his family—with one significant exception, but that can’t be helped—and maybe, finally, he can take a step ahead without being dragged back to the past.

“And what now?” Gwaine says lightly. “I’m glad you’re doing better, Merlin, but there’s two dragons on the loose, and you aren’t intending to call them back?”

Merlin shrugs. “Let’s get past Samhain first,” he says. “The Priestesses are still pushing back, and I realise—that I haven’t dealt with them as I should have, perhaps, or allowed for their followers to have their rituals. Maybe I should’ve been more lenient.”

“They are high powers,” Lancelot says, and runs his fingers over Galahad’s dark hairs absent-mindedly. 

It’s as honest as Lancelot will be about his real feelings on the Priestesses. Merlin doesn’t think any of his friends have any fond feelings for Morgause or Nimueh, but they are right. Merlin shouldn’t have pushed them as he did, and now his kingdom is reaping the consequences.

“I’ll celebrate Samhain with them,” he says, and eyes his mother. He’d talked it through with Hunith first. “It won’t do everything to repair whatever rift has been created between them and everyone else in Dracaneard, but it’ll do something if I stand with them instead of with the druids. And hopefully… we’ll have to see what more needs to be done. If I can do it.”

“We’ll stand with you,” Freya says, and curls her fingers around Merlin’s arm. “After all, I’m a Princess of Dracaneard. And Will is going to be the Prince Consort of Dracaneard when we’re handfasted.”

Will puts his head in his hands. Merlin laughs until his lungs hurt, and thinks that it might finally be alright, as long as he can keep his own promise—together.

Chapter Text

“Just sit still,” Gwen says, narrowing her eyes, and pricks the last needle through the thin material, and right into Merlin’s skin, so it seems.

“Ow,” he says petulantly.

“I told you not to move,” she tells him, and with swift fingers and keen eyes, finishes the fine embroidery. It’s not her own, but a silver thread that’s come loose in Merlin’s finest tunic, and he doesn’t have the time to go into town to find a seamstress that’s skilled enough. Samhain is tomorrow, and it’s far too late for Merlin to figure out that he’s been plucking at loose threads.

That’s a metaphor for life as well, maybe.

“She did tell you,” Morgana says from the corner, leaning on the sofa. 

“I didn’t move,” Merlin complains, even as he looks at his sleeve. “Although I suppose I can’t complain about the results.”

“Gwen’s the finest seamstress in Camelot,” Morgana says with a handwave. “Or was, I suppose. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find a suitable replacement.”

Gwen colours darkly. “My lady, I wouldn’t have left if—”

“And you would’ve been wrong to stay,” Morgana says. She has found back some of that sharpness in the past few days, and Merlin is both glad of it and a little tired. She has gone to visit Mordred several times, and always comes back a little paler and snappish for it, even though she claims to enjoy the visits.

At least she hasn’t gone to see the Priestesses. Merlin has made sure to keep eyes on the Priestesses, even after he’d extended his peace offer to them in person. Nimueh had accepted his presence at their Samhain celebrations, smiling all too sharply. Merlin isn’t sure if it comes as too little and too late, but she had seemed pleased.

Although Morgause is the greater concern, in his opinion.

“And you’re a lady now too,” Merlin reminds her.

Gwen bites her lower lip. “It doesn’t feel like it,” she confesses. “Oh, I don’t mean—of course it’s nice, being a knight’s wife, and Lancelot is lovely, but I don’t feel as if I have changed, and I thought I perhaps should have. But I suppose we’re all just… ourselves, in the end, despite our position.”

Merlin plucks listlessly at the silver thread in his tunic again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I liked being a servant. I felt more like me.”

“I think that’s more to do with Arthur,” Gwen says. “I feel more like myself with Lancelot, as well. Although this is nice, isn’t it, with the three of us? It feels a bit like old times, except… well, Arthur.”

Morgana says nothing, and that feels very pointed. She hasn’t brought up Arthur except for that one time, and when Merlin has tried to get her to open up—about Arthur, about her own feelings on Camelot, about why she’d felt the need to attack Northumbria—she hadn’t said anything. Merlin isn’t sure if it’s her own shame or her stubbornness that won’t let her.

“It does,” Merlin says, and hopes Gwen might drop it.

She doesn't. “Has he sent a letter back?” she asks. “After you told him that Morgana was here, I mean? It feels unlike him to say anything about it. We all know how much he cares about both of you. It’s hard to imagine—”

“I haven’t sent him a letter,” Merlin says.

Gwen blinks. “Why haven’t you?”

That is hard to explain. Merlin should have, probably, and it would have been the decent thing to do, especially after Arthur’s plea had sounded so sincere and desperate. The thing is, Merlin isn’t quite sure what to say. All words seem like they won’t be enough, and presumably King Caerleon will have sent a long-winded message to Arthur, so it’s not as if Merlin really needed to tell him what happened.

Although he should have, yes.

“Well,” he says, and in the name of trying to communicate better, resolves that he’ll at least attempt to put his feelings in neat little boxes and explain them to Gwen. He squares his shoulders, and continues, “When Arthur sent that letter—”

Galahad cries. Gwen lets out a dejected sigh and closes her toolkit. “I might be a while,” she says apologetically. “It’s time for his feeding. Feel free to stay, if you’d like, though…”

“Oh, no, we shouldn’t keep you,” Morgana says, and raises elegantly, her red dress swirling behind her as she grabs Merlin’s arm. “I’ll see you for dinner, Gwen.”

Merlin barely gets the time to wave at her before Morgana tugs him along, and then it’s just the two of them out in the hallway, with Merlin in his finest tunic and with a needle still sticking out of the material. He scowls at it and puts it in a pocket, and Morgana turns on him.

“You never told him?”

Merlin blinks. “I’m sure Northumbria’s report will have plenty of information,” he says. “I doubt anyone else with dragons—”

“You’re such a moron,” Morgana snaps, and crosses her arms. “You and Arthur, you’re surely a fine match. He won’t write because the politics are so complicated, oh, and surely Merlin has better things to be doing, and a kingship to get used to without his intervention, and you! You’re so insecure about his feelings for you, and then he sends you a letter, and you won’t even—”

“For you,” Merlin says sharply, “not for me. Besides, you are the one who’s grown tired of him, and you are the one who keeps harping on him for not legalising magic, and saying that you can’t live in Camelot! Who’s to say that I can’t have complicated feelings about it?”

“I’m his sister,” Morgana says. “I’m supposed to criticise him. You haven’t had anything but complicated feelings for him since the moment you stumbled into Camelot!”

“As his sister, are you supposed to wage war on someone he’s trying to make his ally?” Merlin demands.

She inhales, and her shoulder sag. One of her hands comes up to play with her hair, and she shakes her head, as if lost in thoughts. “I didn’t want to,” she says, and all the sharpness that feels so inherent to Morgana is gone. “There are—you won’t understand, Merlin, and I can’t explain it to you.”

“I know Northumbria is as backward as they all are about magic,” Merlin says, and takes her hands. “I understand, Morgana, what it can cost a person to let things slide, when they know it’s in their power to fight back. But a war against all of Albion is a war we will lose, and this isn’t the way to convince people that we mean well.”

Morgana draws back her hands as if slapped. “Some people deserve to suffer for what they let happen,” she snaps. 

“You once told me,” Merlin says quietly, “that you didn’t want to hate.”

“Perhaps it’s the only way they will learn their lesson,” Morgana tells him, her words laced with annoyance—as if Merlin is the one who is naive, as if he doesn’t understand how much it costs them to let the other kingdoms persecute their people. “We are all at fault, Merlin, for the way things have gone, for the way they must go in the future, and sometimes, we must make hard decisions. Even if we don’t want to.”

“Did you have a vision?” Merlin asks. “Morgana, we do have a choice.”

“Not me,” Morgana snaps, and more quietly, adds, “and soon not any of us, least of all you,” and turns on her heels before Merlin can ask her what she means, and what she has seen. He swallows hard, and wonders what the real reason is that she chose to come here instead of Camelot.

And if it really has to do with Arthur.

~*~

The dragons are quiet when Merlin enters their cave.

The thing to understand is that dragons usually are not quiet. They roar, they groan, they snort; even the whooshing of their tails and the flapping of their wings is not without sound. The way a bird sings, a dragon has its own music. They don’t even seem aware of it, oddly enough. Merlin remembers being eight years old and asking Rathuris why they were sleeping so loudly, the first time Balinor allowed him to sleep a night in the dragon’s cave. Rathuris had been baffled more than anything else.

But they have been quiet for days now. Ever since Kilgharrah left and took Aithusa with him. They all stare at him too carefully, as if they are afraid of his reaction. Merlin isn’t sure if they’d known beforehand what Kilgharrah wanted to do or if Naimroa told them later, after she caught him from the sky; it doesn’t really matter, not to him.

“It is Samhain tomorrow,” Naimroa says, to break the silence. Rathuris and Ekaitza sit in their own corner, and Ekaitza’s tail sweeps with discontent. Rathuris is too prim to let Merlin know anything of his true feelings, but Merlin knows they’re conflicted.

Knows that Rathuris and Ekaitza are torn between their loyalty to Merlin and to Kilgharrah, and he can’t blame them.

“Yes,” Merlin says, and smiles weakly at the dragons. “How will you celebrate this year?”

The dragons have their own rituals, usually private. Merlin would be invited to join, of course, and it is how he spent Samhain last year—well, the tail’s end of Samhain, after he’d fled the actual celebrations. Usually, though, the royal family of Dracaneard spends the celebrations with their people.

“The magic is strong in the air,” Ekaitza says, surprisingly, and bares her teeth. “It smells like hatred, and violence. I will feed on it.”

Merlin blinks. “How so?”

“It always does around this time,” Rathuris grumbles, eyeing Ekaitza with a small amount of distaste. “The Priestesses, you see, Dragon King. Their ceremonies require dark magic, and Ekaitza goes to smell it.”

“Right,” Merlin says slowly. 

“Kilgharrah would lead the celebrations, usually,” Rathuris continues, with a discontented grumble down his throat. “But I suppose there is little point in it now. None of us are experienced enough in our own magic and rituals to honour our forebears.”

“We will make it work,” Naimroa snaps at him.

“Kilgharrah—” Rathuris starts.

“Enough, Rathuris,” Naimroa interrupts, and flutters her wings to increase her height. It isn’t the first time that Merlin witnesses one dragon trying to intimidate another; the dragons are kin, but they are vastly different in personality and in life experience. Merlin knows how much Rathuris looks up to Kilgharrah, though, and he is clearly not willing to let this slide. Rathuris reaches his own full height, standing up and baring his teeth.

“Stop this,” Merlin commands, and both Naimroa and Rathuris drop back to the floor.

“Bah,” Ekaitza says miserably. “Let us fight, Dragon King. Perhaps some good will come of this endless bickering and fighting over your decisions.”

“I’m sorry that I led Kilgharrah to go so far,” Merlin says sharply, and feels a hard lump in his throat he can’t swallow away. “I am, and I know that I should’ve listened. But Kilgharrah’s decision was his own, and I’m not the only one who has divided us.”

“You ought to have listened,” Rathuris grumbles, but he settles and lies down, and that’s a sure enough sign that he won’t fight it any further. Neither is he happy with Merlin, and Ekaitza hisses out some form of agreement and settles down herself.

“Kilgharrah believes in you, even now,” Naimroa says, and turns her intent stare on Merlin. “He may disagree with your path, but your destiny is yours. He will return when he deems her ready, Dragonchild. This rift is not forever, and we would do well to remember that, and not choose sides.”

She says it pointedly, and Rathuris huffs. He has always been the mildest of them all, and Merlin wonders if he should step in or leave it to rest. Once again, he feels the sharp stab of disappointment—oh, how let down his father would be, with Merlin having lost control of his dragons and nearly the peace between his people—and then straightens himself.

It is just a hitch. They are loyal to him, and he will prove to them that he can be better, the same as he will prove to his people. 

“I am sorry,” he says. “I will be with the Priestesses tomorrow, but I will come back at the end of Samhain and help you with the rituals, if I can. If Kilgharrah isn’t here to help, perhaps… I can make it right.”

“You will be welcome, Dragonchild,” Naimroa says, and Merlin smiles tentatively. 

~*~

“You’ll do wonderfully, Merlin,” Hunith says for the umpteenth time, rubbing her hands together as she watches him. Merlin scowls as he toys with the silver crown on his head; he prefers not to wear it, but his court sorcerers had argued that it would be better to look the part during the Samhain ceremony, and Lancelot had settled the argument by agreeing with them.

“And do try to figure out if Morgause really isn’t to blame for the crops,” Freya says, frowning. “Adwin is growing grumpy. And our people will need their food.”

“I know, I know,” Merlin says. “I’m not sure Samhain is the best time for that, though. How are you imagining this, Freya, as if I’ll go and casually ask them if they’ve been casting spells on the weather to starve their own people in between ghosts? Surely they won’t notice.”

Freya makes a face and tugs at his collar, making sure it stands upright.

“I can’t imagine they’ve done it, anyway,” she murmurs. “No one gains anything by starving our people.”

Merlin can imagine why they would, but he doesn’t like the thought. Certainly it’s a good leverage over Merlin and his court. The Priestesses’ magic is powerful, more powerful than most of the sorcerers in Merlin’s council, with the exception of perhaps three or four, and even then it may be a toss up. And Merlin isn’t sure he could undo their spells so easily, not if they’d been well-prepared and slow to be put into motion. They have had a year and a half to think of how to make Merlin submit to them.

They can use this against him, and he doesn’t like the thought of it. Dracaeneard doesn’t have many options for trade, and their magic makes it unnecessary for them, most of the time. But if the Priestesses are actively sabotaging their crops—

Well. That changes things.

“We’ll manage, Freya, I’m sure,” he says, and presses a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll ration if we need to. And we’ll turn all our magic towards cultivating food—after all, your handfasting ceremony will be splendid.”

Freya smiles wryly. “It’s not until Beltane.”

“Plenty of time to solve the problem!” Merlin remarks cheerfully, and she burrows herself in his arms for a second. He has missed her, has missed this casual familiarity; he didn’t realise how badly he’d kept himself on the sidelines until he’d forced himself back in their midst, and now he can’t imagine how he ever held on this long.

“Now, remember, Merlin,” Hunith says sternly, although her smile betrays her when Freya pulls away, “Be respectful, and be kind. Even if they do raise your father…”

“It won’t be him,” Merlin says quietly, and bites his lower lip. “I’ll make peace with them, Mother. I promise I’ll do my best.”

“I’ve never doubted you,” she says, and she should have, they all should have, and Merlin is so glad they’re still with him, despite it all. She squeezes his arm, and then pushes at his shoulder. “Now, you don’t want to keep them waiting. Is Gwaine coming with you, or Lancelot?”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, and presses a quick kiss to her cheek before he slips out of her grasp. “Lance is staying with Gwen and Galahad, remember? They might join you in the druid’s celebrations if Galahad’s not too fussy.”

“You’re going to be late,” Freya points out, and then turns to Hunith, “and so are we, if we don’t see him off and get dressed for our own celebrations—”

“We’ll see you afterwards, love,” Hunith says, and runs a hand over his cheek.

