Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life in Camelot was going awfully smooth as of late... and Merlin did not say that often.

No giant attacks by undead armies. No renegade sorcerers poisoning the water supply. No grievous illnesses befalling them. In fact, the height of Merlin's worries had been the fact that Arthur had taken a liking to wrestling—in the mud. This meant a great deal more washing than normal and there was already a lot to begin with.

But that aside, Merlin was beginning to worry, because Camelot was never this peaceful for such a long stretch of time. Not with magic still banned and Uther still reigning. Camelot held far too many enemies, and Uther held far too much hatred. Merlin may not have believed in fate once upon a time, but after finding out about his destiny, things like that hardly seemed out of the question. He was beginning to worry what seemed like a nice break from danger may just be the calm before the storm.

He hoped against hope he was wrong, and it was all just silly, misplaced concern. But of course it wasn't, and he didn't have to wait long for the storm to roll in. It came in the form of a man, and a name Merlin by no means wanted spoken aloud in the court. But when had he ever really gotten his way with things like this?

The court was called to order. Merlin asked Arthur why, but Arthur didn't seem to know the answer, and that alone caused a nagging worry to knot itself in the pit of his stomach. He followed his charge to the throne room, fastening Arthur's cape around his neck as the prince walked quickly and unheedingly ahead. Arthur didn't seem worried, and if he noticed Merlin's tight-lipped look, he didn't mention it as the doors to the throne room were thrown open and the Crown Prince took his place by his father's side. Merlin took his solemnly next to Gaius.

The court physician and the servant shared a glance, mutely asking each other the same question. They both had the same answer—neither knew what this was about.

The king sat on his throne, gloved fingers to his lips. The court fell silent, waiting for his words.

Uther nodded in the direction of the guards. "Bring him in."

The guards bowed in obedience and swung the doors open once more. Two more guards escorted a man Merlin did not recognise into the room—bearded and clad in a long brown cloak with dark rider's boots. He didn't look very threatening, but Merlin caught chills looking at him. Instinctively, he backed into the wooden alcove to his right.

The man swept to the centre of the throne room with a sort of assured confidence and bowed grandly. "My lord," he said, his voice deep and rolling.

Uther paid him a nod in recognition of his reverence. "I have received word that you had something to report," he said. "A possible threat, to Camelot and its people?"

The man nodded, rising and lacing his hands behind his back. "This is true, sire. My name is Oliver, and I am no resident of Camelot, but I am a traveler and have dwelled long in the forests within your kingdom. One hears things when you travel amongst those who wish to remain hidden."

Uther's eyes narrowed. "And of what people do you speak?"

"The Druids, sire," the man answered, and at that, Merlin pressed the palms of his hands to the wood with force. "A peaceful, but magical, people. I know magic is banned in your lands and I do not condone the use of it. I have seen first hand what destruction it can cause. But they provided me with shelter, and that I could not refuse. However, one hears things. The Druids speak little aloud—much of what they share with each other is spoken with their magical minds. But I overheard a conversation I found most disturbing."

Uther leaned forward. "What is it you heard?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," the man admitted. "But they spoke of a man. A sorcerer. A sorcerer they believe is prophesied to become the most powerful sorcerer ever born."

The court stirred. Murmurs broke out. Gaius shot a glance Merlin's way. Merlin met it for about a half a second, trying to keep his growing terror in check as his gaze flickered back to the man.

Uther's eyes had gone wide. "Is there such a distinction? A sorcerer more powerful than the rest?"

The man nodded gravely. "If the Druids believe it to be true, I fear it is. But that is not all. They seem to believe this sorcerer has already been born and that he is here, in Camelot!"

He said "Camelot" with a dramatic gesture of his arm and the court exploded into a nervous frenzy. Merlin looked to Arthur and cringed to see the prince's worry and outrage. His gloved hand was noticeably on the hilt of his sword. The thought of such a powerful sorcerer clearly energised him enough to be imagining plunging his sword into the man...

Into Merlin. 

Uther seemed to be struggling with several conflicting thoughts, but after a moment, he raised a hand and the court quieted.

"This… great sorcerer," the king began, fingers clutching the edge of his throne in taut distress. "Was he given a name?"

Merlin held his breath. His stomach twisted again, and this time he could feel his magic twisting with it, as if preparing to do what was necessary if the situation called for it. Please, no, he begged silently.

But to his despair, the man nodded.

"Yes," he answered quietly, but the single word echoed like the roar of dragon fire in Merlin's ears.

"Emrys."

~O~

"I just don't understand it."

He really didn't. With a frown, Arthur held out his arms for Merlin to pull a white tunic on over his head.

"Understand what?" the servant asked, and Arthur hardly tried to hold back his eye roll.

"This... Emrys," Arthur clarified, grinding his teeth as he fastened his belt himself. "If he is as powerful as this man claims, then why would he come here, to Camelot, without making himself known? Surely hiding does nothing."

Merlin didn't answer right away. "He must have a reason."

"Probably not a good one," Arthur muttered. He held out his hand for his sword and Merlin obediently gave it to him. "I'll have to conduct a thorough search. I'll start in the least likely places, just to get them out of the way. Morgana's chambers. Yours. Gaius'. Then move on to the rest of the citadel and the lower town."

"Of course," Merlin acknowledged, sounding distracted.

For the first time since the court had convened, Arthur paid his servant proper attention. The skinny farm boy seemed more out of it than normal—and that was saying something.

"Are you feeling alright, Merlin?" Arthur asked, less concerned than he was curious.

Merlin took a second to look up at him. "Fine," he said. "Just worried for Camelot, is all."

Arthur sighed. "Aren't we all," he murmured, more to himself than to Merlin as he peered out his window and to the courtyard below. The knights were beginning to gather, waiting for him. "I'm off, then. I expect my armour polished when I get back, and for you to stay out of significant trouble."

He expected a quip from Merlin in response. In fact, he waited for it, but it never came.

Arthur left his chambers with a small frown.

~O~

The search yielded nothing. No one in Camelot seemed to have heard the name "Emrys," let alone found to be harbouring him. The traveler who'd come to warn them held no physical description of the sorcerer to offer, which left Arthur with no idea of what to look for. He and the knights interrogated the most recent newcomers of the city, but none appeared suspicious.

This didn't necessarily mean the traveler was wrong, however. This sorcerer could have been residing in Camelot for years and they might have just not known. In fact, he could have arrived long before Arthur was even born with what little they had to go on, and with the lofty title this Emrys had been given by the Druids.

The wording still made Arthur's skin crawl. "Most powerful sorcerer ever born" did not sit well with him. The idea of sorcery in general made him uneasy, as he knew it to be dangerous, unpredictable, and inherently evil. But he'd come to accept its existence, one way or another. He would not let himself fear it.

But the most powerful sorcerer? A magic above all other magic? A sorcerer above all other sorcerers? Everything about that screamed disaster for his people.

Arthur wondered if he were to find this sorcerer, what he'd even do. He had been trained how to handle combat with sorcery, but what match would he be against such power? What match would his kingdom be?

The thought hung over his head like a storm cloud, and despite how many times he ran over the possibilities in his mind, he still couldn't understand it. From what the traveler—Oliver—had seemed to believe, Emrys hadn't been in Camelot for some short amount of time. But if this was true, why hadn't he struck? What more could he be cultivating, if he already wielded terrifying levels of magic? Surely he had a grand plan. It was possible he was lying in wait for the right moment to strike, but somehow Arthur felt that wasn't it.

He hadn't proposed the question to any of the knights, or his father. Only Merlin, and the servant's answer still played on repeat in his head.

"He must have a reason."

Yes. He must. And that's what worried him.

~O~

Arthur lay awake, unable to sleep. He had spoken to his father following the completion of his report, and the conversation had been grave. Uther was just as concerned as Arthur, but in a different way. The king seemed to hold no qualms in wondering why  this great sorcerer was hiding in Camelot. He only cared about how to destroy him. Contrarily, Arthur thought the motive to be extremely important in the question of how to stop him. How were they supposed to defeat him if they had no idea what he planned to do?

But his father was being decisive on the whole issue, boiling it down to its roots. The sorcerer must be found and eliminated, and that was that.

Arthur wished he could share his father's straightforward conviction. It was one of the most troubling things about his future ascension to the throne. It scared him that when the time came, he might not be ready to make these decisions with the confidence the kingdom called for.

But he wanted to know the why. Why would this enemy, whose existence had not been known to them, want to hide within their walls without striking? To gain trust? Hear secrets? Make plans? Initiate a revolt? All were possibilities, but all of them rang untrue to Arthur for some odd, inexplicable reason. It just didn't add up to his previous encounters with sorcerers. They were conniving, yes. Patient? Certainly. But they were always up to something—always striking when the iron was hot, or manipulating their will on others. There was usually some sort of disturbance in Camelot before a sorcerer struck, or the slightest of telltale signs. Something stolen. Someone kidnapped. Horses killed, attacks reported, but recently Camelot had been... quiet. Peaceful.

It didn't add up.

He must have a reason.

With a small sigh, Arthur sat up, fumbling for his comb. It was no use trying to sleep…

And his worry had only found reflection in one other person.

~O~

Arthur had never snuck around to someone's window before, let alone Merlin's, but he was already on his way so there was no point in going back. Besides, despite being an absolute lazy, clumsy, idiot of a servant, Merlin was usually pretty competent when it came to listening and trying to understand. Arthur just wanted to know his worries weren't unfounded... or maybe he just wanted someone he trusted to tell him he was being stupid. Either way, maybe then he could get some sleep.

However, he hadn't even made it to the physician's quarters when the door opened, and a figure slipped out.

Arthur stashed himself away, peering at the figure from the shadows in an effort to identify them.

It didn't take much effort. It wasn't like he wore much else.

Merlin looked around for about half a second before leaving his home behind and heading towards the lower town. He took long strides, setting a pace Arthur hardly ever saw when the bloody servant was supposed to be doing something important, such as his chores.

Unease circled in Arthur's chest. What was Merlin doing, slipping out at this time? Several answers—including collecting herbs for Gaius and the tavern—ran through his mind, but Arthur wasn't about to let speculation satisfy him. He was not blind to his manservant's tendency to find trouble instead of lying low, and the idiot didn't seem to have any weapons on him. With a powerful sorcerer hidden away within these walls, Arthur certainly didn't want Merlin getting himself hurt, or worse.

He soundlessly began to follow.

~O~

To Arthur's further concern, Merlin beelined straight for the forest and his length of stride didn't change. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, although he was not following any of the hunting trails. The only explanation Arthur could think of was that he was heading to pick a specific herb he needed often, and that's how he knew where to go.

Again, the explanation did not sit right with him. He continued to follow.

As they pushed deeper into the forest, Merlin appeared completely unaware of Arthur's presence. While Arthur didn't plan on being discovered, he did find it disconcerting that Merlin didn't even check to see if he was being trailed. Either the manservant was far too confident sneaking about at this hour, or he wasn't very observant. Or he was distracted. Probably all three, but the last one seemed most likely, as Merlin was clearly muttering to himself in a distracted way—a way that mirrored how Arthur had been feeling lately.