“I might go to the dragons,” Merlin tells her, thinking back on his promise, “But I’ll come and see you before the night is over. Have a good Samhain!”

He dashes away before they can scold him about being late again. The Samhain celebrations for the Priestesses usually come in two parts; there are the sacrifices for the goddesses at sunset, and when the dark has set in fully, they raise the ghosts. Normally, they go to the Great Stones of Nemeton, but Merlin supposes they’re doing it in the citadel this year because Merlin didn’t give them enough time to prepare. He isn’t entirely sure what goes into preparing for ghost raising, but it’s dark magic, strong and ancient, and surely there are about a million tiny rituals that must be followed beforehand.

It’s a revered ceremony, and has been for thousands of years, and Merlin nearly put an end to it. Despite his own complicated feelings on the matter, he shouldn’t have been so arrogant to think that he knew better than all his forebears. He may have turned the kingdom against itself; the danger still hasn’t passed.

“My lord Emrys,” a familiar voice says suddenly, when Merlin passes the courtyard. He is surprised to find Mordred, and Morgana standing by his side. Mordred’s eyes pierce him, and Merlin feels taken aback, like there is something he’s missing, something that is screaming at him—

It feels like the start of a vision, and then Morgana steps forward, and it’s gone. “It’s a good thing I’m coming across you now, Merlin,” she says, and rests her long nails on his arm. “I wanted to join the Priestesses’ celebration with you.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Merlin asks carefully, and looks over her shoulder towards Mordred. “Perhaps Mordred can take you to Taliesin’s celebrations. They’ll be a lot—milder.”

“She has her mind made up,” Mordred says, smiling, and then he shrugs. “If she is there with you, certainly there is nothing that can happen, Lord Emrys? I’m sure the Priestesses will be honoured if you bring another guest to their celebration.”

“I want to see,” Morgana says quietly, “the ghosts. I want to face them, Merlin, and see if you are right. But I can’t decide until I know.”

Something prickles in Merlin’s throat, but he can’t put a name to it. It’s uncomfortable, anyway, and under Mordred and Morgana’s combined stares, his magic shifts and rolls in warning. Which doesn’t make sense, he tells himself, because Mordred is a druid and Morgana is his friend.

“Gwaine is waiting for me just near the Priestesses’ altar,” he says instead, and shifts on his feet. “If you wanted to come with me. Mordred?”

“Oh, no, I’ll be with my own people.” Mordred smiles faintly. “And Morgana has seen a druid’s ceremony before, my lord. I’m sure you’ll be far better company to her.”

“I’ll try my best,” Merlin says, and offers Morgana his arm. She slapped his hands away last time he talked to her, but now she gracefully folds her arm in his own, and smiles at Mordred with a tightness that Merlin doesn’t recognise from her. He wonders if it really was her own idea. There is something about her friendship with Mordred that he can’t put his finger on, and he resolves to get to the bottom of what is going on with her after he’s dealt with the Priestesses.

But first, he has to get through Samhain, and Morgana’s touch is cold against his skin as they make their way to the Priestesses’ temple, just outside of the citadel.

~*~

The stench of blood is heavy in the air, and Merlin has to force himself to look at the bodies of the slaughtered animals. The wind catches, and the smell reaches even further, and Merlin has to force himself not to gag. Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, the Priestesses had used human sacrifices.

By the glint in Morgause’s eye, as she holds up the stained sword, a dark brown-red with dried blood, she wouldn’t have minded that. Her golden curls fall over her shoulders; her pale skin, nearly white in the moonlight, contrasts heavily with the deep-black dress, as colourless as her eyes when she casts her dark magic.

Nimueh chants alongside her. Merlin has a place at the front, with Gwaine on his left and Morgana on his right. Neither of them have said anything since the rituals started, and not even the crowd behind them have muttered a word. Then again, the followers of the Priestesses have always been reverent to the extreme, and Merlin is used to the more casual rituals of the druids.

Gwaine frowns in disgust; has been frowning, really, and Merlin elbows him gently. Gwaine offers him a glance, raising his eyebrows, and Merlin tries his best to look regal and commanding. He doesn’t think he does a good job of it, but Gwaine sighs and goes back to his best neutral look as the Priestesses keep chanting.

It is harder for Merlin to mask his feelings. Gwaine can’t feel the dark magic pouring off of them, but Merlin can, and presumably, so can Morgana. She has a complicated expression on her face, halfway between admiration—presumably of the Priestesses’ strength, which Merlin can understand—and a strong dislike. Merlin can only hope that this ceremony is enough to put her off her course of hate, and make her understand that it will never lead to the sort of magic that could be accepted by Albion.

“And now, devout followers of the Goddess,” Morgause calls, suddenly, and the magic of death hangs heavily in the air. The way to summon ghosts is to create a bridge between life and death; that is why so many sacrifices are made, to make the barrier between this world and the next thinner, so that it may be passed. Merlin understands, to a degree, but he still can’t entirely accept it.

A unicorn lies dead before him, and he wonders distantly where they found it as he stares at the still, white body. He would’ve protested its death—nearly had, in fact, until Gwaine had grabbed his arm and reminded him of his silence—but he is here to make peace with the Priestesses, and not to stop them from sacrificing to their altar.

The stars are bright above them; a good sign for Samhain, normally. The crowd remains silent, but Merlin can feel the tension and exhilaration rising. The sacrifices are finished, and it is time for the ghosts to return, for this one night where the veil is thinnest.

“Tonight,” Morgause says, and her knife reflects the blood darkly as she holds it up. A smear of blood runs its way across her cheek, and her eyes fall on Merlin, “We will honour the demands of our forebears. We hear them, and we hear their moans! We know their fears, and their thoughts on this world we inhabit!”

“Tonight,” Nimueh adds, joining Morgause, “We have one ghost, especially, whose voice must be heard. We will raise King Balinor.”

Merlin tenses; he can’t help it, even knowing how intently the Priestesses are watching him. He presses his lips together, and slowly inclines his head. He will let them, just for today, and let them know that he is aware he can’t stop them. That he shouldn’t have tried.

“Eala leofu sweoster, paem gastum befaeste ic pe,” Morgause chants, and Merlin’s heart grows cold. “Alys pa peoster pe inne onwunap!”

There is the cold shriek of death, and Merlin falls to his knees. He tries to reach out, subconsciously—Kilgharrah’s connection to him is still a wall of cold silence, and Aithusa’s is addled, and Naimroa—and then Gwaine grabs his shoulder, and whispers words that Merlin can’t hear.

“There is the father and the king!” Nimueh calls out, and there is a colder touch, one from beyond a veil. Merlin looks up, breathing with shudders, and is eye-to-eye with the pale apparition of his father, lifeless and emotionless as his finger strokes Merlin’s cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” Merlin says sharply when he feels Gwaine reach for his sword. “He is not of this world. His touch will kill you.”

“He is touching you,” Gwaine whispers in alarm, but stays his hand. Morgana has taken a step away, Merlin notices distantly, now standing somewhere behind him. The entire crowd has moved, because this is not the sort of ghost that is normally raised.

This is not a ghost for remembrance. This is a ghost for murder—this is a restless soul. This is dorocha, the maimed dead. Balinor holds still, though, unlike in all the stories Merlin has heard as a child. His heart beats loudly, and Balinor continues his quiet stroke, reaching Merlin’s chin.

“Merlin,” he croaks—and his throat was sliced, so Merlin knows this is what he sounded like, has dreamt about his father’s voice in his final moments, and feels the anger rise to surface.

“This isn’t a ghost,” he calls to Morgause, who stands by her altar, soaked in blood and smiling. “This is more than dark magic. This is a perversion of all laws that we have, and an open threat to Dracaneard—”

“No, not really,” Morgause says idly, and twirls the knife between her fingers. “You see, Emrys, this is—just a taste of the power the Priestesses have. This is a reminder. And, most of all, this is a distraction.”

The dorocha of his father’s spirit—the dorocha that only could be created because Merlin left him there, left him in that Tomb and only took his father’s sword, because Balinor never was properly laid to rest because Merlin failed him—takes a step back, but its cold touch lingers, and Merlin’s magic screams.

He pushes Gwaine out of the way, and then Morgana’s fingers are on his neck; it is the same coldness of death as the dorocha, and that is why Merlin had not noticed, because the dorocha had been nothing but cloak and daggers, and he is realising too late.

“You’ve done so well, sister,” Morgause says, and she appears before him, her dress flowing as the wind gushes. Merlin can’t move, can’t do a single thing; his magic is being held in a flow, and he can’t reach it. His ability to call upon it disappeared with the sense of Morgana’s cold touch, holding him down to where he can’t reach up. He never has felt like this before, and he shivers when Morgause bows down to watch him.

He has been such a fool, he considers, as he slumps down. He was on his knees already, but Morgana’s fingers take all he has, and he can’t even look her in the eye.

“Please,” he murmurs. 

“I did it for you, sister,” Morgana says, her voice trembling. Her fingers twitch on Merlin’s neck, and he trusted her. He trusted her, and she has betrayed him and Arthur both.

“Please, Morgana,” he tries, one more time. “I promise, they have nothing to teach you. They can only hate, and they can’t build a world where we will be free—they can only destroy the one we have—”

“One day, Merlin,” Morgana murmurs, “I hope you can understand.”

The grief burns in Merlin’s chest, and Morgause grabs his chin. “He’s crying,” she says, and runs her thumb over Merlin’s cheek. “Don’t worry, sweet boy. The dorocha is gone, and your nightmares have come true. Now, just sit still, and we’ll show you what we really have been preparing for. Didn’t you sense the dark magic? Such a shame.”

“Hurry, Morgause,” Nimueh says, peering over Merlin’s shoulder as she comes to stand next to them. “This is not a done deal.”

“Oh, let me enjoy it,” Morgause says, but drops Merlin’s chin and takes his crown. She throws it away, and Merlin’s eyes are fixed on where it rolls towards the sacrificed animals, coming to a stop between the unicorn’s legs. Gwaine is still lying on the ground where Merlin had pushed him, face-down in the grass. He slowly moves, and Merlin keeps entirely still. He’ll have to wake up soon, though, but he’s Merlin’s last hope.

Her hand on his hair is forceful, and she grabs his locks tightly. Morgana and Nimueh are kinder when their hands join hers, and Merlin presses his eyes close in fear. His magic is thrashing, but unable to reach, and he isn’t sure what they did—perhaps it was the dorocha, or perhaps it was just them.

“Bealucwealm drýcræftes,” she says, very simply, but this is Samhain, and she had warned him.

The Priestesses’ powers are strongest during Samhain, and she has been wanting him to suffer for a very, very long time.

“Bealucwealm drýcræftes,” Nimueh repeats, and her fingers tighten in Merlin’s hair as she speaks. Merlin gasps, breathing heavily as the world disappears in their spells, and he can’t see, he can’t breathe—

Morgana hesitates for a moment. “Bealucwealm drýcræftes.”

The death of magic, spoken by two—three?—High Priestesses, and Merlin has underestimated their hate and their revenge. He gasps, and barely holds onto that slippery sense of consciousness when they let go of him. He is emptied out, and the world has faded away from him—he can’t sense anything, not the dragons, nor the world; not the dark magic, nor the light one.

He senses nothing, and fear overtakes him, more darkly than it ever has before. He has never been so utterly powerless, and he reaches out a hand in an attempt to save himself, and the magic is gone.

His magic is gone.

“Dracaneard will no longer belong to naive boys who play with dragons,” Morgause calls out, and oh, there must still be an audience. Merlin doesn’t have the energy to turn around, or to get up and run; he lies in the grass, and thinks he might as well be dead. “It will belong to the Priestesses, who follow the gods who have made this world and its magic, and we will show Albion how strong we are.”

No one makes a noise, or perhaps Merlin is too far gone to hear it.

“Sister,” Morgana says, and kneels next to Merlin. Her fingers are warm now, or perhaps it is Merlin who has gone cold. He shivers at her touch, and tries to shuffle away from her. 

“We must have him secure in the dungeons,” Morgause says dismissively. “We will have a riot if we kill him at once; no, he will still have his uses, and he will hardly pose a threat to us now. Nimueh, would you—”

“No!”

Gwaine is as fast as he is deadly, and Merlin had forgotten, or maybe he’d never seen it to its full extent, how skilled he is. Morgause draws back, eyeing the injury to her belly; Gwaine had stabbed her as he jumped up, and her blood pours out dark.

“You moron,” she snaps, and throws down her dagger. “You think a mortal blade can kill me? I will have you—”

The dorocha acts first, and Merlin pushes himself back as it stands between him and the Priestesses. Balinor’s face is still empty, but Merlin can faintly see the hints of stubbornness—and maybe it is his father, to a degree, even if it’s only a sliver of him trying to protect his son. Merlin reaches out to him—

Gwaine tugs at him, and Merlin falls back.

“We need to go,” he says, and hoists Merlin on his back. 

“Gwaine,” Merlin croaks, because there is no way they can outrun the Priestesses. And there is no point, anyway; Merlin can’t do anything, and with his magic captured they are the strongest sorceresses in the kingdom. Only the court sorcerers stand between them and Dracaneard’s certain fall, and surely they have plans to deal with them as well.

“Be gone, you,” Morgause snaps at the dorocha, and it disappears out of existence. Merlin cries out, and Gwaine runs.

It’s not exactly comfortable, being held by Gwaine as he makes for the forest. Before he can make it, a vine appears under Gwaine’s feet and trips them. Merlin smacks face-first on the hard ground and tastes blood, and blindly reaches for Gwaine. He reaches out with his magic, but there’s nothing there, and he feels as if he’s lost all his senses instead of just one. He has no idea where the Priestesses are, where anyone is. When his fingers reach Gwaine’s arm, he grabs hold.

“Merlin, go,” Gwaine says, and scrambles up at Merlin’s touch.

“We’re never going to outrun them,” Merlin snaps. “They’ve got magic!”

“So do you!”

 “They took it,” Merlin cries out, and Gwaine’s eyes reflect the moonlight, large and round. Merlin pushes at him, because if he’ll die here, at least he’ll stand upright. Gwaine whirls around, but it is not the Priestesses coming at them.

Naimroa appears, roaring and breathing fire at the Priestesses, mere feet away. Merlin shields his face as she lands among the trees, and the cacophony of them breaking and taking flame overwhelms him. The world is red and orange, suddenly, and he thinks he can hear Morgana’s cry of fear; but Morgause and Nimueh have their shields up, and Naimroa’s dragon’s breath can’t pierce it—for now.

Merlin is under no illusions they can hold her off forever, unless they have prepared for that possibility too.

“Dragonchild,” Naimroa cries out, and then her eyes find Merlin’s—underneath her rage and terror, something softens, and Merlin swallows hard.

“Naimroa!” he calls out, and stumbles towards her. Gwaine grabs at him, trying to stop him, but Merlin breaks free. He needs her, and the dragons will win this battle for him, they will. Behind Naimroa, Rathuris and Ekaitza land.

“You can’t agree with this child,” Morgause shouts. “He has forsaken your kin, and he has ignored his duties towards you! He would unite with men who would see your skins pierced and your kind dead forever, and he would say it is in the name of peace. Fight with me, you glorious creatures of chaos! Fight with me!”

“Witch,” Naimroa snarls, and breathes her fire towards her. Merlin stands still, holding his breath even as Morgana ducks and Naimroa flies closer, to try to kill the Priestesses with her claws—

And then Ekaitza throws herself into Naimroa, and the two dragons tumble on the ground. Naimroa roars in anger, but Ekaitza is quicker and faster, and ducks out of the way before Naimroa can snap her teeth at her.

“We cannot have peace!” Ekaitza shouts, and throws up her wings. “The witch is right! I’ve said it so often, and you all told me I was wrong, but now Kilgharrah is gone—”

“Kilgharrah is a fool,” Naimroa says. “Rathuris!”

Rathuris says nothing. He stares uncomfortably to Naimroa, and then his gaze settles on Merlin. Merlin doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do—his Dragonlord part is magic, because that is what dragons are, and he has lost all connection to them. He is emptied out of them, and they are under no obligation to obey him.

And he has lost them more terribly than he thought, he realises suddenly, as Ekaitza snarls at Naimroa and Rathuris stands hopelessly between them. He nearly can’t breathe from the grief of it, and he balls his fists.

“Kilgharrah is the Great Dragon,” Rathuris says finally. “And the king is not a Dragonlord.”

“He is kin,” Naimroa says fiercely, but she takes two steps back, towards Merlin. She raises his wing to shield him, and Merlin holds up his hand to touch her gently, running his fingers over her scales as the forest burns behind them.

“Kilgharrah has turned against him,” Rathuris repeats.

Naimroa roars so loudly that Merlin thinks it echoes in all of Dracaneard. It is a battle cry, and a sound of desperation. “He! Is! Kin!”

If there is any more discussion to be had, Morgause makes sure there is no time for it. She grins and sends a bolt of lighting towards them. Naimroa doesn’t duck in time and cries out. In anger, Naimroa throws herself forward, only to be met by Ekaitza shielding the Priestesses. They claw at each other blindly, and Ekaitza roars. 

“Naimroa, no!” Merlin cries out, but she has no need to obey his commands now, and he isn’t sure she can even hear him. He is useless, powerless, and there is nothing he can do.

“We need to leave,” Gwaine says urgently, coming up from behind him and tugging at Merlin. “You need to get out of Dracaneard. They’re too powerful, and if you don’t have any magic—”

“We can’t leave!” Merlin says.

Gwaine grabs him by the shoulders, his face grim. “We have to, Merlin,” he says intently. “Live to fight another day, yes? They’re too powerful, and they’ve got your dragons fighting themselves. Who’s going to win back this kingdom if they’ve got you prisoner, or if you’re dead?”

Merlin’s mind whirls. “The druids,” he says hopelessly.

“They can’t fight!” Gwaine tells him. “Merlin, you’re the only chance your people have. We need to go!”

“But my family,” Merlin says, and looks at the dragons. Ekaitza is still defending against Naimroa, and Rathuris has his wings raised, looking more torn than anything else. Naimroa cries out in pain when Ekaitza bites at her wing, and flutters away. Merlin’s heart breaks at the sight of them, and he holds a hand against his face. “Naimroa!”

Naimroa makes a noise, and in the red and orange light of the forest aflame, Merlin can see blood pouring from her wing. He has never seen a dragon bleed before, and he stands transfixed. He cannot stop them; he can’t even try.

She hoists herself towards him. “On, now,” she snarls, and it’s only Merlin’s years of experience that have him jumping on top of her back. Gwaine follows his lead, and laboriously she takes to the sky. Ekaitza follows them, and Merlin looks over his back to see her wings surge powerfully, the forest still burning underneath them.

They won’t know what’s going on, he realises. His mother, Freya, Will, they’re all at the druid’s ceremony. He has no idea if Lance and Gwen are still in the castle, and if Galahad is with them. His court sorcerers will all be rallying, but he has no idea if they can face the Priestesses, not if they now number three, and not if they have the benefit of having planned this for a year and a half.

And Merlin has handed them his kingdom, and has no chance at winning it back.

“Ekaitza, no,” he cries out, when she gets close. Naimroa heaves with pain as she swirls to the right to avoid Ekaitza’s bite. It nearly throws off Merlin and Gwaine, and he grabs a tight hold of her scales. The rough ridges dig into his skin and scratch his palms painfully.

“You have been too peaceful for too long,” she snarls at him, with that violent delight in her eyes that Merlin used to find charming. He had never thought she’d turn it on him, and he ducks as she tries to claw at him. Gwaine holds steadily onto Merlin’s middle as Merlin ducks his head, pressing himself against Naimroa. “We need to fight, Dragon King, and we will fight your enemies for you! You will see!”

She sounds like Morgana, and Merlin swallows hard. He can hear his heart beating in his ears, and the wind howls. “You are attacking your kin,” he yells.

“Just come back, and we won’t have to,” she dismisses, and her teeth glint red with Naimroa’s blood. “But I haven’t had this much fun in years!”

Merlin’s heart sinks. Naimroa lets out a cry and, with what might well be her last energy, stretches her neck behind her and breathes a bolt of fire towards Ekaitza. Merlin feels it nearly scorch his skin, and Ekaitza makes a noise of distress; she ducks out of the way too late, having tailed Naimroa too closely, and it catches the side of her wing. She hisses and lowers herself, and Merlin lets out a breath of relief.

“I thought she was on your side,” Gwaine says, his fingers digging in Merlin’s thigh.

“So did I,” Merlin says mournfully. “But she’s like the Priestesses, I think. She wants violence, and now she has a chance for it, and she’s taking it. They’re angry with me, Gwaine. They’re right to be, but I’d hoped… I’d hoped.”

“They have betrayed Dracaneard,” Naimroa says sharply, and then quickly loses height. They’re long past the citadel, and Merlin holds onto her tightly in the turbulence of her flight. She hisses in pain, and Merlin looks left towards her bleeding wing; it is maimed more badly than he’d thought, the impression of Ekaitza’s teeth still clearly visible in how badly her scales are broken.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks in confusion. They’re not even past Draceneard’s defensive barrier yet, although they’re close.

“I can’t fly,” Naimroa says tersely, and smacks herself gracelessly on the ground. “I can’t carry you where you need to go, Dragonchild, and even if I could, they would track me. A dragon is too visible. You need a horse.”

“Naimroa,” Merlin says, and lets herself fall off her back to run his hands over her injury. His hands come back with red blood, and he trembles. “I can’t—what do we need to do to heal you?”

“It will heal,” Naimroa assures him, and peers at Gwaine when he wordlessly drops himself next to Merlin. “Knight. You are not the noble one, but you will protect him, will you not? To your own death, if need be?”

Gwaine presses his lips together. “I hope it won’t be necessary,” he says with a forced levity, “But yes. I will.”

“Dracaneard will stand as long as its king lives,” Naimroa says. “You cannot return until you have the power to defeat the Priestesses, Dragonchild, and I fear that it will be a hard battle. I will come and assist you, if I can—but I am dragonkind. They cannot kill me, not through their most painful spells. I will endure, and I will see you restored on your throne.”

“Naimroa,” Merlin whispers, and presses his face to her scales. “I can’t go. I can’t leave everyone.”

“If you want to save them, you must. They will be in more danger if you stay.”

“How do I defeat the Priestesses, anyway?” he asks, desperately trying to hold onto any reason to stay. “All the sorcerers are here, and I’ve lost my own magic. I can’t—do anything, I’ll be utterly useless if I’m not here, and—”

“There are ways to kill them,” Naimroa says, “Although I do not know how. I trust you, Dragonchild. Merlin.”

Merlin lets out a sob. Gwaine tugs at him once again. “We need to go,” he says, frowning as he looks back towards the citadel. In the distance, they can still see several points of angry red and orange, the forest burning. “They’ll come after you.”

“Be safe, Naimroa,” Merlin implores, and lets her hands slip from her. He can’t believe he is actually leaving, even as his kingdom is crumbling before his eyes, and leaving his people behind with it. His family, and there’s no saying what the Priestesses will do with them. If they’ll still be alive when Merlin returns.

“Come on, Merlin,” Gwaine says kindly. “There’ll be some farms nearby. We’ll take some food, and we’ll leave. We’ll go and hide until it’s all settled down, and then we’ll figure out a way to deal with the Priestesses.”

Merlin closes his eyes, and stumbles in the dark as Gwaine leads him. Behind him, Naimroa lies on the ground, injured and incapable of flight, and Dracaneard burns. In front of him lies the vastness of Albion without magic, and Merlin will fit in perfectly now, without his powers and without a crown.

They walk throughout the night, until they pass the barrier of Dracaneard, and Merlin finally drops to his knees when they enter the lands of Essetir.

The crown he never wanted, and the people he loves beyond all—

And there is not a single part of him that is still Emrys.

Chapter Text

PART IX

Albion has turned into more of a mess than Merlin had thought possible in such a short time; he wonders how he could not have realised how close to the edge they had all been, how little provocation stood between them and outright war. Perhaps the Priestesses are more powerful than he’d known, to have created such an intricate scheme. None of Merlin’s people had been paying attention, maybe, unused as they are to being involved in Albion’s troubles and more focused on their own issues.

Still, Merlin thinks to himself, as he and Gwaine examine the tracks of the knights’ marches. They should have known, and he should have prepared his people better. He should have seen it coming, this darkest hour. 

It has been two weeks—well, and four days, but who’s counting—since Dracaneard had fallen into Morgause’s hands, and Gwaine had swept Merlin away to hidden caves and hamlets with no more than twenty inhabitants to beg for a bed. They rely on the good will of farmers and merchants, small village matriarchs and blacksmiths who don’t care a whit about the political troubles in the world.

Gwaine had insisted they don’t take the main road and stayed away from larger villages out of fear for Morgause’s allies finding them. They already have the use of magic, he’d insisted; no need to make things any easier on them. Merlin isn’t sure how coups generally work, and if Morgause has time to use her spells to find him. He vaguely remembers that Nimueh used to be skilled with that sort of magic, but on the other hand, he’s utterly sure that his court sorcerers will be giving the Priestesses hell.

And, since Merlin has been told that Cenred has declared war on Camelot, perhaps they expect him to simply die in a war-torn land.

It’s a new thing, apparently, or at least, it is on Camelot’s side. Essetir marches, and farmers say that he’s allied with Deorham, while a merchant tells them that it’s on Northumbria’s behest that they ride out. Merlin isn’t sure of the truth of it, and clearly no one else is either, but one thing is certain: it’s not just Dracaneard in trouble.

He hears the whisper of his own fall as well, although he’s no idea how that little tidbit of information has spread. Maybe it’s unavoidable; some of his own people may have run away from Dracaneard after Morgause’s coup, and they would have spread the word. Merlin hears that he’s captured, and that he’s dead, that he’s been put in a magical coma to never wake up again, that he’s vanished into thin air. No one seems to know what to think; no one seems to know whether King Emrys’ supplantation by the Priestesses is a bad thing or not, since everything in Dracaneard is considered with a hefty amount of scepticism. 

Generally, though, people seem to think that people who violently take over a kingdom are worse than the king who’s never particularly done anything to them, so at least he’s got that. As much good as it does him.

“At least we’ll avoid them if we’re going further southeast,” Gwaine offers, looking at where the trail of knights leads. “We won’t find ourselves in the middle of some battlefield. Yesterday, when you were sleeping, that lady told me that Gawant and Nemeth are marching as well. Apparently, she has a brother in the south who briefly spoke to a knight from Nemeth when they were passing through Camelot, and—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says.

“It doesn’t—of course it matters. Merlin, the entirety of Albion may be going to war soon, and if we’re caught in the middle of it—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin repeats, “because we’re not going southeast anyway.”

Gwaine stares at him as if he’s grown a second head. “It’s the safest route we can take. Where are we going, then, if not south?”

Merlin gestures to the north. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“It’s hard to forget,” Gwaine says, raising his eyebrows at him. “You could’ve told me then, you know, that you hardly needed my help dealing with some bandits. In hindsight, it’s a little embarrassing.”

“It was charming,” Merlin says, and feels his cheeks blush a little at the memory of that meeting, years ago now. He’d liked Gwaine then—he likes Gwaine doubly so now, but he remembers, very strongly, the kiss that Gwaine had parted with him. There’s nothing like that now, of course, and Merlin has Arthur, even if he doesn’t really, but it’s just a little lonely sometimes.

“Anyway, I don’t see what the point is,” Gwaine says. “That was near the Perilous Lands, yes, but we were still in Mercia, and we don’t even know what they’re doing. Are they also not allied with Arthur?”

They are, as far as Merlin is aware, but that’s not what he is trying to say. “I mean,” he says, “the Cave. That’s where you brought me, and where we parted ways? The Crystal Cave. It’s the birthplace of magic, everyone says, and it’s extraordinarily strong there, even if I don’t know if the rumours are true.”

Gwaine slowly nods. “But you don’t have magic anymore. The Priestesses did something to take it from you, and unless you’ve done something without telling me, you don’t have it back.”

It’s the least like himself Merlin has ever felt. It’s as if someone has cut off a limb and he keeps trying to use it—or perhaps more like someone has stolen a lung, and every time he breathes, the absence of it hurts him so badly that it’s killing him slowly. He’s tried to move on, though, because if he focuses on it, he’ll think about the circumstances surrounding it, and he’ll think about Hunith and Freya and Will and Lance and Gwen and—

He stops and takes a breath. “If I’m to take back Dracaneard,” he says, and smiles grimly, because that seems a dauntlessly impossible task, “I have to find my magic. Now, I don’t even know where to start, but if it’s anywhere—it’ll be the Crystal Cave. It must be.”

“Are you sure?” Gwaine asks, voice full of healthy doubt.

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek, because he’s been thinking for two weeks if he should throw away all his chances on a risky journey. “No,” he says honestly. “But do you know a better way? Because I’ve been thinking about this, Gwaine—” Ever since Naimroa carried them away from the Priestesses, and Merlin ran away from his kingdom, “—and I don’t know what other option we have.”

“Right,” Gwaine says, and scratches his scraggly beard. “The Crystal Cave, then. But Merlin, I doubt that’ll solve any of our problems. We’ll have to cross several angry armies to get there.”

“If Arthur’s at war,” Merlin says, and resolutely tries not to become anxious about that as well, “He’ll be at his camp. Maybe we can use Camelot’s camp to pass. He’ll lend us some soldiers to cross safely.”

“Maybe,” Gwaine says pensively, and then brightens up. “Well! No use in sitting around thinking about it. We’ll have to move north, and try to avoid as many knights as we can. Fortunately, they are using the main roads, and we are—”

“Moving very slowly and inefficiently?” Merlin offers.

Gwaine pokes his shoulder. “Lancelot would be proud of this tactic, you know,” he says, and they both sober a little at the mention of him. Merlin dearly hopes his friend is doing well, and especially hopes that Lance and Gwen are with little Galahad. 

“He would be, you know,” he murmurs. “You’ve been keeping me safe very well, and I haven’t thanked you for it.”