In fact, the more they walked, the more Arthur wondered if Merlin may be trying to catch this sorcerer on his own. He couldn't fathom how, but it made sense. Merlin's behaviour earlier, the lack of banter, the sneaking about. Arthur knew Merlin was fiercely loyal to him and Camelot, but trying to take down a sorcerer on his own was flat out idiotic, even for him. Arthur set his jaw in preparation to intervene if he needed to.

After some time, they came to a large clearing: an open, grassy patch that allowed the moon to shine its glare over the hills. It provided a spectacular view of Camelot beyond the trees, and Merlin walked into it without hesitation. He strode to the very centre of the space and planted his feet, looking to the sky.

Arthur's nose crinkled in confusion. What the hell was he doing, star gazing? He wasn't sure what he'd expected Merlin to do, but he had half wondered if there would be someone in the clearing waiting for him. Maybe another traveler with information, or even a Druid. While consulting with sorcerers still meant condemnation in Camelot, Arthur would be lying if he hadn't considered going to the Druids himself to learn more about Emrys.

But the clearing showed no signs of life, and Merlin's gaze was focused on the heavens, not the tree line. Arthur was beginning to wonder if he'd misjudged Merlin's intentions and the other man was just being an oddball, as always, and he liked to stargaze now and then.

But then Merlin opened his mouth.

A noise unlike any sound Arthur had ever heard escaped from it. Loud and rumbling and guttural, inhuman, and in no way, shape, or form could actually be coming from his manservant.

But it was. And Merlin was speaking.

"O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes! Erkheo!"

The roar seemed to die in his throat once the words faded, and Merlin's shoulders shook with the effort of whatever the hell he had just screamed.

For a minute, there was complete silence—a silence in which Arthur just stared from behind a tree in an incomprehensive daze.

Then there was a sound. Both loud and forceful and... and familiar.

The sound of flapping wings.

No.

It all happened very fast. For a single, serene moment, the clearing was peaceful.

Then the whole landscape became an image from Arthur's worst nightmare.

Adrenaline rushed through his system. His very veins screamed at him to run, and for a second, Arthur wondered if he could be dreaming. He really hoped he was dreaming.

Because if he wasn't, then he was reliving one of his most terrifying memories as he stood frozen, watching as a full-grown monster dominated Camelot’s skies.

A dragon.

And not just any dragon. The dragon. Its giant, bat-like wings spread wide against the full moon while a long, spiked tail snaked behind it. It was just as terrifying as the last time Arthur had seen it... back when he'd thought he'd killed it. 

It didn't look particularly dead.

Arthur's limbs went numb. He tried to react. To scream at Merlin in warning, but before he could move, the great beast dived, soaring into the clearing and landing with a force that shook the surrounding trees. Its sharp, curled claws sunk deep into the soft grass and it gave a powerful push of its forelegs, straightening to loom over Merlin like the demonic creature it was. Its large form drowned the servant in its shadow.

No, no, no, no, no.

Arthur tried to sprint into the clearing, to run at Merlin, but all he managed to do was collapse against the tree beside him, his weak limbs failing him.

Merlin, however, didn't look in the least bit surprised to see the dragon. Instead, he looked up into the beast's lamp-like yellow eyes and smiled. "Kilgharrah," he greeted, and all the air left Arthur's lungs.

What?

"Merlin," the dragon replied, its deep voice rumbling like an amused drawl. It bowed its head in Merlin's direction without so much as a hint of burning him alive where he stood. "What is it this time, young warlock? Another threat to the Crown Prince of Camelot?"

It was both a terrible and weird moment, the dragon's words seemed to hang in the air, allowing Arthur an extra second to process them. His breathing grew shallow while he clutched onto the tree trunk beside him for dear life. In those few moments, the bark was the only thing that felt real to him. His blood had gone cold, and his mind was whirling in an inability to understand what he was witnessing. Too many things were clattering around in his system, trying to categorise themselves into something that actually made sense.

The Great Dragon, very much alive and speaking to Merlin respectfully, not threateningly.

Merlin, referring to the dragon by name and calling for it in... in whatever the hell that language had been.

The dragon referring to him, Arthur, in a casual tone, as if to discuss rescuing him from some scalding bathwater.

Plus the word "warlock." The dragon had called Merlin "young warlock."

An infernal ringing quickly grew in Arthur’s ears. Another few seconds and he could no longer feel the tree he was holding. His arms were well and truly numb, and it was like his brain had somehow disconnected from the rest of his body. He could only look on and listen.

Merlin was speaking again. "For once, it's not Arthur. It's me. A man came to Camelot today. He said he'd spent time with the Druids, and warned Uther that the most powerful sorcerer to ever be born may be hiding out within Camelot."

The dragon made a low, grumbling noise reminiscent of Merlin's chanting. "Well, he is hardly wrong," it replied. "Did this man give Uther a name?'

Merlin lowered his gaze. "Yes. My Druid name. Emrys. The whole of Camelot is on alert now. I know it all could be much worse, but it worries me."

"You are right to worry," the dragon agreed. "The king may not know who Emrys truly is, but even knowing your prophetic name may hold grave consequences for your destiny. The Druids will protect the prophecy with their lives, but if Uther were to get his hands on it, he will do everything in his power from letting it come to pass."

Your prophetic name... your prophetic name... your prophetic name… Arthur's vision grew fuzzy. He exhaled, but it only came out as a wheeze. He felt like he was going to pass out, but immediately, ironically, it made perfect sense why no one had heard of Emrys.

Some men lived by two names.

Merlin heaved a sigh. "I know," he said, rubbing at his eyes. "I know. But what should I do? Uther will not just forget what he's heard. He won't stop until he finds Emrys, and I fear Arthur will not rest until he discovers why Emrys would want to come here in the first place."

The dragon hummed a deep guttural sound, like water running over rocks. "Yes, I suppose the prince would be curious. But you would be unwise to reveal your true self to Arthur now. He is still young, untested, and unfit for the throne. The time for the change you hope to bring is not yet upon us."

Merlin huffed. "Right. Sometimes I wonder if it'll ever come. But maybe there is still something I can do? I could disguise myself in some way. I could—I could make up some reason for being here and let them think Emrys has left Camelot."

"And what good do you suppose that would do?" Arthur didn't think a dragon could sound incredulous, but this one certainly did. "Putting a face to Emrys should be avoided at all costs. You would only become more hunted than you already are."

"So, what, you expect me to do nothing?" Merlin's voice cracked as he spoke. He sounded extremely frustrated. Frustrated, and sad. 

"Yes, young warlock," the dragon answered, and it sounded equally exasperated. "Although you have failed to heed my words in the past. Do as you see fit, but the consequences are on you and you alone."

Merlin fidgeted, his arms crossed and struggling.

The dragon hummed again. "Did you expect it to be easy? Carrying a burden such as yours."

"It's not like I chose it," Merlin snapped. "I was born with magic, and that prophecy was written long before I was a part of this world."

"That does not change the fact that your power was given to you and you alone for a reason," the dragon reminded. "Many would kill thousands to wield what was inside you from the beginning, and that is why it was given to you."

"You say that with such confidence." More sadness had crept into Merlin's tone.  "How can you be so sure? I am supposedly the most powerful sorcerer to walk this earth, and yet I feel trapped at every turn. How am I supposed to protect Arthur if I have to constantly fight from the shadows?''

"It is necessary," the dragon rumbled. "This you must know. Yours and Arthur's destinies are intertwined. Neither of you can escape that. Succeed or fail, Albion will rise or fall by yours and the young prince's hands."

Merlin frowned. "Comforting."

"This world is not designed for comfort. And especially not for creatures of magic like you and I."

"Of course not." Merlin's shoulders slumped. "But you're right. As much as I hate it, there isn't much I can do. I'll lie low."

"You're learning," the dragon said, and it chuckled. The ground shook from the force of the sound. "I may be able to teach you something yet. Until next time, Merlin."

And with that, the massive creature spread its wings and took off into the night sky.

Merlin watched it go and Arthur watched Merlin, heaving from shock and horror.

Words tumbled through his head—a mix of the dragon and Merlin's voices running together like they were one. More than you are hunted already... burden... born with magic... prophecy... inside of you…

Yours and Arthur's destinies are intertwined. Neither of you can escape that. Succeed or fail, Albion will rise or fall by yours and the young prince's hands.

Most powerful sorcerer to walk this Earth.

It couldn't be true.

And yet, there he was. Merlin, heading back towards the forest like he hadn't just summoned a dragon and held a casual conversation about the fact that he was Emrys, the prophesied greatest sorcerer to have ever lived.

It shouldn't ring true. It should feel all wrong and make his skin crawl and his head spin, and to an extent, it did, but at the same time it all seemed to make sense. The way Merlin had answered him earlier, when Arthur had asked why Emrys would ever hide in Camelot. He must have a reason, Merlin had said. Because of course there had to be some bloody reason.

There had to be a bloody reason why his servant was a sorcerer.

Arthur got up, suddenly back in control of his own limbs. Merlin had slipped back into the forest, trekking back to Camelot in the moonlight, and Arthur followed... but this time with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

He had to be sure. Calling a dragon was evidence enough that Merlin was not the person Arthur thought he knew, but he hadn't actually performed any magic, and suddenly Arthur just wanted to see it. If Merlin really was Emrys, he wanted to see it. The most powerful magic in the world, locked inside this... this man he'd come to trust. Hell, a man he'd been in the middle of seeking out to console his overreacting.

Arthur hadn't been overreacting. Clearly, he hadn't been reacting severely enough.

He continued to follow, but at this point he was basically on automatic. His emotions were bubbling in a mixed melting pot, fighting with one another and messing with his system. He felt angry, confused, and deeply sad all at the same time, and he was shaking—shaking like a leaf. Above all, he felt betrayed. Several lengths ahead of him walked a man he had trusted with his life on more than one occasion. A man Arthur himself had saved in countless incidents, and a servant that waltzed into his chambers every morning and spread his curtains, telling him to start his day. Before him was his friend.

But this wasn't him. Not really, was it? No. Walking before him, all innocent in his buckled boots, leather jacket, and lanky, clumsy form was a person Arthur had just been indirectly told was the most dangerous sorcerer to ever be born, and that he could just not bring himself to believe.

He wanted to scream, but he settled for clenching his teeth instead, sweat—or maybe tears?—staining his face. He couldn't even bring himself to think of Merlin as a threat to Camelot at this point. He knew it to be true, as any magic was a threat, but Arthur still couldn't begin to imagine it. The image of Merlin opening his mouth and roaring still cycled in his head, over and over, but that wasn't testament enough. Arthur wanted to see this "true self" the dragon had warned Merlin not to reveal. The true Merlin, because clearly the man ahead of him was no man.

It took him far too long to realise that Merlin had stopped and the servant's—no, sorcerer's—eyes were trained on the trees behind him.

Arthur immediately froze, pressing himself to the nearest tree trunk. A stroke of fear he hadn't expected rocketed through him. Arthur had never feared Merlin before.

But the look on Merlin's face right then was not the Merlin he knew. Merlin's hands were still at his sides, but he was scanning the forest with a stony look on his face. It was a look Arthur had seen many of times before... on opposing knights bent on killing him.

There was silence for a long moment. A dead silence in which Arthur tried to keep his breathing even and Merlin stood still, his blue eyes watching carefully.

Eventually, he opened his mouth, and Arthur hated himself for flinching.

"Who's there?"