“You can worry about winning back your kingdom,” Gwaine says. “I’ll worry about you, if you don’t mind.”

If Merlin thinks about it too much, he’ll cry, and he doesn’t want Gwaine to see it. Doubtlessly he must’ve heard Merlin sniffling away in the depths of the night, but he hasn’t said anything about it, and Merlin is more grateful than he could put into words.

He surreptitiously runs his sleeve across his eyes in the guise of rubbing his nose.

“Let’s find Camelot’s army, then,” he says as lightly as he can, but can’t help that his voice breaks again.

~*~

The disadvantage of travelling on the dust roads—apart from it taking three times as long—is that there are rarely any road signs and there’s not always an easy place to make camp. Merlin and Gwaine have slept out in the open several times, but it’s mid-winter, and especially today the weather is bitingly cold.

Merlin had traded his fine tunic and trousers for more ordinary ones like any farmer might wear—worse even than what he used to wear in Camelot as Arthur’s manservant—and some additional food and drink, besides, and Gwaine had traded his armour for rations, despite Merlin’s protests. His Dracaneard cloak he’d buried as soon as they left the barrier.

They’re trying to avoid attention, after all.

It does mean they have very little in the way of warm clothes. They’ve had luck with the mild winter so far, but it seems today has chosen to make up for that. The snow is not so much fluttering down as relentlessly falling, making it hard to see more than two feet in front of him. Merlin isn’t even entirely sure they’re still going in the right direction.

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, clenching on his jaw to try and keep his teeth from chattering too badly. The wind is howling and tugging at his jacket, and his fingers are so cold, despite how he’s kept them in his pockets the whole day, that he is actually growing afraid they may freeze off if they keep going like this. “We have to find some shelter soon.”

Gwaine doesn’t look much better off; there is some frost clinging to his beard and his nose is so red that Merlin might’ve spotted it even through this storm. He grimaces. “We’ll need to return to the main road,” he calls back over the sound of the wind. “Find some farmers, maybe, or a village.”

Or they might well die of the cold. Merlin nods his assent, and Gwaine grabs his shoulder to move him to the right direction. Merlin nearly trips over the heaps of snow; he still has the boots he wore during the Samhain celebration in Dracaneard, unwilling to trade them since they’d need to walk so far, but they are soggy and his feet are blistered, so it doesn’t really help him.

They have been avoiding villages as much as they can, but when they see the outline of one in the distance, Merlin can’t help but breathe out in relief. “Gwaine,” he says pointedly, and nods towards it. His lips feel numb; they have been walking since early morning, and the storm had started only an hour after. He hasn’t ever been this cold in his life.

“Good catch, Merlin,” Gwaine says, and plucks at his sleeve again. “Come on now, my friend, just half an hour or so. Step by step.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin tells him a little snappishly, and tugs his arm free when Gwaine holds onto him.

“You’ve been stumbling for hours,” Gwaine says in exasperation. “Let me help you.”

Merlin doesn’t want to be helped; he wants to sit in front of a fire and eat anything, since they hadn’t wanted to stop for a meal in this weather, and he wants Dracaneard to be free again, and he wants his family and his friends to be okay. He wants to have Arthur’s hand in his and Aithusa perched on his shoulder and Naimroa’s wing over his head, and he wants to be allowed to be a man instead of a king and play with little Galahad and not have to burden the hope of his people for once.

But right now, he’ll settle for not freezing to death.

So he stumbles ahead of Gwaine, pressing his lips together even as his vision flickers with white spots. It’s step by step, just as Gwaine said, and Merlin can find a sort of rhythm. He just stares ahead of him, and puts one foot down in front of the other, and after a while, he doesn’t even really feel the cold anymore. 

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, in a voice that sounds as if he’s been calling his name for a while. “Merlin, look at me.”

“What?” Merlin asks hopelessly.

“Get up, Merlin,” Gwaine tells him, and tugs at him. Merlin hadn’t realised he’d sat down—or fallen over, maybe, because his jacket is even more soaked than it was before, if that’s at all possible. 

“Can’t,” Merlin says, and his teeth aren’t even chattering anymore. “Can’t I sleep here?”

Gwaine frowns, and falls down to his knees. That’s possibly a very bad idea, because they’re not supposed to be doing that, and Merlin stares at him in astonishment. Gwaine takes Merlin’s hands out of his pocket and blows on them. Instead of warm, it just feels an odd sort of moist, and Merlin can only stare at Gwaine. He can’t sense anything else at all.

“Merlin, you’re doing very badly,” Gwaine says, in a very calm voice, “and you need to keep walking so we can sit in front of a fire. Now, I’d carry you, normally, but I don’t think we’ll get there if I try. So I need you to stand up and keep going.”

The wind is tugging at his hair, and Merlin can’t think. He tries to reach for his magic, but there’s only an endless gaping hole where his soul used to be, and he can’t go any further. It’s utterly empty, and he frowns in confusion.

“Where’s my magic?” he asks, and Gwaine grunts as he grabs Merlin around the chest and hoists him up. “Gwaine, I don’t—where were we going?”

“The village, Merlin,” Gwaine reminds him gently, and tucks Merlin’s fingers back in his pockets. “We’re nearly there. Just a bit further.”

Gwaine nearly has to drag him along, and Merlin tries to make it easier for him, he does. It’s just hard to coordinate his legs, and his limbs feel so sluggish. Gwaine’s ragged breathing is the only thing he can hear, and his hands on Merlin’s shoulders are solid and make him real. Merlin tries to focus on him, and he has to keep looking down at where they set their feet because the wind is blowing the snow so hard in their face that it feels as if it’ll cut into him.

And then suddenly, they stumble onto the paved roads, and the wind isn’t nearly so relentless when there’s buildings around them. Merlin looks up, and Gwaine lets go of him to make his way to the door of the nearest house and knocks loudly on the door.

“Hello!” he calls, and knocks again. Merlin lets himself fall against the wall, exhausted beyond measure. He slips down slowly, and his jacket catches on the rough stone. He can’t even worry about any tears as he slowly blinks, losing sight of Gwaine.

He could close his eyes for just a minute. Just a minute—

~*~

The three blankets wrapped around him make it exceedingly hard to get loose, and Merlin wriggles a little bit when he comes to consciousness. He can’t recall going to sleep, nor of actually being in a house, and he feels a stab of concern.

“Gwaine!” he calls out, and coughs. “Gwaine!”

“Your friend’s sleeping,” a woman says, swiftly coming to sit down next to him and helping him loosen the blankets. Merlin’s chest is bare, and he blinks down at himself, his cheeks heating. He tugs at the first blanket again to cover himself and looks at her.

Although she can’t be any younger than sixty, her hair is still a dark orange, as if painted by the fire, and her face full of freckles. She looks friendly, and smiles knowingly at him when he blushes dark.

“Who’re you?” he asks.

“A friend,” she says easily, and at the expression on Merlin’s face, she adds, “My name is Rana. Your friend knocked on my brother-in-law’s door, but he had no space for two strangers. He carried you here with your friend. You had nearly frozen to death.”

Vague flashes of memory slowly return to him, but not nearly all of that. He recalls seeing the village in the distance, but he doesn’t know how they actually got here. Gwaine must have led him most of the way, he thinks with a hint of embarrassment. He’s not supposed to be such a burden.

“Is Gwaine alright?” he asks.

“A little better off than you, but not by much,” Rana says. “He’s asleep in the other room, but he was still awake by the time you arrived here, so I gave him some food first. He was intent on making sure you were alright, so he stayed with you until he nearly fell over and I convinced him to sleep. He’s very loyal to you.”

Merlin swallows heavily, and looks to the wooden door behind which Gwaine must be sleeping. “More loyal than I think I’ve earned, at times,” he confesses, and stretches his fingers. They still feel a little numb, but from warmth rather than cold. “Thank you, Rana. For your hospitality.”

“I’d ask you why you’re on the road in this weather and with all the armies marching, but you’re not the only strangers to pass through this town this week,” she says, levelling him with an even gaze. “Your friend doesn’t seem the type, but you’re a druid, are you not?”

Merlin stills. “What makes you say so?”

“As I said, we’ve had a lot of strangers passing by,” she says, and shrugs. “I don’t mean any harm.”

“Your king is Cenred,” he points out wryly.

“And we bear little love for him,” Rana returns, and Merlin shrugs. “We’re still near enough to the border to Dracaneard. We recall days where druids and other merchants would pass this land more freely, and we used to trade with them. Other villages may have been suspicious of magic, but we were close enough to see the dragons fly across Dracaneard at times. I saw them when I was a little girl.”

Merlin inhales sharply. He doesn’t want to think about that, and he still feels exhausted from the cold and oddly emotional. He buries his face in his hand and quickly dries his eyes. “Sorry,” he says lamely. “I’m not—it’s been a difficult time.”

“I can imagine,” Rana murmurs. “I merely wanted to say—you are safe here, and we have several druids that have made a temporary home here. You aren’t the only one who looked for sanctuary from the weather, and perhaps the older druids still remember the old days the way I do.”

He knew, of course, that some of his people must have left Dracaneard in the aftermath of the Priestesses’ actions. He has no idea what they’ve done, but he doubts they could have stopped everyone from running away; the Priestesses are powerful, but they can’t focus on everyone at the same time. He’d known that the news of his fall must have spread that way, through his people being on the run, but somehow he’d never really considered that he’d meet them out here.

And why should he have? Gwaine had made them pick the routes that would allow them to avoid most people, just in case they’d find someone who wasn’t nearly so kind to Dracaneard’s refugees. They had barely met anyone in their two weeks of hiding who wasn’t someone they’d specifically picked out to approach for either shelter or rations.

“I would like to meet them,” he says slowly, and she smiles at him.

“I thought you might,” Rana says, and pats his arm. With the three blankets in between her hand and his skin, it feels less like a motherly touch and more like something soft is poking at him from five feet away. “It’s good to see you awake, young man. Your friend will be thrilled. Now, how would you like something to eat?”

Merlin’s stomach rumbles in response.

~*~

It takes two days for the storm to clear up. They stay with Rana that entire time, and they don’t even bother picking any fake names. No one ever uses Merlin outside of his direct family and friends, and Merlin had already used Gwaine’s name anyway. 

“Now,” Rana sternly says over breakfast on the third day, “While most of our people are very willing to look the other way when it comes to druids and magic folk, not all of them are so open-minded. So we haven’t made a point out of welcoming them. I think they wanted to go as soon as the storm cleared up, and I know you boys have been restless—” Not for the reasons she thinks; Merlin has been anxious about leaving ever since he managed to stand by himself, eager to get to Arthur and the Crystal Cave afterwards, “—so I know you want to go, too.”

“I wouldn’t be too quick to say that, my lady,” Gwaine says impishly, and taps with his fork on his empty plate. “You’re a far better cook than our lovely Merlin here.”

Merlin is twenty-six years old, and does not care at all that sticking out his tongue is usually for children. Gwaine makes a face at him.

“Be that as it may,” Rana says patiently, “You’ve been very wonderful guests to have.”

Merlin grows a little more solemn. “We’re very glad to have met you, Rana. We couldn’t ever repay you for everything you’ve done—”

“Oh, I’m not so badly off that I couldn’t feed two strangers,” she says, and grins. “You remind me of my oldest son, Merlin, have I said? So friendly and withdrawn at the same time. Now, you, Gwaine, you remind me of my husband.”

Gwaine leans forwards with a wolfish grin. “Is that so?”

She slaps his fingers with her spoon. “Only because he was as impossible as you,” she says. “Now, the druids are staying with Madric, and I suppose they will leave soon. Have you packed all your things?”

All of their things consist of Merlin’s raggedy tunic and jacket, a pair of muddy pants that only dried after two days in front of the hearth fire, and a hastily-tied together bundle that held whatever was left of their rations. Most of it has gone old and bad, but Rana has filled it up with food to last them for a day or three. Merlin is more grateful to her than he thinks he’s ever been to anyone.

“Really,” he says, and tugs at her when she gets up to clear their plates, and kisses her cheek. “Thank you. You don’t even know how much it means.”

She softens, and runs a finger over his cheek. “I’m a mother, too, Merlin,” she says kindly. “And you miss yours, don’t you?”

“More than she could possibly know,” Merlin admits. The thought of Hunith and Freya is what drives him forward, more than anything else.

“Then I’ve done it for her,” Rana says decisively. “Mother for mother. Now, get your things and run out. We’ll need to be quick before we miss them; you’re very quick on your feet, you druid folk.”

She leads them out the back door, making sure to look both ways. It’s still early in the day, so it’s still cold. Merlin shivers as the wind touches his skin, involuntarily remembering their trip through the storm. Gwaine grabs his arm and nods, his eyes equally troubled, and Merlin feels better for his presence.

Gwaine is the first to spot the druids, and he elbows Merlin and nods in the right direction to point them out. Rana was right about the time; Merlin can spot a familiar druid’s cloak when they turn the corner to the house Rana said they would be at. There seem to be three in total, and Merlin’s heart soars at the sight of them—and then he catches sight of the oldest one’s face, and he grins.

“Iseldir!” he whispers, only because he’s still aware of the fact that they ought to be a little secretive. “Iseldir!”

“You know them?” Rana asks, furtively looking over her back. “Oh, that’s good news!”

Merlin takes several more steps—more like leaps—and Iseldir turns around. The druid’s eyes grow large, and he drops to his knees before Merlin has even reached his side. The two other druids—also familiar to Merlin, although he can’t quite remember their names—turn around. The second covers her mouth with her hand, and Merlin yanks Iseldir up and embraces him tightly.

“My king,” Iseldir says, and his hands come to rest tentatively on Merlin’s shoulders. “We thought you were dead.”

Merlin buries his face in the threads of Iseldir’s familiar cloak. It even smells like Dracaneard, and he slowly lets go of Iseldir to look at his astonished face. “Well, I’m not,” he says, a little tightly. “Please, Iseldir, you’ve no idea how glad I am to see you. You need to tell me everything that’s happened.”

“Yes, my lord,” Iseldir murmurs, and glances beyond Merlin’s shoulder, “But I think you have quite a tale to tell yourself.”

Merlin turns around. Rana is still staring at them, and Gwaine is raising an eyebrow in his direction.

“Do none of you people,” Gwaine says lightly, “understand the meaning of hiding? I’ve not been dragging him across the plains of Dracaneard and Essetir just so you could give away his identity by bowing! Royalty.”

“King Emrys?” Rana asks, and the morning light catches her hair fiery and burning; Merlin smiles awkwardly and steps back to take her hands.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says, and looks back at the village. The first people are starting to wake up, and soon they will start drawing attention. It really is time to go, and Merlin feels a little lighter that it won’t just be him and Gwaine anymore.

She opens her mouth and closes it again. “Lord, I wouldn’t—I didn’t know—you would have died!”

Merlin can feel rather than see Iseldir’s expression at that, and he coughs. “And I’m very grateful you opened your home to us. We have to go, but I’ll remember your kindness forever. And, hopefully, one day the merchants and druids of Dracaneard will come here again.”