Arthur sucked in his breath, holding it.

It was still his voice—Merlin's voice—but for some reason, it sent chills down Arthur's spine. He sounded... confident. Commanding and foreboding. All qualities Merlin had never shown. Qualities Arthur hadn't thought he'd had.

But he displayed them now, and when something stirred to Merlin's right—Arthur's left—Merlin whipped around with a speed Arthur had never seen before, arms snapping up palms first.

Twigs cracked in the underbrush and Arthur pressed himself even farther into the brush, watching as whatever approached Merlin came through.

Stringy white hair. A long brown robe and an awkward gait. Carrying herbs.

Merlin instantly relaxed. Arthur did too—somewhat.

"Gaius." Merlin laughed nervously. "You startled me."

The physician raised an eyebrow. "Going to curse me, were you?"

Arthur felt like a hand had reached through his chest and squeezed his heart. Any relaxation he'd experienced left him. Gaius knew.

Merlin scoffed, looking down at his hands and rubbing them together uncomfortably. "No," he said sheepishly. "I mean... no, of course not."

Gaius frowned at him. "You must be more careful, Merlin. Especially now. Uther is on the hunt for Emrys, and he will suspect anyone with magic of him."

"Yes, thank you, Gaius, I have already gotten that lecture once today."

Gaius raised an eyebrow again. "Is that why you are out here at this hour? Have you been consulting with the Great Dragon?"

Merlin fidgeted. "I don't like just sitting around idly. I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do. Throw Uther off the trail, feed him a false prophecy. Anything."

"All of those would be reckless and foolish," Gaius chided.

"Kilgharrah said the same." Merlin sighed heavily. "It just worries me. It all worries me."

"You always worry." Gaius handed Merlin the herbs. "Now, make yourself useful. I still need sticklewort."

Merlin wrinkled his nose at the smell of the herbs. "Do you really need herbs at this hour?"

"Patient came in about an hour ago. He doesn't need immediate treatment, but soon. Are you to help me, or not?"

"I don't know where any sticklewort is," Merlin complained.

"Of course not. But I need those herbs crushed and mixed together in a paste. Here."

He handed Merlin a mortar, but no pestle. Now it was Merlin's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, really, Gaius," he grumbled. "You knew I was out here, didn't you? And you knew this paste would take a long time to make by hand, so you came out here to have me do it."

"No, I didn't," Gaius snapped, sounding offended, but he continued on, brushing the leaves around him in search of sticklewort. "But my patient is waiting, so I do suggest you hurry."

Merlin sighed. "All this talk of secrecy..." he murmured, but he obediently placed the herbs in the mortar and held his hand over it. Arthur finally let out his breath, clutching a tree branch and staring, fixated.

Merlin's fingers spread out. "Hwerfung æt slypa," he chanted easily, and as Arthur watched, his blue irises flashed gold.

There was a slight rustling, like a breeze had picked up, and the leaves swirled together in a whirlwind, glueing themselves to the bottom of the mortar in a thick, greenish-brown paste.

Merlin smiled down at the mixture. "Done," he announced. "Found your sticklewort yet?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Gaius answered, straightening with a few more leaves in his hands. "We'd best be getting back. I trust you know your way in the dark?"

"I can see everything fine."

Gaius stared at him for a second, before nodding. "Yes, I'd forgotten," he mumbled. "Come on, then."

The physician began to make his way back to Camelot and Merlin followed. Neither looked back.

This time, Arthur didn't follow. Instead, he slumped against the tree in a dizzy stupor, head back against the bark, eyes squeezed shut, and brain trying to process what he had just seen... what he'd heard. His sword lay next to him, drawn at one point, but now fallen from his shaking hands.

The words wouldn't even come anymore. The thoughts. He had his proof. He'd seen it now, small and simple, but he'd seen it. Merlin's magic, but that was not what paralysed him.

All he could see were Merlin's eyes, sparkling molten gold, and even when Arthur pressed the heels of his hands to his own eyes and everything went black, that was all he could see.

Blue becoming gold.

Chapter Text

Arthur didn't go back to his chambers when he eventually stumbled back into Camelot.

His emotions were still a tangled mess. Part of him had hoped if he'd stayed there long enough, slumped against that tree, they'd have straightened themselves out and he could wrap his mind around all this.

But of course he wasn't that lucky. If anything, he was even more conflicted about what course of action to take. The only thing he'd known for sure was that he couldn't stay in that forest anymore. Everything kept switching from blue to gold and he felt like he was going mad.

He'd thought maybe returning to Camelot would clear things up a bit, releasing him from the elemental woods. Trees that used to seem benign to him now felt magical. Every gust of wind emanated from Merlin somehow, and every leaf twisted as if it were going to mystically transfigure into something else. Here, in the city, magic was outlawed. Everything before him in the dark marketplace was supposed to be grounded in reality. Everything was under his father's control, and, eventually, his.

Tonight, however, it didn't seem to be so. Every home harboured a sorcerer. Every bed of straw hid a magical talisman. Every walking staff an instrument of magic.

Certainly, sorcerers had infiltrated Camelot before, but never, never had one gotten so close to Arthur. Merlin was his manservant, standing by his side every day since the scrawny boy from Ealdor had saved him from—well, from one of the infiltrated sorcerers. Arthur may not have been happy about it at first, but he had never questioned the act. Merlin had saved his life and before long, the servant had become one of the few things Arthur could rely on. Knights came and went, but Merlin was fiercely loyal and all his own. Despite being a simple servant, Merlin treated Arthur like an equal, and Arthur hadn't realised how much he'd needed that before then.

Now all that had been flipped on its head. Merlin was not a simple boy from Ealdor, nor was he just a manservant with a knack for banter. And here Arthur had thought Merlin couldn't keep a secret for his life.

Clearly, he was more than capable. Merlin was a sorcerer, and not just that, but a sorcerer the Druids held in high regard. Emrys, supposedly the greatest sorcerer to have ever lived. How could Merlin, Merlin, be Emrys? What could he possibly hope to gain by lowering himself to the status of a servant?

The obvious answers flipped through his brain. Secrets. Surely, Merlin had heard plenty of court secrets, but no matter how hard Arthur tried, he couldn't force himself to believe Merlin would sell him and Camelot out. Somehow, the idea of Merlin having magic seemed much more believable than such a straightforward plot. There was nothing straightforward about this.

But if not secrets, then what? Arthur didn't see what Merlin hoped to do with his knowledge of Camelot that he didn't already have at his fingertips. He had full access to the citadel, Arthur's chambers, everything. He had the full trust of the court, the staff—even Uther, for the countless times Merlin had proven his loyalty to the crown. If even his father hadn't questioned Merlin's loyalty, the naysayer to end all naysayers…

It didn't add up. None of it did. It seemed as if Merlin, Emrys, was more than content with living in Camelot as a servant. The greatest sorcerer ever, polishing Arthur's armour for the rest of his quiet, secret life. It sounded ridiculous even in his head. Sorcerers didn't put themselves below regular people like that, not without some superior agenda. They were powerful. Magical. Near inhuman and living on a different plane of reality.

But Merlin didn't seem to fit that mold. Arthur had seen frustration at the class system, yes. General disagreement toward the execution of magic users, which made sense. Arthur, too, had had his misgivings on it in the past, as well as Morgana and Guinevere. But Merlin seemed to genuinely enjoy life in Camelot. He was always there if Arthur needed him, prattling and all.

That was the part Arthur still couldn't seem to grasp. The whole thing was making him dizzy, and one question sent him spiraling into disbelief and confusion.

If Merlin is Emrys, why is he here?

He couldn't let it rest. Everything he'd been taught about magic thrashed around in his mind. Arthur knew his training required him to report Merlin to his father immediately, but he pushed his voice of reason aside. This was different. This was Merlin.

This was personal.

Before long, Arthur was at Merlin's window, ironically the place he'd set out to be originally. It seemed like ages ago. He'd been another person then. Merlin had been a different person then—in Arthur's head, at least.

To his surprise, Merlin was still awake, perched on the edge of his bed and mindlessly sharpening one of Arthur's swords by hand. As Arthur pressed himself to the cold stone wall, peering up through the window at his sorcerer manservant, he was surprised Merlin wasn't using magic to sharpen it. Did Merlin really do his chores by hand, even when he could do them magically?

Arthur had seen him use magic to create the paste back in the forest. Supposedly, Merlin was an incredibly powerful sorcerer, and yet, here he was, sharpening Arthur's sword as if it was a completely normal routine for him, even when alone.

It just kept getting more and more befuddling, but Arthur didn't have any more time to dwell on it. Merlin's door opened with a creak and Gaius entered.

Merlin looked up at the noise. He smiled at the physician before going back to the sword. "The guard all right?" 

"Yes," Gaius answered, and he pulled up a chair, settling at the foot of Merlin's bed. "The paste is healing his rash well. Thank you for that."

"My pleasure." Merlin held up the sword to the light so he could inspect it. He didn't look at Gaius, clearly hoping the "thank you" was all he'd come to say, but Gaius wasn't finished.

"Merlin," the physician began, and his tone shifted from pleasant to serious.

Merlin grimaced, shutting his eyes. "What?"

"On my way back, I ran into Uther."

Pressed against the wall outside, Arthur flinched at the mention of his father. He watched Merlin critically, and the servant's expression shifted in the smallest of ways. His eyebrows furrowed. His neutral expression turned darker, and his posture grew stiff. 

There was a small pause before Merlin responded. "What's the king doing up at this hour?" 

"He couldn't sleep." Gaius' gaze flickered to the sword instead of Merlin. "He's worried."

Merlin frowned. He placed the sword on the bedspread, continuing to stare at himself in the blade. "About Emrys?"

Gaius nodded, his mannerisms not unlike how he acted with sick patients—calm and honest, but a little too grim to be comforting. "He asked me if I thought it would be wise to send Arthur out to find the Druids and see what they know. I can't say I didn't expect the question." 

Merlin wrung his hands like he suddenly didn't know what to do with them. "What did you say?"

"I said it would be dangerous and I'm not sure what good it would do, as we don't even know if this sorcerer means any harm."

"I don't."

Gaius gave a thin smile. "Of course not. You and I know that. But Uther will never see it that way."

Merlin picked up the sword again and ran a rather strong stroke down the blade. It made a distinctive schink sound, and from the shadows, Arthur flinched once more. "Do you think Arthur might?"

Gaius' smile faded. "You can't tell him, Merlin. Not now."

Merlin groaned, dropping the sword again and falling back against his pillow. "I know, Gaius, but this... this is what I was worried about! This is why I summoned Kilgharrah. The Druids know I am Emrys, and they know the prophecy. Kilgharrah said the Druids would lay down their lives to protect it, but I don't see why they would. I find it hard to believe an entire magical race thinks I have any hope of turning this kingdom around."

"You don't know that," Gaius argued. "You can't know that."

Merlin shook his head, slipping off his bed and pacing. "I'm just being realistic. I've met my fair share of sorcerers who think what I'm doing is nothing short of betrayal. They'd probably like to run me through just as much as Uther."

"Those sorcerers are narrow minded. Consumed by hatred after years of persecution." Gaius' voice hinted at deep-rooted frustration. "They don't see the future you do, and they don't have the patience to wait for its time."