“And magic will reign free?” she asks, a half-smile tugging at her lips, disbelieving and hopeful at the same time.

“We can only hope,” Merlin murmurs. He is more intent on saving Dracaneard than fulfilling his prophecy at this moment, but there’s always a glimmer of hope, somewhere distant in the future. Today, it’s a bit more distant than it has been the last couple of years.

Still. He has to have faith in something. It might as well be his shared destiny with Arthur.

“Thank you, my lord,” she says, and Merlin kisses her cheek again. Gwaine makes a noise, and swoops in to kiss Rana on her forehead.

Iseldir takes a step forward. “We do have to leave, my lord,” he says apologetically.

“Why don’t you call him Merlin, for a change,” Gwaine suggests with a grin, and connects his arm with Merlin’s. “Before the whole of Albion comes after him.”

“Good luck, Merlin,” Rana says, and steps back. Merlin waves at her as they set off on the road again—and can only think that it might be the kindness of strangers that will save them all before the end.

~*~

“My lord,” Iseldir says later that night. They’ve found shelter in some nearby forests, but it’s not like the nights when Gwaine and Merlin had to sleep out in the open, huddled against each other with their sleeping rolls only not to freeze to death. No, because Iseldir, Bodhmal and Bry have magic, and they have heated up their rolls and can have the fire going the entire night without risk.

Merlin is feeling a little sour. Okay, maybe a lot. Every time he tries to reach for his magic—and he’s not even used to reaching, so it already feels odd—all he finds is an emptiness, a loss of himself, and the grief he feels for it is so deep and looming he might find himself drowning in it. He isn’t him without magic.

“Yes, Iseldir?” he says gently. He has just finished explaining the tale of how he and Gwaine got away; mostly while Bodhmal, Bry and Gwaine were making camp and tending the fire and cooking, and Merlin would be ashamed not to be helping out if he still weren’t tired from the cold that had set in his bones only days earlier. Gwaine had sat down earlier too, so Merlin at least doesn’t feel entirely unjustified in still being affected by it.

“So many tales were being spread, and we did not know which ones were true,” Iseldir says, thoughtful. “We had hoped, of course—but the Priestesses are proclaiming your death, so we had little hope. We had thought you would have stayed if you had lived, but now you have told me of your magic, I see that fleeing was indeed the only option.”

It still stings, but Merlin tries to smile at that. “Do you know what happened to my family?” he urges. “My friends? They were at the druids’ Samhain celebration when the Priestesses attacked me. I just need to know—”

“Rest assured, if they were with the druids, I’m sure they were taken care of,” Iseldir says. “I have not heard any news of them, and I think that the Priestesses would have spread news of their deaths too if they had occurred.”

It makes Merlin breathe a little easier. “But do they think that I’m—”

“I do not know, my lord,” Iseldir says gravely. “Perhaps, or perhaps they know better. The court sorcerers are under the Priestesses’ thumb, but they may be protecting you. All I know is that the barrier is now closed, and no one can enter. We were one of the last to be able to pass through—but now, Dracaneard is closed off.”

Merlin slowly nods. “So I can’t return,” he murmurs. “Not even if I wanted to. So Dracaneard is protected by the barrier, and I can’t pass it, and I don’t have magic, and I don’t have dragons, and I don’t have—anything, really.”

“You have more than you know, my lord,” Iseldir says wisely.

“Like?” Merlin presses. At Iseldir’s silence, he mutters, “You know, Iseldir, sometimes I think you just say things to sound wise. All these people telling me what to do in my youth—by the gods, not even my youth, but always, and not a single one who even knows what the prophecy really means, or even has an original line from it. How are you all so convinced you’re right?”

Iseldir smiles faintly. “It’s called faith, my lord.”

“Yes, well,” Merlin says, and stands up. “Not all of you can be right. So some of it has to be misplaced, and I’m not sure who it’ll be.”

“My lord,” Iseldir calls before Merlin can pick up his sleeping roll. “Did we not say that your destiny was with Arthur? Has that not proven true so far? Arthur will help you to the Crystal Cave, my lord, I’m sure of that. You still trust in that, too, if nothing else.”

Merlin sighs. His chest is heavy, and the fire dances, reflected in Iseldir’s eyes. Merlin admires their faith; and that of the dragon’s, and to a degree even that of the Priestesses’. His father had a similar kind of belief, but Merlin isn’t sure if he ever did. Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with him.

He has always kept magic and religion separate. 

“I believe in people,” Merlin tells him. “I believe that Arthur is a good man.”

“And perhaps good men are the ones who shape prophecies,” Iseldir says. He raises his eyebrows at Merlin as if to dare him to contradict him. Merlin has had enough of religion, lately, and as thankful as he is for the druids’ company, he just smiles wanly.

“Or perhaps,” he murmurs, “they’re just good men, and that’s all there is to it.”

Gwaine looks up at him when Merlin comes to take his sleeping roll. “Tired of them already, aren’t you?” Gwaine asks, but there’s a measure of calculated concern in the light jest. “We can leave, you know. Make it to Arthur ourselves. Perhaps stop by a tavern or two on the way.”

Merlin leans forward, unexpectedly to even himself, and presses a dry kiss to Gwaine’s mouth. He pulls back before Gwaine can even react; his brown eyes are large and beautiful in their surprise, and Merlin thinks that things could have been so much easier.

Destiny or not, he doesn’t think he ever could not have chosen Arthur.

“Please never change,” he says simply.

Gwaine clears his throat. “Promise,” he says.

“We’ll have a long way to go tomorrow,” Merlin tells him, and crawls under his bed roll. He’s laid it perhaps a bit too closely to the fire, but he’d rather sweat in the night than shiver through the cold. He doesn’t think he could take it. “We still have a long way to go for a long time, probably. I don’t want to hold you to me if you’d rather go, Gwaine. I’m with the druids now, and they’ll keep me safe. I won’t hold it against you.”

Gwaine stares at him. “So that was a parting gift?”

“I don’t know what it was,” Merlin admits. “Perhaps I’m just lonely, and you’re my best friend.”

“I’m staying, Merlin,” Gwaine says resolutely, and when Merlin opens his mouth, he puts a gloved hand over Merlin’s lips. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ll be right by your side until you’ve got back your throne, or until I’ve died putting you there.”

“Don’t say that,” Merlin says angrily.

Gwaine shrugs. “Don’t try to make me go, then.”

“Fine,” Merlin murmurs heatedly, and tugs up his roll over his chin. A few feet away, he can hear the druids talking among themselves, but Gwaine’s attention is entirely on him. “I won’t.”

Gwaine is quiet as he takes his own sleeping roll, and he puts it squarely against Merlin’s. A promise, Merlin thinks, the same one he’s been making for days. Months. 

“You’re my best friend too, you know,” Gwaine murmurs.

Merlin can hear him starting to snore only several minutes later, but he stares at the fire that still flickers, alive and warm. “Bryne,” he murmurs at it, and nothing happens. “Bryne!”

The magic remains hidden to him.

~*~

Travelling with the druids makes things a little easier, although Gwaine seems a bit grumpy about the fact they’re easier to spot with five. They do take the main road, though, and Bodhmal lends Merlin his druid’s cloak. The deep hood makes Gwaine less concerned about getting recognised at once, and if the Priestesses have people looking for them, it’ll presumably be for two travellers.

No one really bothers them, although they get odd looks from some people passing them by. Druids aren’t often found in these places, but Merlin would rather be quick than secretive at this stage. Iseldir and his people have agreed to get them to Arthur—and he’d agreed with Merlin’s assessment that the Crystal Cave is his best bet, which had been something of a relief—and he’d even known something about the location of Camelot’s army. They are in Camelot, near the border with Essetir and Dracaneard, as it turns out, unwilling to let Cenred march any further with an enemy force. There’s some mixed talk about whether or not Deorham is joining, but personally Merlin thinks they could never make it on time. Deorham’s forces will be all the way in the west, and the dispute with Camelot and Arthur is on the eastern border.

If Deorham does come, it will be a complete war. 

There are also reports of Nemeth’s army which seem to be true, which is also odd. Nemeth comes all the way from the south. At least the rumours about Mercia’s army marching make more sense to Merlin, since they share a border with Essetir and are allied with Arthur. 

He is getting a bit dizzy trying to figure out everyone’s moves and motives from the farmers’ and merchants’ hear-say. He’s mostly busy just trying to get to the north so he can find Arthur’s camp and figure out what’s going on, and maybe get two or three knights to guide them to the Crystal Cave, if Arthur can spare them.

Truth be told, Merlin would be content to just see Arthur.

They travel for four days, getting up before sunlight and walking until after the sun has set. The further north they go—and they reach the border with Dracaneard again before they move away from it once more, on the western side this time, and not the eastern side that Merlin had escaped from—the busier it gets. There are more soldiers around, and there are more merchants delivering food and water. 

Merlin trades his soggy boots from Dracaneard for a pair that’s a little sturdier, and feels oddly lost when he loses the last item he brought with him from his own kingdom.

“My lord,” Bry says on the fifth day, near the end of the afternoon, and points in the distance. The sun is already close to setting, orange and heavy in the sky, and Merlin peers up to see the encampment of tents in the distance.

His heart starts beating very loudly in his chest and his mouth goes dry. He just had a sip of water, but he quickly takes another. They’d left the main road a day ago and just followed the trail of soldiers instead, keeping their heads down whenever someone looked at them. Magic may be forbidden, but druids haven’t been executed at all in Arthur’s four years of ruling Camelot, and the soldiers have better things to be worried about.

The oncoming battle, for one. Clearly Cenred’s forces haven’t arrived yet—and Merlin is more than relieved about that, even if the increasing rumours make it clear that it won’t be long—and it’s just Camelot, sitting at the ready.

“King Arthur,” Gwaine says, grinning broadly and slapping Merlin on the back. Iseldir looks at him with some disapproval.

“Indeed,” he murmurs. “I doubt we can just walk in, Lord Emrys, considering the tension—Lord Emrys. Lord—Merlin!”

Merlin is already starting to walk, faster than he has in days. His legs are killing him, and his feet have blisters in places he didn’t even know he could get blisters, and he nearly froze to death on his journey. He doesn’t have his magic, and really, he doesn’t have anything.

But Arthur is there, and Merlin doesn’t have a shred more patience to wait to see him. He starts running, and he can hear Gwaine’s laughter and Iseldir’s cries behind him, and it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a very good camp if he didn’t get spotted right away. A soldier grabs him roughly before Merlin has even made it past the first tent, and eyes him and his druid’s cloak distastefully. Merlin must look like more than a mess; he hasn’t properly washed in days and he must smell worse than he ever has in his life. The knight’s red cloak billows in the wind.

“Who are you?” the knight says harshly. “You can’t walk in. There is no place for druids here.”

“Please, I have to see Arthur,” Merlin pleads. “He’ll want to see me. I promise—”

“A druid?” the knight says in confusion, and tightens his hold on Merlin’s arm. He is still young, and by the dragons, Merlin hasn’t lived in Camelot in so long. He can’t be any older than twenty, and he wouldn’t have been a knight yet when Merlin fled from Camelot, and Merlin wishes he could shake himself free from his grip.

“Just tell him,” Merlin asks. “I won’t move, I promise I’ll stay right where I am. You can even send someone else. Just tell him I’m here to see him. My name is—”

“Merlin.”

Arthur Pendragon stands there, sword on his hip and his hair shining gold. His eyes are large, and his pink lips slightly parted; and Merlin has never been gladder to see anyone in his life, and he can’t help the way he sags to the ground at the sight of him.

“Arthur.”

Chapter Text

Arthur closes the distance between them, absentmindedly pushing aside the knight. The young man drops Merlin in the confusion, and Merlin lands on his knees. He just laughs with glee, wheezes with it, when Arthur drops to embrace him so tightly that it nearly crushes his lungs. Merlin presses his cheek against Arthur’s, and folds his own arms around Arthur’s middle. He is warm, and real, and physical under Merlin’s touch, and the exhilaration makes him dizzy. He rests his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck, and starts crying.

“Merlin?” Arthur repeats, and lays a hand on Merlin’s cheek. His expression is twisted in concern. “My God, I thought you were—are you alright? You were dead.”

Merlin hiccups out a laugh-sob at that. “Am I alright?” he asks, and runs his sleeve over his face, useless as it may be. For one, his sleeve is even dirtier than his face is, and for a second, he doesn’t think he’ll stop sobbing anytime soon. “Arthur, no, I’m not.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Arthur murmurs, and presses his forehead against Merlin’s. “You were dead, Merlin. I don’t know—they told me you were dead, and I had to live in that world. Do you have any idea what you have done to me?”

Merlin swallows heavily, and looks around. “Made you go to war?”

“Oh, I wish that was just for you,” Arthur says heavily, and presses a hand against his face. He finally stands up, and Merlin stays where he is in the cold grass, the dew sticking to his trousers. He has his fingers splayed on the ground, and he can’t meet Arthur’s gaze again now that he’s so carefully extracted himself.

“I can’t…” He trails off, not entirely sure what he means to say.

“King Emrys of Dracaneard,” Arthur says softly, as if he isn’t sure himself. “The King who lost his kingdom.”

Merlin raises his head, and feels himself tremble. Arthur takes his arms and hoists him up, running an arm over Merlin’s shoulder when Merlin nearly falls against him, uncertain that he can hold himself up at this point. His legs tremble with effort, or perhaps it’s just that all the exhaustion is crashing into him now that he has found Arthur to hold him steady.

Arthur sighs, looking up to the sky as if shooting a prayer. “God. There’s so much to tell you, so much—I need to ask you, in fact, and I have time for none of it. Merlin, we’re going to battle tomorrow morning.”

Merlin stills. “In the morning?”

That leaves them the evening and a night, and that’s all. Merlin isn’t sure what he expected, but he’d hoped… well. He’d hoped to see Arthur, and he hadn’t wanted to think about the part where he’d need to journey to the Crystal Cave. 

Finally, Gwaine and the druids reach them. Gwaine waves at Arthur in greeting, jovial even as he pants and puts a hand to his middle.

“God, Merlin,” he puffs. “I’d no idea you were so fast, my friend. Good day to you, Arthur. How’s your war going?”

Arthur looks at Merlin. “You brought Gwaine?”

“Gwaine brought me,” Merlin says wryly. “I was nearly killed and kicked out of my kingdom, Arthur. I didn’t exactly have time to put together a retinue of knights and sorcerers to leisurely journey here. I’d be dead if not for Gwaine.”

“You’re welcome,” Gwaine says pointedly.

A storm of emotions clouds Arthur’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says. Several knights are now staring at them openly, but Arthur doesn’t seem bothered by their attention nor by Merlin’s wild appearance. 

“Arthur—”

“We’re going to my tent,” Arthur says decisively, and looks at Gwaine and the druids. “All of you. Sir Kay, please find some food for our guests.”

The young knight chokes out a, “Yes, my lord,” and Arthur leads them back. Merlin feels as if he’s walking in a dream, and distantly remembers that war between Camelot, Deorham and Gawant. Arthur feels more mature now, more settled in his leadership, and those memories are cloudy, as if they’re a lifetime ago.