Merlin went to his windowsill, clutching the worn wood in a death grip. "Maybe," he whispered, but he didn't sound too convinced. "But Kilgharrah did agree if Uther gets his hands on the prophecy, it would be disastrous."

"Yes." Gauis sighed. "Yes, there I must agree. If Uther were to hear you are destined to unravel everything his regime has built, he would go mad trying to find you and kill you. It would consume the rest of his reign, and possibly Arthur's, too."

Merlin returned to his bed, retrieving the sword and running his thumb over the smooth hilt. "I'm not unraveling everything," he murmured. "I'm just trying to turn around the parts that need to change. The hatred of magic. The needless bloodshed and conflict. The distrust. But that can't be done with magic. It's diplomacy. That's what the other sorcerers don't understand. Turning Camelot around is something only Arthur can do."

"And only with you at his side," Gaius insisted.

Merlin sniffed, lying back. "So everyone keeps telling me."

"You know it's true."

Merlin closed his eyes. "Maybe," he said again, and this time with more conviction. "Either way, Uther mustn't get his hands on the prophecy. I'm assuming he's going to send Arthur out after the Druids tomorrow?"

"That is the way it's looking, yes."

Merlin turned his head to look at the window again. "Maybe there is still something I can do," he whispered. He picked up Arthur's sword one final time, checking the sharpness of the blade before sheathing it.

Gaius studied his charge's face critically. "Get some rest," he decided. "You need sleep. And maybe try not to worry so much. It's not good for you."

"I feel like half of my destiny is worrying," Merlin grumbled, but he obediently curled up in his blankets. "Kilgharrah is right. No one ever told me it would be easy. I'm lucky to have you, Gaius."

Gaius smiled, and he shook Merlin's foot affectionately. "And I you, Merlin. Good night."

"Good night."

And with that, Gaius left. Merlin let out another long sigh, scrunching up his pillow and staring up at his ceiling like maybe it might provide him with answers. Eventually, his eyes fluttered closed and his grip on his pillow lessened.

Arthur watched him carefully, both waiting to see if Merlin was actually asleep and also processing. Like before, the mass amount of information he'd just heard swirled in his head like a tempest. He felt more like slamming his brains out against the wall than dealing with it.

And yet, something about this conversation differed from the one Arthur had heard before. This one had mentioned other sorcerers, and not in a friendly way. Arthur bit his lip, trying to make sense of it all. He couldn't find any way to twist what Merlin had said to paint sorcerers in a good light. Apparently, the other sorcerers Merlin had met did not agree with whatever it was he was doing. "Turning Camelot around," as he'd put it. If anything, these sorcerers seemed to label him a traitor. Merlin feared they'd kill him if given the chance. It was ironic, really, as Arthur's father definitely wished for the same thing.

Merlin seemed to be straddling some sort of dangerous line, working an agenda that didn't align with any other sort of party but his own. Gaius was in on it, and it involved him—Arthur. Merlin had said that only he would be capable of "turning Camelot around." It was a diplomatic matter, whatever that meant.

Normally, the thought of being wrapped up in a sorcerer's plan would make Arthur's blood curdle, but not this time. Instead, he felt cold. Something he'd hadn't been able to put his finger on had hit him full in the face. Pieces were falling into place. Merlin was worried about Uther getting his hands on a prophecy—a prophecy that spoke of Merlin unraveling everything the king had done in his rule. Or, not everything, as Merlin had insisted, but the parts that required unraveling.

Arthur could take a wild guess what those were. The ban on magic, first and foremost. Of course Merlin would want that. He would want his own freedom. But past that, Merlin talked of bloodshed. Distrust. Conflict. All of which were issues right now. Was that Merlin's other aim? Achieving peace?

Slowly, Arthur shook his head, feeling the back of his skull scrape across the stone wall. It served as confirmation he still stood there, braced underneath Merlin's window. It made no sense. Peace between the kingdoms was a far-fetched fantasy. His father said war was inevitable and Arthur had always agreed, but he had to admit, the idea of achieving peace stirred something within him. Up until this point, all his father had done was prepare Arthur for the continuation of his rule. Rarely was Arthur's opinion taken into account. Arthur tried not to think much of it. After all, one day he'd be king, and until then, he obeyed. Such was the system.

But Merlin had challenged that. More than once. "When you're king, things will be different." He said it often. So did Guinevere, but Arthur was not about to speculate her involvement in this. His heart could only handle one betrayal at a time.

Was this what Merlin believed this prophecy foretold? Staring at Merlin, he'd never felt like he was looking at more of a stranger. Somewhere within his warped sorcerer brain, did he... did he really think he could serve as some sort of undercover advisor to Arthur? Encouraging Arthur to defy his father? Twisting his thoughts in the hopes that when Arthur was crowned, he'd follow Merlin's advice?

It seemed like an incredibly undermining and slow undertaking for a sorcerer, especially since Arthur couldn't imagine Gaius or Merlin assassinating his father to speed up the process any. They'd had chance upon chance to do it if they wished, and Gaius had always been loyal to Uther, even when it was obvious he disagreed with him. Perhaps he was being naive, but Arthur couldn't picture the physician aligning himself with any sort of plan that boded ill for the king.

But the possibility still gnawed at the back of Arthur's brain. He didn't want to believe it, but if Merlin was half as powerful as the Druids claimed, he could easily enchant Gaius into joining his backward crusade. He could easily have enchanted Arthur himself.

Arthur didn't feel enchanted. He'd been enchanted before and he knew what magic felt like, but at the same time, he couldn't discount the possibility. Merlin was the closest person to him. Whenever Arthur had defied his father, it was usually at Merlin's urging, but... Arthur would be lying if he said he hadn't had rebellious thoughts before Merlin voiced them. He did disagree with his father often...

But he couldn't be sure his ideas were his own. Merlin could have planted them in his mind. In fact, Arthur couldn't rule out anything when sorcery was involved and—and by God, why hadn't Merlin told him?

That's where the stab really lay, he realised. That Merlin had lied to him. All this time. If Merlin really wanted to bring peace to the kingdoms, or—or just strike out what he believed to be black in Uther's rule, why hadn't he told Arthur? Some little part of him screamed the answer—would he have listened?—but he still felt so utterly betrayed by the lies that he couldn't bring himself to care. If Merlin really meant no harm, if he wasn't enchanting anyone, and if he really trusted Arthur to accomplish this wild plan of his... why hadn't he just asked?

It was the hurt that finally took hold of him after a good ten minutes of standing there. With red cheeks and twisted features, that sense of betrayal compelled him to draw his sword and bring his fingers to the cold latch of Merlin's window.

It didn't take much to pull it all the way open. Some latent part of Arthur's mind wondered why it wasn't protected by a magical shield. Was Merlin just that confident? He supposed he had every right to be. No one would suspect powerful magic to be locked inside such a scraggly figure. No one had.

Swinging the window open with calculated force, Arthur crossed the sill and came to a rest on the worn floorboards. Blood beat in his ears in tune with his racing heartbeat.

He hated it for speeding. But his heart be damned. After all, it had been Merlin who had told him to listen to it. Right now, Merlin himself had messed it up so bad Arthur could no better understand what it was telling him to do than he could understand the person before him. A sorcerer? A servant? A friend? An enemy? All four? Did Merlin even know the answer to that? Because Arthur sure didn't.

He did know one thing. What his head was telling him. The logical part—the part that had trained as a knight and a prince long before Merlin sauntered into the picture. That part of him told him everything he'd heard from Merlin tonight was nothing more than a confession of guilt. The man before him was Emrys, a dangerous, hunted sorcerer, and the best thing under the law for Arthur to do right now would be to strike him through the heart where he lay. 

Fair trial be damned, Arthur's father's voice said inside his head. A magic above all magic? Strike him now, Arthur. Strike him while this great threat can still be squashed.

Latching onto his burning sense of betrayal, the only feeling that made sense right now, Arthur raised his sword like he'd done countless times before. Both hands wrapped around the grip, the tip facing down, the bulk raised over his head. Balanced and graceful, sharpened and cleaned just that morning by...

He couldn't allow himself to think about it. It wouldn't be the first sorcerer he'd killed, unconscious and unarmed. But not really unarmed, right?  He'd always thought that. Justified it. A sorcerer had no need for a sword. Certainly, Merlin had never asked for one. His mind, his hands, his eyes were his weapons, and Arthur had always thought it was a kind, merciful death—caught unawares. It spared the sorcerer from the morbid anticipation of execution.

But staring down at Emrys... no, Merlin… God, this was not some random sorcerer strewn unconscious in the woods. This was his manservant, the closest thing Arthur had ever had to a friend tucked halfway underneath his covers with one toe poking out at the corner. His breathing even, his hair tousled even from the mere half hour he'd been asleep. As Arthur watched, he rolled over with a groan, dragging his blankets with him in a great heap.

"Stop," Merlin murmured vaguely, and despite his ungrateful tone, a ghost of a smile was visible on his lips. "Stop it, you... you dollophead…"

Arthur's hands began to shake. The blade was before him, held directly over Merlin's vulnerable chest, but wavering, visibly shaking in a physical manifestation of his weakness. 

Arthur took one step back and almost tripped flat on his back over another one of his swords—the one Merlin had been sharpening for him. For him, without complaint and without magic, just before bed.

That did it. Any resolve Arthur had held crumpled back into a dark hole of uncertainty. His sword slipped from his grasp and it was a miracle above all others he was able to catch it before it clattered to the ground. 

The failure served as an answer to himself. He couldn't kill Merlin. He couldn't do his duty, not like his father would wish him to.

But it didn't excuse anything. It didn't bring any sort of closure to the confusion swirling within him. By the law, he should skewer Merlin right now, but he couldn't do it. By the law, then, he should drag Merlin straight to his father, or, at the very least, tell Uther all he had learned, but he couldn't do that either. His father cared little for the "why." Merlin would be executed by the king's hand, completing what Arthur couldn't do, and Arthur would be left with greater uncertainty than before. Uncertainty and guilt and grief, because he was lying to himself if he said he wouldn't grieve.

Merlin had confessed. He'd said more than enough for Camelot to pass judgment. In the eyes of the law, Merlin had already seen trial, but that wasn't good enough. With a sudden rush of resolve, the only true resolve he'd felt since the moment Merlin had opened his mouth in the forest, Arthur reclaimed a hold on his sword and pressed the tip to Merlin's chest.

The fabric of Merlin's thin nightshirt bent from the force of his blade. Its touch instantly stilled Merlin, as if even in sleep he sensed what was becoming of him.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, his voice wavering at first before growing decidedly steely. "Emrys. By the power invested in me as Crown Prince of Camelot and by the power invested in me as your Master, in the light of such abnormal circumstances, I hereby put you under a trial of my own design. You've already failed in the eyes of my father, if he were to hear what I've heard. However, if you truly are the sorcerer the Druids say you are, then as future King of Camelot, I want to know just... just why you're here. I want to know why."

The last word came out with true venom. With practiced grace, he retracted his sword and stepped back to the window.

"It'll be a fair trial," Arthur promised, and in that alone he was sure. "If anything you have ever said to me is true... don't fail it."

And with that, Arthur slipped back out the way he had come, shutting the window behind him and sheathing his sword with a schink that rang through the still night.