Merlin supposes both of them have changed a lot since then. Have lost their fathers and found their kingship—one of them a little more gracefully than the other.

Arthur’s tent is the largest of them all, and he orders them to sit down with the air of someone who’s used to being listened to. Gwaine remains standing, slowly picking at some of the grapes on Arthur’s table. Arthur pays him no heed, and Merlin stays standing as well, mostly because Arthur does and he’s not willing to step away from him. 

“Now,” Arthur says, and eyes Merlin. “I want to know what happened.”

Once, Merlin had been glad that Arthur could so easily move past his grief for Uther to take command of the situation. He had needed Arthur to do it then, and maybe he needs him to do it now, because the relief settles in his lungs sharply. Still, perhaps he misses Arthur’s arms around his shoulders a little bit, and he strokes his own arm consciously.

Arthur’s eyes fleet to his, and he takes a step towards him to take his hand. Merlin swallows heavily, feeling bolstered by Arthur’s warm palm in his own, and says, “They took Dracaneard.”

“I had guessed as much,” Arthur says dryly. “The Priestesses, then? And you fled the kingdom? Why did you not stay and fight? I’ve seen your power, Merlin, and I know that they say you are—the strongest sorcerer to walk the Earth.” The words come with a bit of hesitation, and Arthur smiles thinly. 

Merlin shuffles, and untangles his fingers from Arthur. “They took my magic.”

“They took,” Arthur repeats in disbelief, “your magic? That is something they can do?”

“It is an ancient spell, and one that requires a lot of power,” Iseldir says in Merlin’s lieu. “They were with two of them, my lord, and at Samhain, the Priestesses are at the height of their powers. They manipulated the circumstances so that—”

“Three,” Merlin says, and swallows heavily. “They were with three.”

Arthur regards him solemnly. Merlin has no idea how much he can tell from Merlin’s expression alone, but the tears are still prickling in his eyes—they haven’t really stopped—and he’s tried not to think about Morgana in the recent weeks.

“Gwaine,” Arthur says slowly, “There’s some spare tents in the supply wagons. They won’t be much, but they’ll have bedrolls and food and water. Sir Kay will be returning soon, no doubt; he can have them set up, or you can ask anyone to point you to the wagons.”

Gwaine looks at Merlin. Merlin takes a deep breath. “It’s fine, Gwaine.”

“If you haven’t joined me within an hour, I’ll come back,” Gwaine says firmly. “And I won’t knock.”

With that, he disappears. The druids eye each other before they slowly start to follow him; Iseldir raises an eyebrow at Merlin, but then they’re all alone, and Arthur takes Merlin’s shoulders between his hands.

“I’ve so many questions, and I don’t know where to begin,” Arthur admits. “Merlin, are you—”

Merlin crashes their lips together, his hand on Arthur’s cheek. It takes no time at all for Arthur to respond, and Merlin falls into his arms. Arthur is warm and safe around him, and Merlin doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to pull away; that means facing a reality that isn’t just this, and he doesn’t know if he can handle it.

Arthur is greedy in this, the way he isn’t in anything else, and runs his tongue over Merlin’s lips. Merlin shudders, and lets Arthur push him all the way to the bed in the corner. When he falls on it, it is soft and inviting; Arthur falling on top of him is even more welcome. He is heavy and warm above Merlin, and he pulls away for a second. His eyes are impossibly blue on Merlin’s, uncertain and calculating, and he runs a finger over Merlin’s nose.

“I can’t talk about it,” Merlin pleads, and tugs at Arthur’s armour. He knows the fit of it well, but Arthur’s shoulders have broadened since he last saw him, and he has a shadow of a beard. There are some lines around his eyes and lips that weren’t there eight years ago.

Merlin bleeds for the past, and doesn’t want to think about what is to come.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs quietly. “We can’t do this. Not here, not now—”

“I want you,” Merlin whines.

Arthur presses his eyes closed and breathes out. When he opens them again, he says, “You’re the only one I’ve ever loved like that, and the only one I ever will. You know that. But we’ve got duties beyond ourselves, and you need to tell me what happened, because I would rather help you than comfort you. ”

Merlin swallows heavily, and Arthur climbs off him to sit on the side of his bed. Merlin feels chastened, but Arthur’s hand on his own is soft, and they bump their shoulders together sitting like that. He blows out a breath.

“Why don’t you tell me first?” he suggests. “Everything that’s been going on? I can… fill in the gaps, so to speak, but I only know what’s been happening in Dracaneard. We kept getting these reports on the road, Arthur, of a war with Essetir, and then they said Mercia was involved, and suddenly we heard that Nemeth was coming, and I don’t know what’s true or not.”

Arthur leans back his head. “Essetir was attacking Mercia,” he starts slowly. If he realises that Merlin is trying to win himself more time, at least he doesn’t say. “They were sending small raiding parties to their kingdom, and we couldn’t really tell why. It didn’t seem to have a purpose. King Bayard was dealing with it himself, for a long time, but war—well, we rely on Bayard for some of our stocks to trade, and the winter has been harsh, especially lately. We have little food.”

“Maybe that’s why Essetir was attacking them at all,” Merlin says reasonably.

Arthur eyes him wryly. “I’m telling this all out of order. Bayard is my bannerman now—he made me High King when Cenred was starting the raids in his kingdom. He was ill, did you now? He thought he might die, and…”

“Sorry, what?” Merlin asks. “I might’ve been a bit busy putting out fires in my own kingdom to hear about this. Bayard is ill?”

“Not so much, anymore,” Arthur says, and taps his fingers on his own thigh impatiently. He clearly wants to get the story out, and so Merlin sits back and resolves himself to waiting out Arthur. “He was, and he still might get worse over the years. He’s not the youngest man anymore, and he couldn’t afford to have the kingdom fall apart in the middle of Cenred’s attacks. His daughter, Astrid, might not be able to keep the kingdom standing if it comes to war. So he swore to me.”

Merlin nods. “Alright,” he says. “So obviously, you had to come help if Mercia was attacking them.”

“Except that I just couldn’t make sense of why Cenred was raiding Mercia,” Arthur says, and puts a hand to his forehead. “Mercia is rich, yes, but it won’t do Essetir any good if they provoke war simply to steal some supplies. War’s far more costly than anything they can steal. Besides, if he did want to go to war, there’s much better ways to search it out. Just send in an army, instead of a handful of soldiers.”

“And?” Merlin pushes.

“Well, you know that I was trying to have a treaty with Northumbria, but Morgana’s attack—let’s just say that my attempts at peace were ruined very effectively.” Arthur’s voice holds a touch of tired wariness, as if he doesn’t want to be protected from the truth, and can’t bear to face it at the same time. Merlin squeezes his hand, and Arthur looks at him. “I hadn’t realised how much she has grown to resent me.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and looks downwards. In comparison to Arthur, he looks like a mess, and he feels like one too. “I don’t think it’s your fault.”

Arthur’s shoulder slump. “Anyway, the only reason I’m telling you about Northumbria is because that is, in essence, what led to Nemeth getting involved. They’ve sworn to me as High King, too. Did you hear about that? It would’ve been just before Dracaneard fell.”

Merlin frowns. “No,” he says honestly. “What about Nemeth, then?”

“Nemeth is in a bad position for trade,” Arthur starts. Nemeth is all the way in the south, and their only neighbours are Deorham and Camelot. Merlin suspects that Deorham isn’t very interested in dealing with any of Camelot’s allies, at this point. “They asked me for permission to travel to Camelot so that they could make a trade deal with Northumbria instead. Since my own plan fell through, they couldn’t trade through me, which Rodor might’ve been planning to do.”

“I don’t see how this all relates to each other,” Merlin confesses. “What, Rodor wanted to make you High King to be able to trade with you?”

“I would’ve traded with him, of course,” Arthur says, his voice a bit hard. “I didn’t have enough to trade, though, so it’s no surprise they looked to Northumbria instead. But war was coming, that much was clear, in some way or another. I didn’t want Nemeth trampling through Camelot to trade with a kingdom that I’m not allied with without some sort of insurance. So I asked Rodor to swear to me, and he did. I didn’t like having to do it, but I have to keep Camelot safe.”

“Right,” Merlin says quietly. “So when did you decide to go to war with Mercia?”

“When they sent an army towards the border,” Arthur tells him dryly. “Cenred has declared his intent to side with Dracaneard. I suppose they were waiting for Morgause to overthrow you before he started marching. Deorham is siding with him, too. King Godwyn will face them, and stop their army, before Cenred and Alined’s forces meet. But they’re siding with the Priestesses.”

Merlin leans back, folding his face in his hands. It takes him a few seconds to relearn how to breathe properly. “So everyone’s at war,” he says, his voice muffled. “Everyone’s at war, and I don’t have my kingdom, and I don’t even have my magic.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur offers quietly. “That’s what happened. All I knew—we received word that you’d been killed when Morgause took over Dracaneard, and then Cenred declared war, and we just… I’m just so glad to see you.”

“So am I,” Merlin says, and leans his head on Arthur’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “I just wish it wasn’t like this.”

“I wish I could change this world, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, burying his nose in Merlin’s hair. “But I can’t, not even for you, not even if I try to. I can only try and keep my kingdom together, one piece at a time, and this is the second war I’m fighting in four years. I don’t think I’m doing particularly well, and I wish I could—I wanted to be the king you thought I could be.”

Merlin leans back and tugs at Arthur’s tunic. He kisses him—more sweetly, less urgently, and Arthur’s lips are dry against his. 

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats. 

“I thought you were dead,” Arthur says, and lifts his eyes up as if he can’t meet Merlin’s gaze. Merlin regards him quietly as Arthur shakes his head to himself; trying to make himself the composed king he always has had to be, no doubt. “I thought you were dead, and I’d lost Morgana, and I don’t know how to keep the peace. Everything I try—and it seems like it is just destined to fall apart.”

Arthur, once again, hadn’t been given any time to grieve, and it’s clearly seeping through the cracks now. Merlin takes a shuddering breath and leans his cheek back against Arthur’s shoulder. The metal of his chainmail is cold and will crease his face, but he can’t quite care how uncomfortable it is.

“The Priestesses have been planning this for a long time,” he says sensibly. “All of this is their fault, and it’s not any failing of yours. I don’t know when the Priestesses talked to Morgana. I don’t know when they convinced her of their path. I just—she went to Northumbria, and it was revenge on both you and me, Arthur. She was the third Priestess to take my magic. She’s with them.”

Arthur’s hand on his own stills. “She can’t be.”

“She held me down,” Merlin repeats, and feels his chest bubble with anger and desolation, “and she joined them, and she spoke the spell, and I don’t know why. She has chosen hate, Arthur, and I can’t change that now.”

“There must be something we’re not seeing,” Arthur insists.

“How much she hated your father?” Merlin says, drawing back to look at Arthur. “How much she felt trapped in Camelot? How betrayed she was that I wouldn’t step up and put an end to it all with my magic, and that I wouldn’t reign in terror? We saw, Arthur, we just thought she could rise above it. And we were wrong.”

Arthur is quiet. “And what now, without your magic?” he asks. “You should stay here, Merlin—with me. I can protect you. We’ll face Essetir tomorrow, and once we’ve dealt with them, perhaps Dracaneard—”

Merlin runs a hand over his face. “There’s a simple truth, Arthur,” he murmurs, “and that’s that you can’t defeat Dracaneard. Not when it’s run by the Priestesses, who won’t hesitate to show you the darker side of magic.”

“Then it’s hopeless,” Arthur says. “We can’t fight against magic on that scale.”

“Arthur,” he says slowly. “I’m travelling north to the Perilous Lands.”

Arthur stands up at that, looking down at him incredulously. Merlin feels his hand slip away and mourns its loss at once. 

“Why? Merlin, that’s the last place you should be, without your magic and with no—”

“Because it’s the only chance I have at returning my magic,” Merlin interrupts, standing up too. Arthur’s face is carefully guarded, and Merlin wishes things could be simpler. He wishes he could simply tell Arthur of everything that he has endured and lie in his arms and rejoice in the first time he’s seen him since he was crowned, when everything started to go so horribly wrong.

“Merlin, that’s not worth it,” Arthur says.

And oh, he doesn’t understand. Merlin’s magic is worth everything.

“I’m not me,” he murmurs, “and I could never be me without it. I am empty, Arthur—I’m a fish on dry land, or a… bird with a broken wing. I’m a night without a moon! I am sightless, I am deaf, I am without touch. It is my soul and it is my heart beating, and I might as well die without it.”

Arthur flinches as if struck. “Merlin—”

“You don’t know what it’s like, and I can’t hold it against you,” Merlin continues, because he couldn’t explain it to Gwaine, but he needs Arthur to understand. “But I was born with that power, and I haven’t always liked what comes with it. I’m sure it must look simpler to you—that I’m perhaps finally the Merlin you always wanted me to be, without the magic and the crown.”

Outside, he can hear the clamouring of soldiers and knights, readying for a battle. Merlin balls his fists, and tries not to start crying again, because he’s let enough tears fall in front of Arthur today. For this, he needs to be strong.

So he says, “Magic isn’t simply a thing I have. It’s a thing I am, and it runs through the veins of my people; it runs through me. It is my connection to the world around me, and to stop using magic would be to ask you to stop fighting for your beliefs. You could do it—but the point of living would be gone, and I just can’t—what is the point of me, Arthur, if I don’t have magic? I don’t want that life. I don’t want it.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and when Merlin manages to meet his eyes, Arthur’s gaze is solemn. “I suppose we’ve never talked about what it’s like to you.”

“It’s the most natural thing in the world to me,” Merlin says, and manages a wry smile. “And you are right, to a degree, Arthur. You can’t fight magic on that scale, and if the Priestesses join Cenred and start to wage war on Albion, everyone would die. So I must retake Dracaneard and make sure they can’t start a war. But I can’t do that unless I have my magic.”

“And you can find it in the Perilous Lands?” Arthur says with a healthy dose of scepticism. He steps forward and takes Merlin’s arm. “I know you have Gwaine and those three druids, but it will be dangerous, and I can’t lose you. Not again. Merlin, I won’t—you have to promise me that you won’t be so stupid.”

Merlin’s breath hitches. “It’s the only chance we have,” he says. “You and I both, Arthur.”

“I’ll first need to live through tomorrow’s battle,” Arthur murmurs, and presses a tentative kiss to Merlin’s lips again. Merlin’s toes curl at the sense of it, and he strokes Arthur’s neck with his fingers. He finds one clasp of Arthur’s armour, and gently undoes it, without breaking their quiet kiss. Arthur doesn’t protest, not even when Merlin does have to pull away to undo the other straps.

“Gwaine will be coming back soon,” Merlin says quietly, even though every muscle in his body protests at leaving Arthur. “He’s grown a little protective of me while we’ve been hiding. But I can stay with you tonight.”

“Stay,” Arthur says, and it sounds like a promise.

~*~

“It’s the storm,” Arthur explains that night, with Gwaine and Leon—who’d pulled Merlin in a bear hug upon seeing him, and that still surprises Merlin more than a little—sitting by their side as Arthur explains what will come the day after.

Merlin’s belly is full with a potato stew filled with shreds of pork, although he hadn’t managed to finish his portion. It’s still on the side, having grown cold and mushy by now, because Arthur had insisted that he should eat the rest later, and Merlin hasn’t grown hungry at all. In fact, his stomach keeps churning in discontent, and Merlin is pretty sure it’s because he’s eaten more in Arthur’s camp than he had for the last three days.

“We suspect Essetir’s forces would have been here three days ago if not for the storm,” Leon expands, and points to the map. “They went back south and came under Dracaneard’s border, but the barrier makes sure they can’t come through, which would be the fastest way.”

“They must have been right behind us the entire time,” Gwaine says, and flicks his eyes to Merlin.

Merlin shrugs. Armies move slowly, and even if he and Gwaine were on foot, they made longer hours than Cenred’s knights could have. In that case, Gwaine would have been right to make them stay off the main road, anyhow; they would have been stopped, no doubt, and Cenred may have realised who Merlin is.

“Sorry, you came from the south too?” Leon asks, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you travelled through that storm, not in those clothes. You would’ve frozen to death.”

“Nearly did,” Gwaine says solemnly. “I had to drag Merlin—”

“I’m fine,” Merlin interrupts, because he can already feel Arthur’s eyes on his, and this is the last thing they ought to discuss. They have the future of Albion lying at their feet, and Merlin would rather think about that than having to run away from his own kingdom.

“Yeah, now,” Gwaine says. “But you weren’t when you were collapsing in the cold—”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says in exasperation. 

“We have scouts in the region, and they report that they will reach us tomorrow morning,” Arthur continues, with a last glance in Merlin’s direction that clearly implies he won’t be letting this go so easily. “I don’t mean to let them rest. If they want to go through Camelot, they will have to defeat my knights first. We have the advantage of our position, and they cannot go around us without having to climb the mountains.”

“They do outnumber us, however,” Leon says a little apologetically, “and we’re in trouble with our rations. Merlin, are you going to finish that?”

Merlin mournfully eyes the potato stew. He does feel bad about wasting food when every spoonful is clearly counted, and he’s about to open his mouth to offer it to Leon—

“He is,” Arthur says decisively, taking the stew and placing it firmly in Merlin’s hands. “Eat up.”

“Arthur,” Merlin complains.

Gwaine eyes him. “He’s right, Merlin. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow’s journey. It’ll take us a whole week to get to the Perilous Lands on foot.”

“You could have a horse, I think,” Arthur says, looking between them. “Not more than one, I’m afraid, since we’ll be short on them—but we’ve a mare that shies away from battle, and she won’t face a sword without throwings her rider off. We can’t take her into battle; you could have her. It would significantly improve your speed.”

Merlin looks at Gwaine. “We won’t be able to take the druids if we do.”

“But we’ll be able to make it there much faster,” Gwaine says thoughtfully. 

And that’s worth a lot too. Merlin thinks about Dracaneard, and his heart constricts. He needs to help them as fast as he can.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says, and brings a spoonful of cold potato mush to his lips. Its taste hasn’t improved, and he makes a face as he finally passes it off to Leon. Arthur frowns at him but doesn’t say anything.

“So, that’s it, then, I suppose?” Gwaine says lightly. “You’ll be going into battle with Cenred tomorrow, and we’re riding for the Crystal Cave before the fight starts?”

And they won’t know if the other is alive until later. Merlin swallows hard. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t think there’s another way.”

Leon and Arthur obviously are thinking the same thing, and Merlin can see the heavy-handed exchange of looks between them. Arthur lowers his face, and the flickering fire of the candles in the corner of his tent make it hard to see his expression. Merlin can only just make out the curve of his eyebrows and the hard line of his lips.

“And afterwards?” Arthur asks. 

Merlin shrugs helplessly. “I don’t even know this’ll work,” he says. He doesn’t have the luxury of well-thought out battleplans, and he doesn’t have the mind for it, not like Arthur does. Even getting to Camelot’s encampment had been more out of emotion than anything he’d really considered very deeply. Perhaps if he’d had Lancelot with him, things would have been different, since it’s also not Gwaine’s strength.

Although Gwaine’s better at the flexibility that was required to hide them, and Merlin feels a flush of shame for wishing for Lancelot’s presence when he has another friend right here. 

“We’ll have to return to Dracaneard, I suppose,” Gwaine says, and pats Merlin’s arm. “With your magic, it shouldn’t be too difficult to topple the Priestesses, huh?”

“Right,” Merlin says dryly, and twiddles with his thumbs. “I’m not entirely sure Naimroa is alive, and the other dragons aren’t really on my side currently, and I don’t have control of the citadel, and most of my people think I’m dead. I’ve no idea where the court sorcerers are, or if they’re even still alive, and if my friends and family have escaped. I have no army, I have no official allies, and maybe not even my magic.”

“So you won’t go to Dracaneard?” Leon asks carefully.

“No, of course I will,” Merlin answers, and rests his head in his hands. “There’s nothing else I can really do, is there? All this time, I was so concerned about how the rest of Albion would kill my people, but I’ve never considered them being in danger in Dracaneard. I’ve got to try, even if this doesn’t work. Even if I’ve got nothing.”

“Naimroa said there was a way to kill the Priestesses,” Gwaine says carefully.

“Perhaps Gaius will know,” Arthur offers at once. “Come to Camelot afterwards. Even if I’m not—they will know not to harm you.”

Merlin’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t know the best way to go, and all three of them look at him expectantly. He’d once promised his family to do this together, and not to take on the burden of his kingdom by himself. It feels like two years ago rather than mere weeks, but there is no one else to make decisions now.

It is all up to him, for better or worse.

“I’d love to see Gaius,” he murmurs. “But I doubt he has the answers to this, Arthur. The magic of the Priestesses is as old as the Dragonlords, and they’re as close to immortal as someone can get. A mortal weapon won’t kill them, and I don’t know what would. No, if this doesn’t work, I have to face them myself. And end it.”

He meets Arthur’s gaze at that. He isn’t sure if he expects him to beg for clemency for Morgana or not, but Arthur just slowly nods. 

“Good luck tomorrow, Merlin,” Leon says kindly, and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. “I hope you are successful in your quest. But we have a battlefield tomorrow, and we should be well-rested. Arthur?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, and nods at them. “I’ll come to see you off in the morning, Merlin. Gwaine.”

Gwaine stands up, and so does Merlin. Leon disappears first, and Merlin watches him go. Gwaine lingers by the flap of the tent, eyeing Merlin with raised eyebrows as he doesn’t move.

“I’ll join you in a minute,” Merlin tells him. “Go ahead, Gwaine, I’ll catch up with you.”

Gwaine’s eyes dart between Merlin and Arthur, and then he smiles wryly. “I’m not an idiot, Merlin,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning, and I’ll tell Iseldir that it’ll be the two of us from now on. Bright and early, you hear me? I won’t drag you out of bed.”

“I promise,” Merlin says, and purposefully doesn’t look at Arthur.

“You sure?” Gwaine asks one last time, and at Merlin’s nod, he shrugs and disappears. Merlin breathes out loudly and turns back to Arthur.

Arthur wastes no time in closing the distance and holding Merlin’s face between his warm hands as he kisses him deeply. Merlin still hungers for him, and throws his arm around Arthur’s neck. Arthur lifts him far too easily, and Merlin wraps his legs around him even as Arthur steers him towards his bed and lets him down. Merlin falls on the covers with an oomph, and glares at Arthur.

“You’re a brute,” he says.

Arthur grins. “You like it,” he says, and lets himself fall on top of Merlin to kiss his throat. “You’ve always liked it. Why do you think I kept throwing all those pillows at you? You want me to push you.”

“I don’t,” Merlin says, and his brain short-circuits as Arthur tugs off his shirt. 

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs very plainly, and runs his hand from Merlin’s temple down to his jaw. All traces of teasing have left his voice. “You’ve put me through quite an ordeal today. You were alive and well for ten minutes, and then you declared your intent to put yourself in harm’s way again, and this time with no way to protect yourself. I just want to—have this, but I don’t know if I can if I’ll just lose you again after this.”

“I know,” Merlin says quietly. Arthur falls down next to him, and Merlin burrows as close to him as he can, pressing his eyes closed. His ear is pressed against Arthur’s throat, and he can faintly hear the thump-thump-thump of Arthur’s heart, so very alive and full of affection.

“I understand why you didn’t give in to my advances, all those years ago,” Arthur tells him, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s very difficult to focus on kissing you when I keep worrying about you, and I keep thinking—I would come with you, Merlin, if it had been any other day.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. “If you promise to be alright,” he says, “then I promise too.”

“I’m not so worried about my own life,” Arthur says.

Merlin snorts. “No, I know. That’s why I had to save it so many times.”

“A mere three or four times,” Arthur argues, smiling tentatively. Merlin has missed him like this, so young and carefree. It doesn’t feel as if they’ve been like that for a long time, and he holds onto it as tightly as he can.

“Right,” he answers. “Or five, or six, or ten, or a hundred.”

Arthur pushes his shoulder against Merlin’s. “If we’ve survived that many things, what’s one more?” he jokes, and then tangles his fingers with Merlin’s between the sheets. “I’m just sorry I’ve only one night with you. Although I suppose it’s in keeping with how we’ve always done things—one night, and then years between them.”

“And never anything more than enemies?” Merlin teases, and squeezes Arthur’s warm fingers.

Arthur sniffs. “Inconvenient allies, at best,” he says. “I know we can’t be anything, Merlin, not in any sense that would be recognised by the world. But you must know that I would, if it was in my power.”

“I know—” Merlin starts, and trails off. A vague idea forms in his brain, more hopeless than anything else, and borne out of desperation. He wants the same, and he always has—and he always thought it would come in the form of an alliance, when they’d finally built an Albion that they could share.

But his destiny has been swept away, and they aren’t owed their lives. Both of them will ride into danger tomorrow, and Merlin can’t say what any day brings. To be honest, he isn’t sure if he will ever see his kingdom again, or his family, or Arthur after tomorrow.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, leaning on his elbow to peer down at him. And he is golden, he always has been—a lonely king and the prophesied king, and he is Merlin’s, and they don’t need their kingdoms to form a bond between themselves.

He is such a fool. 

“Handfast with me,” he says, and sits up in bed so quickly that they nearly bump their noses together. Arthur stares at him, and Merlin continues. “Iseldir is here—a druid can officiate, and we don’t need anything else. Just a promise that our souls belong to one another, and I know mine has been entangled with you for years. It’s not a marriage, and it’s not an alliance, but it’s us. It doesn’t need to be anything else.”

“Merlin, we may be riding into death tomorrow,” Arthur says.

Merlin tugs at Arthur and kisses him. “That is why. If I don’t see you again, at least I’ll know what we were. Heart and soul, Arthur.”

“Yes,” Arthur murmurs, and presses himself against Merlin tightly, his nose buried in Merlin’s neck. Merlin can’t help the tears again, the pure desperation. His dreams of handfasting Arthur had always been faraway and distant, and he’d imagined his family there—he’d imagined a golden crown on Arthur’s head and he’d imagined them to be utterly content with the world they’d built.

He didn’t think they’d handfast while trying so desperately to hold onto the few scraps of peace they have left.

“Arthur,” he murmurs.

“Heart and soul,” Arthur repeats, and his expression is heartbreakingly tender when he runs the pad of his thumb over Merlin’s lips. “And one more night.”

Chapter Text

They wake up in the darkness of night, far before dawn has even set on the land. Arthur seems unwilling—or perhaps unable, because Merlin thinks he suffers from that same affliction—to keep his hands off Merlin’s, and he tugs him along everywhere. 

Iseldir is roused from his bed, and then Gwaine, because he’d never forgive Merlin if he didn’t, and Merlin quickly picks a couple of trampled flowers where he can find them. They are nowhere near as pretty as the one they’d found for Gwen’s handfasting, once upon a time, but Merlin is just glad he has picked something with his own hands.

He can’t even create them with magic, and the hollowness threatens to swallow him again, to eat him up from the inside out. That is when Arthur takes his hand again, and Merlin surfaces to reality.

“We won’t have time for a proper celebration, my lord,” Iseldir says, even as he wraps the vines he’d conjured around Merlin and Arthur’s hands. It takes a while longer for him to do it than is normal, considering he only has the light of the moon to see by. Arthur is in his armour, and Merlin in the shoddy, dirtied tunic he’s been wearing for several days. No, this is not what he’d imagined his own handfasting ceremony to be at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says, and eyes Arthur. “All we want is to be handfasted.”

Iseldir presses his lips together. It’s not as if Merlin can’t understand where he’s coming from, because handfasting is the holiest magic there is. It is not a hurried affair, and it is not something done lightly. Marriage may be political, but handfasting is a promise between souls.

“As you wish, my lord,” Iseldir says, and knots the final vine, hanging loosely under their wrapped hands.

They stand on a small hill just a short distance from the encampment. Gwaine sits on the grass, peering up at them as if he’d rather be asleep. Leon stands with his arms crossed, looking more concerned than anything else.

Merlin just grins up at Arthur. Their hands are tied together, and Arthur tugs at the strands, frowning at their strength.

“It’s magic,” Merlin offers with some humour.

“I’ve never seen a handfasting ceremony,” Arthur murmurs. “Is there anything specific I need to do? Apart from kiss you, I suppose?”

“You don’t need to kiss me,” Merlin tells him, and at Arthur’s frown, he adds, “You can, if you want to. No, just promise what Iseldir asks you to promise me, and don’t resist when the magic touches you. It won’t harm you, I swear. I wouldn’t let it.”

Arthur doesn’t stop frowning, and Merlin can’t help but notice him looking over to his camp. It’s awfully bitter, despite the joy. He wants to be here, but he also wishes they were in different circumstances. He bites his lip and tries not to cry, and is unsure if the tears prickling in his eyes are from joy or desperation or both.

He remembers Ganna’s vision, suddenly, about Merlin handfasting on a battlefield—the handfasting he did not want, but that he must have, and the battle cry in the distance. He peers down at the vines, intricately wrapped around his own fingers and around Arthur’s.

It makes it awfully hard to wipe away his tears, and so he just lets them fall. 

“Are you sure, Merlin?” Arthur asks softly. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“For what, Arthur?” he asks.

Arthur’s eyes are solemn. “A better time.”

“No,” Merlin says quietly. Even if Ganna hadn’t Seen it, he feels this must be done now. She was right, in that sense—he may not want it, but he needs it. It’s a reassurance for himself, and it may be one for Arthur. This is the one thing they can have freely. “I want to have this with you.”

Arthur nods slowly, and turns towards Iseldir. “We’re ready.”

“Wait,” Merlin says urgently, and tugs a little at the vines to have Arthur meet his eyes. “Are you sure? You’re not just—because I’m not—”

“Merlin,” Arthur huffs out in exasperation. “You’re a bit of a moron to doubt my intentions. I turned down a perfectly viable marriage for you six years ago, if you remember. I am sure. I have been sure.”