He didn't look back, but if he had, he would have seen Merlin starting awake from a vivid nightmare, clutching his chest because he was sure there had been a sword there.

In the thin light of the moon slashing through the window, his shaken blue eyes shimmered with the slightest, defensive tendrils of gold.

Chapter Text

Arthur didn't manage to get any sleep that night.

He still crawled into bed. He’d paced for a bit, but it hadn’t done him any good. Instead, he just lay there, the three phases of his trial cycling in his mind as he waited for Merlin to come wake him up in the morning.

Merlin did, of course. He didn’t knock—he never did—and he entered Arthur’s chambers as if it were his own, whistling and sauntering over to Arthur’s window. He sounded carefree, but that was quite far from the truth. The manservant—sorcerer—spread Arthur’s curtains wide with two hands, showering the room in sunlight.

Arthur snapped his eyes shut before Merlin turned back around, but the manservant must have seen his eyelids flicker. Arthur could hear his footsteps approaching before slowing.

Arthur went rigid with apprehension. He’d been imagining this moment all night, the moment he would face Merlin again. But Merlin didn’t utter a word. The covers were not thrown off of him, and Arthur's heart beat like a charging horse. He knew, knew, Merlin’s face was right next to his, but he cracked his eyes open a fraction anyway.

Merlin’s blue eyes stared back at him, very close and very clearly not tinged with gold. As Arthur stared, he smiled that kooky smile of his—the one that lit up his entire face and usually meant he was about to trip over something. Innocent. Pure. Unsuspecting.

“Now hold on,” Merlin whispered. His voice sounded chipper and playful. In fact, his whole demeanour hung in stark contrast to his disturbed, serious self last night. The difference sent chills down Arthur’s spine. “Are you awake already? This is truly revolutionary. We should call in the knights and have a ceremony. A momentous occasion.”

“Ha ha,” Arthur murmured. He was gripping his pillow in a death grip. He’d promised himself he would do his best to keep up appearances. He'd been worried he wouldn’t be able to do it, but it was already quite a bit easier than he’d thought. Merlin practically set him up for responses.

He sat up slowly, still clutching the pillow, and Merlin laughed, giving the prince his space. He attended to the stacks of scrolls occupying Arthur's desk instead, and as Arthur continued to stare, it occurred to him this was what every day must be like for Merlin. Keeping up appearances. Talking. Joking around. Answering in his normal patterns. It had probably become routine for him, as had so many other things.

Yes. He had to have it down to a science, because there he was. Normal Merlin, wearing his dumb blue neckerchief and cleaning up the pool of spilt ink on Arthur’s desk. If Arthur hadn’t seen what he’d seen—if the image of Merlin’s golden eyes hadn’t scarred him forever—he wouldn’t have had the slightest idea Merlin had summoned a dragon the night before.

No one would.

It took Arthur a full minute to realise Merlin had stopped organising and was now looking at him strangely. Arthur jolted, startled to find Merlin's gaze back on him so soon, and the servant's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What is it?” Merlin asked, setting down the quill in his hand. He crossed his arms in a very Merlin way, signaling he was about to bother Arthur about something and not shut up about it. Wonderful.

“I’m sorry?” Arthur managed.

“What’re you staring at me like that for?” 

Arthur scoffed, slipping out of bed. He gave a very pointed stretch. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Right.” Merlin shot Arthur an unconvinced look, but he went back to the papers. “Are you feeling sick? First, I walk in here and you’re already awake. Now you’re oddly quiet and staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

Arthur snorted. “Now there’s an idea," he said, and he was relieved to find his tone sounded normal. His heart was still beating loudly in his ears, but at least he didn’t feel like bolting every time he looked at Merlin. “My idiot of a servant, with two heads? Camelot would surely fall.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, and thankfully, any concern left his face. “Funny. Now, I take it by the state of these—" He held up several parchment pages of unfinished speechwriting and waved it in Arthur’s direction. “—that you did not finish your speech for today?”

“Oh… yes.” Arthur stared at the speech pages, suddenly remembering abandoning the effort not long before heading out to find Merlin. He hadn't been in the right state of mind to go back to them afterwards. “I wasn’t feeling… inspired.”

“Inspired,”  Merlin repeated in a mock impression of Arthur’s voice. “I see. Well, lucky for you, I suspected as much and stayed up writing a draft for you. Here it is.”

Merlin pulled out a finished scroll, holding it out to Arthur. Arthur stepped forward and took it, unrolling it and looking over the neat handwriting he’d come to recognise as Merlin’s. He also vaguely remembered seeing the scroll on Merlin’s side table last night. Merlin had truly written it, then. Arthur supposed the best liars dealt in half-truths.

He skimmed over the first few lines and was not disappointed to find them written in his manner of speaking, not Merlin’s. Merlin was indeed an excellent writer and Arthur was reminded of how he’d once marveled at the mere fact Merlin was literate. Most of the common folk could hardly write their own names.

But Merlin had always been different than the other servants. An enigma if Arthur ever saw one. As unpredictable as he was predictable, and Arthur could never quite put his finger on what it was that set Merlin apart.

Now he was pretty sure he could. He had to be able to read his spell books, didn’t he? Write them, even. Who knew? There were many possibilities—many aspects of sorcery that could very well apply to Merlin. A whole new realm of truths concerning his manservant. Arthur was only just now scratching the surface.

But he couldn't let himself dwell on that. Merlin was staring at him again, and once again, it had taken Arthur far too long to notice.

He cleared his throat, giving the scroll a nice tap. “Looks readable,” he managed, hoping to pass this emotional slip by as he had the last one.

Unfortunately, this time Merlin didn’t seem to be buying it. “There is something bothering you," he pressed—much to Arthur’s dismay. “You never read the speeches I write. You just toss them aside until you need them.”

“Well, maybe that’s been a mistake now, hasn’t it?” Arthur snapped, a bit more hotly than he had intended. “Maybe… maybe you wrote something in here I wouldn’t say. Something—I don’t know. Something harmful to my image.”

Merlin made a face. “Why would I ever write something like that? That’s not even comical. If I wrote anything in there you wouldn’t say, it'd certainly be humiliating, but it wouldn’t be anything harmful.”

Well. He’d done it now. Let his tangled emotions shine through. Arthur’s cheeks grew hot and he knew he was talking himself into a corner, but the words wouldn’t stop coming. The thought—the horrid possibility—that Merlin was only here to manipulate him was a bit too much. Merlin had so much control and Arthur had trusted him unconditionally. If Arthur were king here and now, Merlin could write a law making magic legal and Arthur wouldn’t have noticed until he was speaking it aloud. Arthur had granted Merlin so much influence over him and it scared him like nothing else ever had.

“I—why should I trust anyone but myself to do such important things?” Arthur exploded, the worries tumbling out of him. He waved the speech in Merlin’s face. “What if they only wanted to lead me astray?”

He regretted the words the moment he said them. Merlin looked hurt, and that was everything Arthur had hoped to prevent. He’d wanted to keep up appearances, keep things normal, so that he could administer his trail without arousing Merlin’s suspicion.

Perhaps he 'd given himself too much credit. He was more emotionally conflicted about this whole situation than he cared to admit and just talking to Merlin made his stomach twist and turn. The urge to run away had never burned so strongly.

“Lead you astray?” Merlin echoed. Pain and confusion shown in his every feature. “Arthur, where is this coming from? Do you not trust me to write your speeches?”

“I—I’m not sure I should trust anyone with anything,” Arthur stumbled, his voice thick with emotion. He lowered the speech with a shaking hand. “I can’t afford trust.”

Merlin stared at him for a moment, his expression much closer to the one he'd worn last night. Concerned. Steely. Calculating. 

“I think I know what this is,” he said.

Arthur’s heart leapt to his mouth. “Do you?”

Merlin pursed his lips, and he leveled Arthur with a look of pity—an emotion Arthur hadn’t expected. “It’s your father, isn’t it? Gaius mentioned last night he was sending you after the Druids. Did he talk to you before I woke you?”

Relief instantly flooded Arthur's system. Merlin still didn’t know he knew.  “Ah, no,” he recovered, turning away. He headed for his chair, happy to not look at Merlin for a moment. “He didn’t, but I overheard him.”

"Right. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good plan, going to the Druids."

Arthur stopped in his tracks. “Really?”

“Well, it makes sense." Arthur heard Merlin shuffling papers at his desk. "The information on the sorcerer came from them. They might tell us more, if we ask. But I don’t think angering them is a good idea, and I’m worried that’s what the king will ask you to do.”

Arthur turned back around very slowly. “We?”  he repeated.

Merlin’s expression morphed into one of disbelief. “Were you going to seek out dangerous sorcerers without me?” 

Arthur abandoned the path to his chair completely. He thought through his next words carefully. “The Druids are sorcerers, but I’ve heard them to be peaceful, usually."

“Peaceful doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous,” Merlin countered. “I’m coming with you.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “I have a feeling my father will order a subtle excursion," he pointed out. "A discrete team."

He was aiming for a jab, and it struck true. Merlin’s ears went red. “I can be discrete!” 

Normally, Arthur would laugh at his indignance, but instead his mind flew to Merlin’s less-than-discrete display the night before. Clearly, Merlin wasn’t that discrete...

And yet, he must have been, however thinly. Merlin had hidden himself well, all this time.

Arthur managed to shrug. “Very well. If my father allows it.”

Merlin's shoulders slumped in relief. “It’ll all work out in the end,” he assured, but his words were not assuring. “For all we know, this Emrys could be long gone from Camelot already.”

And with that, Merlin made to leave and Arthur watched him go. “I doubt it,” he muttered to himself before lifting his chin ever so slightly. All his thoughts—all his planning from the night before—came rushing back to him. “Merlin?”

Merlin stopped, his hand on the door handle. “What?”

Arthur took the last couple steps to his chair and lowered himself into it. “Can I ask you something? Man to man?”

This was it.

Trial number one had begun.

Merlin’s fingers slipped from the handle. “Of course. What is it?”

Arthur gestured to the seat opposite him. “Sit,” he said.

As expected, Merlin appeared flabbergasted by the request—Arthur never asked him to sit—but the sorcerer approached the chair cautiously. He hovered over it for a second, as if waiting for Arthur to announce he was joking.

He didn’t, and Merlin eased himself into the chair in silence. His features further morphed into the look he'd had last night. Thoughtful. A bit on edge. “What is it?” he repeated.

Arthur leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. “All right, Merlin,” he began. “I admit I’m more conflicted about this Emrys predicament than I’d liked to be. It worries me, the idea of a sorcerer more powerful than any other. Especially here. My father cares little for the why, but I do. I want to know why such a sorcerer would ever decide to hide here, of all places.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, clearly mulling over how to address the question. For once, Arthur knew exactly what was going on in his tiny head, even if Merlin didn’t know he knew. A whole new part of Merlin’s brain had been opened to him. It was as fascinating as it was jarring.

“Why do you suppose I would know?” Merlin asked finally, and Arthur could detect the slightest hint of fear in his tone. Normally, he would think nothing of it. After all, this was not something he normally did—flat out ask Merlin for advice. Most of the time, the servant gave it to him without prompt, but this... none of this was normal anymore. “It's not like I've met him."

“No,” Arthur agreed, sitting back and trying to put Merlin at ease. If he became too guarded, he might not receive clear answers from him. “None of us have. I just want your opinion because of what you said to me yesterday.”