“You didn’t know, back then.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“Everything,” Merlin reminds him, and Arthur tugs at the vines. Merlin stumbles forward, and Arthur grabs his wrist, his fingers closing over the pale skin and the vines wrapped around it. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, very quietly and very seriously. “It was never going to be anyone else but you, as far as I am concerned. It never has been. I am fortunate to be able to marry—sorry, handfast for love, even if I wish the circumstances were different. If I’d known this were an option, I would’ve suggested it years ago.”

Merlin’s heart beats fast, and he tightens his fingers around Arthur’s hand as a wordless confirmation that it’s no different for him.

“Well, I suppose that is a fair promise made,” Iseldir says mildly. “Could you please step away from each other again, Lord Arthur and Lord Emrys.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says to Iseldir. “Please call him by his given name for this, at least.”

“Lord Merlin,” Iseldir repeats, as if he hadn’t spoken up at all. Merlin manages a small, graceful smile at Arthur. His mouth feels dry, even when they are all staring at him; he has made a thousand promises to Arthur before, spoken and unspoken, but he can’t think of a single one as he stands there.

“Arthur,” he says helplessly, and Arthur’s lips quirk. Merlin takes a deep breath, and continues, “You are the kindest man I know. You are building a kingdom for all of your people, and for peace and prosperity, and I am more than proud if I’ve had any sort of influence on the man you are today. I will stand by your side when you need me, no matter how far you go. I can’t promise you my kingdom—” Or whatever he has left of it, anyway, “—but I can promise you that you’ll have me.”

Arthur yanks his hands down again, once again propelling Merlin forward, and Arthur catches him with his lips. Merlin just smiles against Arthur’s kiss, closing his eyes to focus on his smell and the warmth of his nose pressed against Merlin’s. He feels a tear fall down, and Arthur kisses that, too, Merlin’s eyelids and his cheeks and his forehead.

“That is not what the vine is meant for,” Merlin manages when he finally opens his eyes again. The vines are shimmering slightly. Merlin can no longer feel that magic, and perhaps this is the moment he misses it the most—the moment where his and Arthur’s souls are bound together by the promises they’ve made and the magic that has heard them.

Although perhaps, it is fairer this way. Now they are on even ground, and it doesn’t seem to matter to Arthur anyway. He grins mischievously, like the prince Merlin once knew. “It works very well, though,” Arthur says, and just to demonstrate, tugs at his hands again. Merlin huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in the hollow of Arthur’s throat.

“You are now bound together by the gods,” Iseldir says. Gwaine claps enthusiastically; Leon’s applause is milder, but when Merlin looks over at them, they’re both smiling. “Your hearts are as one, and your souls are like these vines; they go from one to the other, and then return back, so that you belong together, man to man.”

The first rays of the sun spill over the glowing hills; Merlin has to blink at the sudden onslaught of light.

“We have to go,” he realises, and his heart falls at once. “Arthur—”

“No, I know,” Arthur says, and has transformed back into the king at once, his jaw set as he peers over to his camp. “I’ll need to ready my men for the first attack, and you need to make sure you’re gone before the battle starts. Merlin—”

“I’ll come find you after I have my magic back,” Merlin promises him, even though he really can’t make that kind of offer. He should return to Dracaneard, but even with his magic, he doesn’t think he can face the Priestesses. It tears him in two, to handfast Arthur like this and run away like a thief in the night right afterwards.

As if he’s trapped them both in something he shouldn’t have.

“Be safe,” Arthur urges him. The vines slowly fall from their hands, the magic complete, and Arthur stares at the remains of them around their feet before he, quick as a hare, steps forward and takes Merlin’s head between his hands. “I’ll give you any help I can, I promise, but don’t go into a battle you can’t win. If I hear of your death again—”

“Well, they grossly exaggerated reports of my death last time,” Merlin jokes mildly.

“I’ll assume you’re alive until I see otherwise with my own two eyes, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, and tightens his hold. “You’re far too stubborn to be killed. I’ll search Albion until I find you, but I’d rather not have to live through that again. Come back to me.”

“Always,” Merlin breathes, and Arthur lets go.

Leon and Gwaine are standing, and Iseldir has stepped back. “You have to leave, my lord, if you do not want to be caught up in the battle,” he says, inclining his head. “Bry, Bodhmal and I must find our own safety, since we cannot join you on your journey.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I really, truly, am very sorry.”

“My lord,” Leon says, and eyes the camp again.

Merlin is the one who tugs at Arthur’s armour, this time, and kisses him. It only lasts a second—they don’t have time for more, and he aches at the memory of last night, and Arthur’s gentle touches. They won’t share a bed tonight, and maybe not for many weeks more.

“Stay alive, you prat,” Merlin tells him.

“We don’t all pick fights we can’t win,” Arthur murmurs against his lips, and pulls away. Merlin starts walking, because if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll stay. He won’t be able to help at all, and he’ll have no use except to sit there for Arthur to worry about, but at least he’ll see him. Gwaine joins him, resting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin looks back, just once, to see Arthur’s golden figure stand there, and then he loses sight of him through the encampment.

“You okay?” Gwaine asks lightly.

“No,” Merlin says. He can’t feel any humour in the situation—he just feels hollow, and it’s not just the absence of magic this time. He is so tired of having to find and lose Arthur all the time. “But we need to leave. There’s no use in distracting him right before a battle.”

“For what it’s worth,” Gwaine says, craning back his neck, “I think you made the right decision. Come, I made sure to tie up the horse at the end of the camp—we’ll be able to leave straight away once we’ve found her. I’ll even let you give her a name.”

Merlin looks at the sky. It’s grey and cold, and not even the coming of dawn is enough to warm him. “Are you sure it was the right choice? Even though we have to leave again?”

“You’ve loved him since the moment I met you, Merlin,” Gwaine says a little more solemnly. “At least you’ll know, this way. You’ll have had him, even for a moment.”

Merlin sniffs. “When did you grow so wise?”

“When you weren’t watching,” Gwaine tells him, and claps his back. “Come on! It’s this way. I nicked some ale yesterday night, just if we want a little something for the road—”

~*~

“Something’s wrong,” Merlin says, and halts the mare.

Normally, he can thank his magic for picking up on the subtle undercurrents of the world. He has been using it for more than he even realised, so its absence is jarring in more than one way. His sense of direction is warped, he finds himself staring at things absently only to realise he was trying to gauge the magic coming from it, and he has, more than once, flinched at Gwaine taking his arm because he hadn’t seen it coming.

He has never really understood instinct, because for him it was just a warning from magic, and not anything that he couldn’t pinpoint. But this is clearly instinct.

“What is it?” Gwaine asks quietly. He is at Merlin’s back, pressed against him comfortably; Merlin can feel his arm going to the sword strapped to his hip. It’s about the only thing they haven’t sold. To his credit, he doesn’t doubt Merlin’s word at all; he peers around him, trying to figure out where Merlin’s sense of wrongness is coming from.

Something prickles Merlin’s neck.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I just—I feel like we’re being watched.”

“Is your magic back?” Gwaine asks, keeping his voice low. He jumps off the mare—Merlin has named her Pomegranate, in fond memory of the mare Apple he’d once ridden—and pats her back as she bristles. Merlin turns her, trying to spot anything among the hills.

They have been riding two hours at most; the sun is still relatively low in the sky. Merlin wonders if Cenred’s forces have already found Arthur’s and if they’re fighting. He wonders how Arthur is doing, and if his hands still have imprints of the vine on them.

Merlin’s do. He can’t help but keep looking at them every ten minutes; they’re the only physical reminder he has that he is handfasted to Arthur Pendragon.

An arrow whistles past his ear. Pomegranate whinnies and raises up her hoofs—distantly, Merlin remembers Arthur’s warning about her dislike for violence—and Merlin grabs onto her mane to keep himself seated.

“Merlin!” Gwaine yells, and instead tugs him off the mare right as she lands back on her feet. Merlin lands on his arse, but Gwaine is already hoisting him up. Pomegranate bolts, panicking at the sudden attack. Gwaine tries to grab the reins, but he’s too late to even attempt to keep Pomegranate calm, so Gwaine ducks back to the ground instead. He holds up his arm in front of Merlin. “Stay behind me.”

“You can’t shield me like that,” Merlin says in horrified protest. 

“Do you propose I use the horse instead?” Gwaine asks grimly, and a new arrow comes whistling. “Because I’m afraid she’s running away.”

Merlin grits his teeth together. He can’t sense how many their attackers are, and he can’t see them either—he has to peer against the sun to look in that direction, and it’s hard to tell anything. 

“Hey!” he shouts instead, waving his arms in the sky as he steps out from behind Gwaine. “Hey, you cowards!”

“Merlin,” Gwaine calls in exasperation, but he can’t force him back, and Merlin walks forward. He is so tired of hiding, and he wants to face this one thing head-on. They don’t have a bow and arrow, and Merlin doesn’t have any weapon at all, so instead he just waves his hands.

“We come in peace,” he shouts towards the hills. “I’ve always come in peace, and if you want to have my information, you’ll have to keep us alive! We’ve travelled far beyond here, and the world’s a tricky place right now. Didn’t you know there’s armies out there?”

He stands there, arms stretched wide, waiting for the next arrow. He has his eyes pressed close, and it doesn’t come.

Instead, more than three dozen horses come trampling over the hills, and surround them. “I can take them,” Gwaine says quietly, when Merlin’s taken enough steps back to be in whispering distance. “You hide behind the horse, and I’ll—”

“Gwaine, they’re with forty men,” Merlin says wryly. “I know you’re a skilled warrior, but I’d rather we come out of this alive.”

“I promised him I’d look after you,” Gwaine tells him. “I promised you, when you knighted me.”

“Look at that.” A leader emerges on the blackest, shiniest horse Merlin thinks he’s ever seen. It’s a fearsome beast, nearly twice the size of Pomegranate, and not at all like its rider. The man has dark, dirty brown hair and a perfectly-proportioned face. He’s pretty, but then he smiles, and there’s not a lick of kindness in his face.

So maybe he does match his horse. A bit.

“We’re just travellers,” Merlin tries when the leader gets off his horse and stops in front of Merlin. “We have no money and nothing of value. Please, we’re just trying to go north.”

“Nothing of value, you say?” the leader says, and unsheaths his sword. His men are silent, and Merlin can feel his own heart beating loudly in his throat when that blade is positioned just under Merlin’s chin. “But you just told me you had information. Besides, I know some things, too.”

“Right,” Merlin says, his ears ringing. “We really don’t know anything important, though. I was just trying to keep your man from shooting us.”

His eyes flick towards the one archer in the group, who grins at Merlin’s gaze. 

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” the leader says, and does not move his sword. His eyes move from Merlin to Gwaine. “And he, I suppose, is a mere hired hand to protect you? With that money you don’t have? Oh, don’t look so worried, boy, I’m not so short on money that I’d want what you have. Who are you then, boy? No one important?”

“Least important person you’ll ever meet, me,” Merlin says. “That’s just my friend. We’re—running away from the armies. He deserted. That’s it.”

“One of Pendragon’s men, then?” the man says, and finally removes his blade from Merlin’s throat. Its coldness lingers on Merlin’s skin, and he shivers. “I think you’re lying.”

Gwaine remains quiet, so Merlin speaks up again. “What would we be lying about?” he says in exasperation. “Please, we just want to live. We’re getting away from the armies—Essetir’s knights are coming from the south, and we—”

“She said you’d be a good liar,” the man says easily, and sheaths his sword. “King Emrys.”

Merlin tenses. Gwaine jumps up, sword raised, and Merlin doesn’t have the time to hold him back as he storms towards the leader. Two swordsmen step in before he can even reach him, and Gwaine yells out in pain as they kick him down.

 “Gwaine!” Merlin cries out, and then someone else’s hand is on his shoulder, forcing him down on the grass. 

“My name is King Cenred,” the leader says, and grins brightly. “Morgause sent me.”

~*~

They have a makeshift camp just across the hills. Their group numbers only thirty-eight—Merlin counted, because it’s about all he could do to keep himself from storming at Cenred and ending his own life prematurely—so they have been travelling largely unnoticed.

From the north, through Mercia, while the rest of his army came from the south.

“Where’s my friend?” Merlin asks tersely when Cenred appears before him. It has been a mere hour since they were captured, and Cenred is dressed in full armour now. His yellow cape billows behind him. Merlin is being kept in the centre of the small encampment, his hands tied to a flag stuck in the ground.

He has no idea where Gwaine is, except that he must be in one of the tents.

“I thought it best to split you up,” Cenred says conversationally, and crouches before Merlin. “He keeps spitting at my people, and it’s not very conducive to conversation. I had hoped that you might be more reasonable. We can talk as one king to another.”

“If you’ve hurt him, I swear by the dragons—”

Cenred raises a single eyebrow. “You’re fiercer than she told me you would be,” he muses. “Odd, isn’t it, how much you value a single knight? Don’t worry, Emrys, you’ll have him back. Once you tell me one or two things.”

“What,” Merlin snaps.

Cenred doesn’t start talking, though, and just eyes Merlin as if he’s a curiosity to behold. “I want to know how trustworthy Morgause is,” he says.

Merlin blinks. “You—what?” he chokes out.

“Did you expect me to ask about Arthur’s army?” Cenred asks, and waves a hand. “I can deal with Arthur Pendragon. He’s focused his army on my men from the south; he won’t see me coming. And I’ve got a Priestess coming to fight alongside me. No, I need no help from you to defeat the young Pendragon, I assure you. However, Morgause has made me a very good deal, and I think you’re in the best position to tell me how often I should expect her to cross me.”

“She betrayed me,” Merlin bites. “She betrayed her kingdom, her own people—”

“She’s a witch,” Cenred says, as if it’s really Merlin’s own fault for not expecting Morgause to double-cross him and take his kingdom away from him. “I want to know what she wants.”

Merlin can’t help it. All the anxiety from the past couple of weeks—the loss of his magic and his kingdom, not knowing if his family and his friends are dead or alive, constantly having to look over his shoulder, the hypothermia, the doubt about where to go, the thrill and utter misery of handfasting Arthur only to leave him to a war that may well see him dead, and Merlin powerlessness to help him; it all bubbles up, and it comes out as laughter.

So right in Cenred’s face, the man who can cut him down here and end a destiny that was written since the dawn of time, Merlin laughs. It echoes through the encampment, and several men look their way. Cenred, quick as a snake, puts his hand over Merlin’s mouth. It doesn’t stop Merlin’s eyes from watering.

“We are,” Cenred says, conversationally if not for the curbed quality of his words, “trying to remain secret here, King Emrys, if you’d please.”

It takes a few seconds for him to remove his hand from Merlin’s mouth. Merlin is still hiccuping a laugh when he does. “I’m sorry, but did you expect me to tell you anything else?” he says, and takes a deep breath to stop the last giggle from bubbling up. “About Morgause? You’re an idiot to make a deal with her.”

“She’s from your kingdom,” Cenred says, his entire face morphed by his frown.

Merlin snorts. “It’s the only place her powers are respected,” he reminds Cenred. “Where her followers are and where her gods are acknowledged. She doesn’t care about you or what you want—she will turn her spells on you the moment you lose your usefulness. Morgause is not human. She is a vessel for her gods.”