Merlin brow furrowed. “What did I say yesterday?”

“That he must have a reason,” Arthur reminded. “I asked you why a great sorcerer would ever come here, and you said he must have a reason. You’re the only one I’ve talked to about this whole thing that gave me any sort of answer. I agree, he must have a reason. But what? What do you think his reason is?”

Merlin's eyes grew unfocused. Arthur could practically see his thoughts running wild. He crossed his arms and Arthur read it as a defensive motion.

“Well, sorcerers don’t exactly act without a reason,” Merlin answered after a short pause. “That’s why I said that yesterday. Every sorcerer that has attacked Camelot has had a reason for it, one way or another, and they were all different. So this sorcerer must have a reason, too. If his aim isn’t to harm Camelot, then it must be something else entirely. I don’t know what.”

Arthur took a moment to process this. His heart pulsed in his ears, but he forced himself to remain flippant. " 'If his aim isn't to harm Camelot...' " he repeated slowly. "Interesting. But I'm not sure I follow. If his aim isn't to hurt Camelot, then what? Do you think he means to help it?"

Merlin raised an eyebrow. He paused for a second, and Arthur saw something shift in his eyes. 

“That's an interesting thought," Merlin replied, his voice soft. Quiet. The tiniest hint of wonder was audible in his tone. "Would that be so impossible? A sorcerer who bears no ill will towards Camelot?”

Arthur struggled to keep his expression neutral. He could hear a sense of hope growing in Merlin's questions. It made his stomach churn a little. “I can’t imagine why. Between me and my father we have done nothing but persecute sorcerer kind.”

“That’s... true,” Merlin agreed. He was no longer quite meeting Arthur’s eyes. “But maybe this sorcerer just wants peace, or—"

He stopped himself, and Arthur leaned forward once more. "Or what?"

Merlin hesitated. "Well, perhaps he sees something in you.”

Arthur cocked his head a little. Adrenaline rushed through him, and he pulled his hands off the table. They were beginning to shake. “In me? What would a sorcerer possibly see in me?”

Merlin’s mouth quirked into the slightest of smiles. “A good person?” He said it almost in question, as if he wasn’t sure Arthur would like it as an answer. “A prince who cares very deeply about his subjects and understands a desire for peace. Because you do desire it, don't you? Peace between Camelot and its enemies?"

Arthur hadn't expected to be asked a question. A surge of panic charged through him.

"I—well, yes," he decided after a moment. "Yes, naturally I want peace." 

Merlin smiled. "I want that, too," he agreed. "And I can't speak for anyone else, but I believe you're destined to be a great king, Arthur. Possibly the greatest this land has ever known. Anyone who knows you even a little bit knows you aren't your father. Your subjects love you. They trust you. Believe in you. Sorcerers are humans, too, and it—well, it's possible there are people who hope peace can be achieved, however difficult. And if it is possible, you'll be the one to do it. I'm sure of that.”

He said it with such quiet confidence that all the words Arthur had prepared left him in a rush. His mind went blank for a moment, struggling to recalibrate.

“I… huh," he managed, clearing his throat to buy himself some time. His chest felt very tight. “Didn’t know you thought that way, Merlin.”

Merlin's small smile grew a little. "Why not? Did you not think I believe in you?”

“Well, no. I just… I don’t know what I expected you to say. Not that.”

“Hm.” Merlin rested his hand on the table, tapping his fingers on the edge of the wood and staring off into space. That was lucky. Merlin's sudden movement made Arthur flinch and sent a fresh wave of fear washing over him. Arthur hated it, but he definitely feared Merlin's magic. “Well, it’s true, I think. And if I believe it, maybe this Emrys does, too. However wrong he might be.”

Arthur paused for a moment. Processing. While he did, Merlin avoided his gaze.

"It's an interesting possibility," Arthur admitted. "A sorcerer that simply wants peace."

"Yes. Interesting."

"Not very likely."

"No, I suppose not."

Arthur eyed Merlin critically now. He ran his final question through his mind, testing the wording before asking. The final level of trial one. It was fascinating to him to consider the conversation from Merlin's end. After all, how many times had Arthur brought up the sorcery ban in passing conversation? How many times had he and Merlin discussed it? He wasn't sure he could recall. Such discussion was commonplace. It was normal for him to talk about the law and his job within it, especially when there was a manhunt on.

But to Merlin, such talk was not trivial. Did his heart skip a beat every time Arthur mentioned the ban? Did he mentally prepare for these moments—these opportunities—where he could discuss it, carefully picking out each word he spoke? To influence Arthur's decisions and viewpoints, however minutely.

Influence...

Or manipulate.

Several thoughts squirmed in Arthur's mind. There was a thin line between influence and manipulation, and the latter skirted dangerously close to malicious intent. Possibly even low-level enchantment.

He had to know which one. He wanted to know which one. 

“Merlin..." Arthur began slowly. "Let's say it was possible a sorcerer came here because he wanted peace. Then what? Do you think he'd believe I'd bring magic back to Camelot?”

Merlin locked eyes with Arthur at this. His expression grew rigid. Tense. “Wouldn't any sorcerer want that?”

“I... well. I suppose so." Arthur paused, trying to find the correct phrasing. "But do you think a sorcerer would expect me to do such a thing, on my own free will. Because frankly, I find that hard to believe. I've seen nothing but destruction come out of sorcery. I'm not sure there can ever be peace between us and them.”

Disappointment flashed through Merlin's eyes. It was small and subtle, but it hurt Arthur to see it. The servant heaved a deep sigh. “I suppose it is far fetched," he agreed, looking away once more. "But I do know that as far as Camelot is concerned, you define the future, Arthur. You determine whether the current laws stand or not, and I can't imagine why anyone pursuing peace wouldn't hope you'd consider reconciliation. It's in your nature, I think."

Arthur leveled Merlin with a scrutinizing look at this, taking in every unspoken word on the servant's face. “In my nature? You believe that?”

Merlin looked back at him, and this time, his eyes held Arthur's gaze with confidence—a bit of the true Merlin sinking into his features. A sorcerer with conviction. “Does it really matter what I believe?” he asked, and his voice was so quiet, so tired, it shook Arthur to his core. “In the end, it matters what you believe, Arthur. That isn't something I, or anyone else, can decide for you. In the end, it will be your decision, and yours alone. So do what you think is right.”

Somehow, Arthur had thought he'd known what Merlin would say. Somehow, he thought he was prepared for the servant's answer. But he hadn't expected that, and his next breath came out shallow. He sat back in his chair—hard—and he could feel his stoic facade break.

Merlin looked alarmed by the reaction, but Arthur felt so relieved he could hardly bring himself back to his senses.

That isn't something I, or anyone else, can decide for you.

It will be your decision, and yours alone.

Do what you think is right.

Merlin was not enchanting him. Not manipulating him. Arthur couldn't believe those words were anything less than the cold, hard truth as Merlin understood it. Arthur hadn't known those last few sentences were what he'd needed to hear, but he was so comforted by them he could cry.

Trial one was complete.

Merlin had passed.

Chapter Text

Merlin looked more than a little horrified at Arthur’s emotional display.

Arthur should have expected that. He rarely lost it, and if he did, it was usually for an obvious reason. Instead, he sat slumped in his chair, blinking back tears. So much for subtlety. 

Two more trials awaited Merlin. If he was honest with himself, Arthur had been petrified Merlin wouldn't pass the first one. The trials replaced dragging his servant to his father—a scenario that made him shudder—and he still hadn’t recovered from finding out Merlin had lied to him in the first place. He wasn’t sure if it could handle discovering Merlin only wanted to use him.

Merlin opened his mouth, probably to ask what the hell had come over him, but just then Arthur’s door swung open and the king strode in, dressed for ceremony and glittering in his many pendants.

Merlin, smartly, leapt out of the chair. He caught it before it fell over and executed a clumsy bow, mumbling “sire.” He looked frazzled and frightened, but that was normal.

In fact, it was very normal, and suddenly, Arthur wondered just how normal. How often did Merlin fear for his life? Did his heart skip a beat whenever Uther entered a room? 

Did Arthur himself scare him sometimes?

Arthur had always thought Merlin was a little too brave for his own good, but the thought carried new weight now. Merlin never took any of Arthur’s threats seriously and often stumbled his way into other trouble. The king had been convinced for years that Merlin was mentally ill and Merlin hadn’t done anything to disprove it. 

Arthur’s breathing grew shallow. Maybe he purposely hadn’t tried. It occurred to him then that all the idiocy was actually Merlin’s greatest shield. If the knights were scouring the castle for sorcerers, they wouldn’t think twice about a servant who fell over himself half the time.

Unpleasant realisations were surfacing—little things that hadn’t occurred to him the previous night. Arthur had often overlooked sorcery where Merlin was concerned. His servant had come under fire many times when magic was questioned. Each time, Arthur had scorned the thought. Merlin was a wonder all right, but a wondrous idiot, not a wondrous wizard.

But in the end, did this make Arthur the wondrous idiot? Him, and his father? Perhaps Merlin was a breed of sorcerer Camelot hadn’t been prepared for... a powerful idiot. 

Unless the idiocy was all an act?

Arthur didn’t like that thought. He wanted some part of the man he knew to be real.

“Arthur, did you hear a word I just said?”

“I—hm?” Arthur jolted back to reality, almost falling over as his chair veered backward. He caught himself, gripping the edge of the table for support. “Yes, terribly sorry, father. I’m a bit drowsy. Merlin woke me late.”

Arthur thought that was a decent excuse, but unfortunately, the disapproval on his father’s face didn’t fade. “I see. And can that be why you haven’t dressed?” 

Arthur’s eyes widened. He glanced down at his bare chest, realising that with everything he’d never asked Merlin to dress him.

Merlin’s eyes widened, too. “Oh! Er—” he blubbered, vaulting to the wardrobe and whipping out one of Arthur’s fancier tunics. The sleeves flew around wildly. “M-my fault, all my fault, sire. I distracted him. Don’t mind me, he’ll be dressed before you know it.”

Uther levelled a stern look. One that said Merlin might get chucked out the window if he didn’t move quickly. 

The look was not lost on Merlin. His ears went red in stressed embarrassment as he moved behind Arthur, motioning for him to put his arms up. Arthur complied, and Merlin slipped the tunic over his head.

“Apologies again, father,” Arthur said. He tucked the tunic around his torso as Merlin moved to retrieve his belt. “To what do I owe the visit? Is it about my speech?”

He knew the answer was “no,” but feigning innocence was much easier with his father. Where Merlin was concerned, he was conflicted. Confused. But the king didn’t confuse him, and Arthur was accustomed to this type of conflict: the familial kind.

Not the betrayal kind.

“It’s not your speech,” Uther answered distractedly. He watched Merlin as the servant bustled around the room. “It’s another matter entirely. I’ve postponed your speech for today.”

Merlin stopped short. A ceremonial coat dangled from his arms as he gaped at the king. “Postponed?” 

Uther’s forehead crinkled. “Are you deaf and dumb?”

Merlin’s ears turned a darker shade of red and Arthur snorted. The servant muttered “possibly, sire,” before hurriedly putting the coat away and pulling out a hunting jacket to replace the ceremonial one.

“I’d like to put both our minds at ease,” Uther continued. “I spoke to Gaius and he confirmed your worries match my own. This Emrys must be found and the Druids know of him. I have long awaited their capture, but they have eluded me. No longer. Oliver, our new informant, has no loyalties. His information can be bought, and he will lead us to the Druids for the proper price.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin’s shoulders tense. For the Druids? Maybe himself.

“A steep price, I imagine,” Arthur answered.

His father hummed in agreement. “Gold is worth much less to me than Camelot’s safety. The traveller has already been paid in full. You will gather your best knights and ride with him at once.”

Arthur flinched. Gaius’s words from the previous night swam in his mind. I'm not sure what good it would do, as we don't even know if this Emrys means any harm. 

I don’t, Merlin had answered. Arthur wanted to believe him.

“Of course,” Arthur muttered. He stood and gave a bow, strapping on his sword. His fingers tapped the pommel restlessly. “Although I doubt the Druids will offer such information voluntarily.”

“No,” the king agreed. “Gaius voiced a similar worry. The Druids are religious fanatics. They will gladly die to protect their secrets, but on this occasion, the danger at home may outweigh the danger from afar. If the Druids are promised a safe haven in return for their knowledge, they might be persuaded.”

Behind Uther, Merlin perked up. His expression betrayed a mix of surprise and hope. 

Arthur mirrored it, but mostly the surprise. “A safe haven? You’d consider such a thing?”

“Gaius has argued for it in the past,” Uther admitted. He leaned against the table, studying his signet ring. “He believes the Druids are a peaceful group of sorcerers. He argues that if I grant them such a haven, they will prove this to me in time and grant Camelot priceless knowledge—wisdom that can be used against our true enemies.”

Merlin bent over to retrieve a pair of boots, but that didn’t hide the soft smile of wonder on his face.

Arthur remained sceptical. “Does this mean you’d like me to offer them this bargain? In your name?”

“Yes, my name—but primarily Gaius’s. If they refuse, take some captive for questioning and kill the rest.”

Merlin’s smile faltered. Arthur grimaced. 

“Of course. And if they accept? When will they receive this haven?”

His father barked out a laugh. Arthur, unfortunately, recognised its meaning. “Receive it? Never!”

Merlin’s shoulders slumped. Dismay crossed his features and he turned away again, shuffling to make the bed. Arthur held back a sigh.

His reservations must have been evident, because his father frowned. “We do not bargain with sorcerers, Arthur. I appreciate Gaius’s well-meaning, if not misguided, suggestion. It will bring us the information we need. If such an agreement comes to them in Gaius’s name as well as my own, the Druids will consider my proposition sincere. He was a friend to them before he put their ways behind him.”

“I see,” Arthur said, picking the closest word to ‘disagree’ he could voice without consequence. “And does Gaius know you don’t plan on upholding this proposition?”

“He will understand.” Uther gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and Arthur didn’t need to look at Merlin to know his revulsion. “That is not the point of this. I want a face to pin to this Emrys. By now he will know we are coming for him.”

Arthur did steal a glance at Merlin at this. The sorcerer-servant kept innocently fluffing Arthur’s pillows. How right his father was. How would the king react, he wondered, if he knew Emrys stood before him this very moment? 

Perhaps he should know.

Arthur swallowed. “I’ll gather my men and ride at midday.”

His father smiled, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. It was a familiar gesture. He only did it when he was transferring the pressure of duty onto Arthur’s shoulders. “Wonderful. I shall await your return with apprehension.”

He left. Merlin shot a worried look Arthur’s way, but when it wasn’t returned, he turned back to the pillows.

Arthur studied the back of his head, mulling over his second trial.

“Do you still want to come?” he asked finally.

Merlin scoffed at the question. “What? Yes! Of course.”

“Good. Prepare my horse.”

And with that, Arthur shoved on his boots and followed his father.

He needed a break from Merlin.

~O~

It wasn’t premeditated, but Arthur gave Merlin the cold shoulder all the way to the Druid camp.

He couldn’t help it. Every time the servant tried to strike up a conversation, Arthur wanted to pelt questions at him like crossbow bolts. Why this, why that—there were so many “why’s” in his head swimming about, and he wanted answers to them all.

He had no means to ask them yet. Not until his trials were over and Merlin—hopefully—passed. Then Arthur could confront him. Man to man. Knight to sorcerer. Only then could he have his mind put to rest before Merlin left Camelot forever.

After all, that was how this all ended. Merlin would have to leave. Arthur had thought about it, and that was the only outcome he could foresee. The favourable one, anyway. The one where Merlin remained breathing. 

He wondered where Merlin would go. Ealdor? It was part of Cenred’s kingdom, not Camelot’s, although Arthur wasn’t entirely sure if his father would care… not anymore. Oliver had explained that the Druids resided just out of Camelot’s reach and within Cenred’s borders, all in an effort to avoid conflict with Camelot. 

This was a little detail he’d shared after they’d left the castle behind. It seemed Oliver had worried Uther wouldn’t pay him if he’d known the risks involved.

He was probably right. The location left Arthur in a predicament. While it did strengthen Merlin’s second trial, leading knights into Essetir—no matter how small the distance in—could be seen as an act of war, if discovered.

Arthur didn’t plan on being discovered, and even then, he wondered if his father would have risked war for this. Where magic was concerned, his father’s reasoning definitely leaned reactionary.

Arthur was no better. He was risking war for his own piece of mind. He’d opted not to execute Merlin. Now the Druids might pay the price instead.

A deep unease settled in Arthur’s gut. With a kick of his heel, he urged his horse forward, leading his raiding party out of Camelot’s territory and into Cenred's domain of Essetir. There was no other way to frame it. He was being selfish. There were many, many ways this could go terribly wrong, and yet, nothing seemed more wrong than what was right—turning Merlin in.

 The hazards be damned. He needed answers, and he’d get them.

“How much farther?” he asked Oliver, and the traveller clicked his tongue, pushing for his horse to catch up with Arthur’s lead. 

“Not much farther, now,” the man reported, his foreign accent thick and slurred on the “R.” “There’s a bit of a slope with a cave nestled ‘round the bend.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Arthur muttered, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Love caves.”

They continued on, pushing deeper into Essetir, and it wasn’t long before the path dipped and the trees thinned. Early evening fell upon them, and a cool breeze lifted the leaves around Arthur’s horse’s hooves.

With every flutter of a branch, Arthur’s discomfort deepened. He wondered if Merlin sensed it, because he trotted up next to Arthur, his bright blue eyes thoughtful in the growing gloom.

Arthur didn’t acknowledge him, but Merlin spoke anyway, his voice low. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Arthur? Cenred’s not exactly your biggest fan.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Arthur answered. A lie. He kept his gaze focused on Oliver, not wanting Merlin to notice his guilt. He’d been presented with a choice. He’d made it. “We need this information. If even half of what Oliver said is true, this Emrys is a danger to Camelot. We must find him.”

He didn’t look at Merlin directly, but he did see the servant squirm a little. “Right,” Merlin mumbled, falling back as Arthur kicked his horse again, trotting to catch up with Oliver.

“We’re here,” Oliver said before Arthur could ask the question. The traveller pointed, and Arthur could just make out the rocky bend he had described. Slices of moonlight cut through the open spaces in the tree canopy, but even with the added light, the drop was still difficult to make out. If Oliver hadn’t pointed, Arthur would not have spotted the half-hidden cave entrance resting at the bottom of the slope. 

Grimacing, Arthur swung his right leg out of the stirrup and dismounted. His boots fell heavy on the uneven ground, suctioning in the thick mud. His band of fifteen knights copied the movement. 

Oliver was the only one who didn’t dismount. “This is where I must leave you, sire,” he announced, offering a hand in farewell. 

Arthur smiled thinly, accepting the gesture and grasping the traveller’s forearm at the elbow. “Camelot is grateful you chose to come forward,” he said. “I hope the gold was enough compensation for your troubles.”

Oliver gave a chuckle. He let go of Arthur’s arm to pat his waist instead, jingling the many coins in his pouch. “More than sufficient, I’d say. I’ll be stopping by again if I stumble upon anything else of relevance.”

“You’ll be more than welcome,” Arthur assured, and with that, Oliver was on his way, galloping deeper into Cenred’s kingdom astride one of Camelot’s best horses. 

Arthur watched him go with a critical eye, his forced smile slowly slipping into a frown. 

To his further discomfort, Merlin trudged up beside him, his arms crossed tightly against his thin jacket. Worry dominated his features. “What’s keeping him from reporting us to Cenred?” the sorcerer asked, and at his words, a cold dagger twisted its way into Arthur’s heart. “He turned on the Druids within a day.”

“The Druids didn’t give him gold,” Arthur pointed out, but as he said it, he wondered if it was a worthy answer. “My father paid him much more than he deserved. That should keep him living comfortably for quite some time.”

Merlin’s expression voiced his disagreement, but Arthur ignored him, putting his back to the forest and facing the cave. “Regardless,” he said, raising his voice a tad to address everyone. “We shouldn’t linger here more than necessary. The sooner we are out of Cenred’s lands, the better.”

He drew his sword. His raiding party copied him and Merlin, thankfully, fell back as Arthur led the way down the slick slope.

Darkness swallowed them as they left the moonlight behind. Arthur waited for his eyes to adjust before pushing forward and entering the cave, his boots slick with mud and water from a shallow stream. He was just beginning to wonder if a torch was needed when he spotted the telltale signs of firelight flickering against the cavern walls.

A small part of him was disheartened. Deep down, he’d hoped Oliver’s intelligence was misinformed—that, or perhaps the Druids had wised up and moved on. 

He never got so lucky. Setting his jaw, Arthur kept his sword parallel with his cheek, his knees bent as he shuffled toward the light. He would have to handle this delicately. Unlike his father, he held no personal quarrel with the Druids. Too many sorcerers had attacked Camelot for him not to place those who hadn’t in a separate category. But, unfortunately, this did little to change what danger they could pose. 

That danger was how his father justified this excursion, but Arthur couldn’t help but feel he was overstepping his bounds in more ways than one.

Movement. Arthur struck on instinct, drawing from hours of practise and strength. The point of his sword swung to a stop centimetres before the throat of a Druid.

A small Druid. A boy. No older than ten.

Arthur froze. The boy didn’t scream, but he looked up at Arthur with calm, clear blue eyes—eyes that sent Arthur tumbling into a terrible memory. Another Druid camp. Another Druid boy. Screaming—far too much of it. Children flailing...

“Are you going to kill me, sir?”

Arthur flinched. The Druid boy didn’t sound overly concerned by the question, but Arthur lowered his sword all the same.

“I... I’d prefer not to,” he managed. “I’m here to speak with your leader.”

The boy nodded knowingly. He turned, hurrying deeper into the cave. Arthur hated himself for it, but dark, entrapping dread snaked up his spine.

He motioned to his knights with two fingers. Follow. As one, they trudged after the Druid boy.

Arthur’s worst case scenario awaited them around the bend. The Druid cluster was large—a good thirty or more adults and many children. Their fearful stares made Arthur cringe, along with the setup of the cave itself. Symbols he did not recognise littered the cavern walls. Candles lit up the space, accenting small twig-and-flower shrines atop the larger boulders. Tattered, colourful ribbons swung from the tips of tent poles, fluttering in the cave’s chilly draught.

While Arthur had seen Druid camps before, this one felt especially foreign to him. Other kingdoms held other castles—other armies, other knights. Although they flew different banners and practised different feast customs, they still fell within Arthur’s realm of understanding. 

The Druid culture, however, possessed nothing Arthur understood, nor did he have the means to understand. The symbols on the cavern walls were a mystery to him as a young knight and were a mystery to him now. The small shrines depicted gods and goddesses whose names and powers he didn’t worship. The Druid beliefs and customs were rumours and scary bedtime stories for the children of Camelot. Arthur had no idea if they were true.

In the end, these people were not his domain, and like any good future king, Arthur’s loyalty belonged to the citizens of Camelot. They were his kind, his people, but they were not Merlin’s people.

No. These were Merlin’s people. Sorcerers. Tricksters and charlatans, practising a religion that dwindled on extinction. Men, women, and children whose minds and hearts housed and served the magic of the Old Religion. They were not the worst of their kind, but that did not excuse them. Not in the king’s eyes. 

In his first trial, Merlin had convinced Arthur he wasn’t enchanting him. That, and he’d indirectly confessed he hoped Arthur would bring magic back to Camelot. It was a foolish hope, but it was definitely the type of scheme a romantic like Merlin would conjure up.

And yet, there was still a large gap between a foolhardy wish and blatantly betraying his own kind. 

This was the gap Arthur planned on testing.

He hoped Merlin was ready. Trial two had begun.

“Arthur Pendragon.”

The voice that spoke was unfamiliar to him, and its tone did nothing to help his unease. Arthur had heard his full name spoken by sorcerers before, and always with that tone… as if he possessed the name but didn’t truly own it.

The Druid who’d spoken it fit the bill perfectly. Tall and old with a watery smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A twisted staff occupied his right hand, and he let it rest against a large rock, much to Arthur’s further disquiet.

Arthur cleared his throat, stationing himself at the forefront of his men. “I am Arthur, yes,” he confirmed. “And who are you? The Archdruid?”

“You could think of me that way.” The Druid folded his arms behind him. Somehow, the move made Arthur even more nervous. He liked a sorcerer’s hands in view. “Not that the title matters.”

“It does matter. I asked to speak to the leader. Are you him?”

“I suppose that depends on how you define a leader.”

Something akin to anger bubbled in Arthur’s stomach. An emotion he couldn’t afford. If things escalated too quickly, Merlin’s trial would be useless.

He clenched his sword a little tighter regardless. “Fine. May I at least have your name?”

“Again, I don’t see how it matters.” The Druid sounded amused. Was he purposely being provocative? “Names and titles mean little. It is the soul behind the name that counts.”

Right. Arthur resisted the urge to throw Merlin’s trial to the wind in favour of slapping the Druid in irons. Was this how all sorcerers talked? He rarely had conversations with any. 

Well, he regularly had conversations with one, but Merlin talked nonsense, not poetry.

He really didn’t want to hold the Druid at sword point. Not yet. Not until the proper moment. “Please,” Arthur tried again, his voice terse. “If we are to talk, I’d like a name to address you by.”

The sorcerer hesitated, his expression unreadable, but he nodded. “Very well. You may call me Cian.”

“Cian,” Arthur repeated, more than a little happy to make some progress. “Well, then, Cian, I have a few questions for you. If you’re a wise man, you’ll answer them.”

“I’m a wise man of a sort.” The old man’s small smile faded, although the hint of amusement in his pale eyes still unnerved Arthur. “I can tell you it was not wise to come here. You and your men are not welcome in Essetir.”

“I am aware.” 

“Good. You are a wise man yourself, Arthur Pendragon. Or, at least, you have the potential to be.”

Arthur didn’t bother keeping his annoyance off his face. “I’m not here for career advice, thank you. In fact, I’m here with a proposition from a friend. Gaius. Have you heard of him?”

“The physician? Yes, I’m familiar.”

“Excellent.” Arthur sheathed his sword, prepared to administer his father’s proposal. Its outcome would decide how Merlin’s trial would progress. “My father, the king, has spoken with him. Together, they have decided upon a course of action. A haven, crafted for you and your people within Camelot’s lands. While we do not condone sorcery, we have certainly seen you and your people’s distaste for violence. It’s a quality we’d like to reward."

The Archdruid cocked his head, and behind him, the other Druids stirred. “For a price?”

“Not a steep one,” Arthur assured. “One you could easily pay.”

Cian did not appear convinced. “And let me guess. That price is information. You want us to act as your spies.”

“‘Spies’ is not the word I would use,” Arthur refuted, although he could feel any hope of an agreement slipping away. Unsurprising. He hadn’t counted on this going well. “We aren’t sending you anywhere. We simply want to know what you know. If I am properly informed of threats, I can better protect Camelot and its people. Is that so terrible?”

“Protect Camelot and its people,” Cian repeated, ignoring Arthur’s baited question. “I see. And protect them from what? Anything in particular?” 

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Arthur answered, and his heart rate began to escalate. This was the important bit. He had to watch Cian carefully. “It has come to our attention that a powerful sorcerer has entered Camelot. Possibly some time ago. Possibly very recently. Call me curious, but I would like to know more about him."

There. He'd said it. As Arthur watched, hawk-like, he spotted what he’d counted on. Something shifted in Cian’s eyes. It was small and subtle, but he'd seen it. 

Recognition. 

Arthur couldn’t help but grin a little. “You know of this sorcerer, don’t you?”

“I do,” Cian admitted, and Arthur glimpsed the second thing he’d bargained on. A brief glance away.

Cian’s gaze flickered beyond Arthur.

To Merlin?

 “Good,” Arthur managed. His heart was charging in his ears now. He wanted it more than ever now. He wanted to know everything Merlin was keeping from him. “Then I hope we can come to an agreement. The Druid haven can be constructed within months, and I’ll see to it that—”

“See to what, exactly?” Cian snapped, and Arthur flinched, his hand flying to his sword. “We are slaughtered in our sleep? Spare me, young Pendragon. Lies are not becoming of a future king.”

“This isn’t a lie,” Arthur insisted.

“But it is, isn’t it?” Cian said, and his pale blue eyes seemed to peer straight through Arthur’s armour and into his soul. “Although you are trying to lie as little as possible. I do appreciate that. Unfortunately, my people have been burnt by Uther’s promises before. Quite literally. Forgive us if we decide not to repeat our mistakes.”

As Cian spoke, his hand lingered by his staff. His fingers grazed the wood and Arthur let himself react, unsheathing his sword and aiming it square between Cian’s eyes.

“Don’t touch it,” he growled.

Cian deflated, obediently pulling away and holding his hands up in surrender. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten. Your kind always resorts to steel when it comes to ‘asking’ for information. Some things never change.”

“Spare me the condescension,” Arthur said. “Your kind is not without blood on its hands, whether you meant it or not. We do not possess the ability for destruction you do. We’ve learnt to protect ourselves. You can execute someone with a thought and a look.”

Cian arched an eyebrow. “And would you say we are the ones doing the executing?”

Arthur floundered, at a loss for a response, and Cian knew it. He stepped forward, eliminating some of the space between them before Arthur had a chance to shift.

“You could have so much more from us than our knowledge, Arthur Pendragon,” the Druid whispered, his unfocused gaze adding to Arthur’s unease and uncertainty. “Think of it. You could have a far greater gift—our undying loyalty—but you are too overshadowed by your father’s shortcomings. His inability.”

"What inability?” Arthur snapped. He dropped his arm, levelling his sword with Cian’s side. One swing and he could fatally injure the Druid.

Cian didn’t seem concerned. He smiled, but the motion was laced with melancholy. “The fact that you stand here now says it all. How much did Uther pay that silver-tongued traveller to sell us out?”

Arthur didn’t answer, and Cian shook his head, backing down. “This is the inability I refer to. You cannot purchase loyalty, young Pendragon. Not true loyalty. Gold has its limits, but that has not stopped your father from testing its boundaries.”

“My father has hundreds of knights that would gladly lay down their lives for him.”

“No, your father has hundreds of noble-borns who were blindly raised to obey the law. His law.” Cian’s laugh was hollow. “What common man of Camelot would lay down their life for their heartless king? I reckon not many. The people of Camelot are not loyal to Uther, Arthur Pendragon. They are loyal to you.”

Arthur’s sword arm wavered. He hadn’t expected that answer, and before he could respond, Cian placed a hand on his wrist. His sword wrist. Arthur flinched, nearly stabbing the Druid on instinct, but Cian’s blue eyes—focused now—met his gaze.

“You are an anomaly, Arthur Pendragon,” the Druid said, and his voice had adopted a wispy, almost looney tone. “It does not take magic to see it. But the longer you hide your face from the hard truths, the harder they will slap you… if they haven’t already.” 

He spoke that last part so only Arthur could hear, and as he did, his gaze flickered away—looking over Arthur’s shoulder. To Merlin?

Arthur didn’t turn to find out. He clenched his jaw, ripping his arm out of Cian’s grasp and securing his sword. “Enough!” he seethed. “You talk of loyalty, and I am loyal to my father. The king of Camelot demands answers. I suggest you give them, or I will be left with no choice.”

Cian’s intensity faded. He stepped back, his shoulders slumping like his age had caught up with him. “Then I suppose you are left with no choice. I’m afraid we cannot help you.”

Arthur’s lip quivered, but he threw his sword back to strike all the same. He slowed the action, giving Merlin time to process his decision. He had no wish to hurt the Druids, no wish to carry out his father's orders, but for the sake of Merlin's trial, the threat of that had to be imminent.

And thus, Arthur spoke the words he’d crafted specifically for the sorcerer’s second test. “So be it.”

Arthur took his swing, waiting for the outcry he knew would come.

And came it did.

“Arthur! Arthur, wait!”

Chapter Text

Arthur’s sword swung to a halt inches before Merlin’s Adam’s apple.

The reality of the image felt like a nightmare come true. Merlin’s blue eyes, locked with Arthur’s, made it all much worse than anything that had come before.

He hated every bit of his inevitable reaction. He hated his heart for racing. He hated his lungs for feeling breathless. He hated his mind for still registering the sharp sting of betrayal. He’d expected this—calculated it—but part of him wondered if Merlin would be more passive. Reluctant, when it came to it.

It was a foolish thought from the beginning. Merlin was never passive.

Arthur’s steely expression was not an act. “Out of my way, Merlin,” he said. He delivered the words like a command, but he didn’t expect them to be obeyed. 

They weren’t. Merlin didn’t move. His chest was heaving—struggling for air after he’d thrown himself between Arthur and the Druid. His arms were spread in a defencive motion, and his wild expression conveyed a conviction Arthur hated more than anything. It was a decision rooted against Camelot, and Arthur could only imagine how Merlin truly viewed his kingdom. 

“You know this isn’t right, Arthur,” Merlin managed. He was still short of breath, but Arthur despised how genuine he sounded. Once again, he found himself reminded how this would be far easier if it was anyone but Merlin. “I saw it. I saw it in your face this morning. You don’t want this. At the very least, it’s a betrayal to Gaius and his trust.”

“Gaius shouldn’t be protecting sorcerers,” Arthur reminded him. He still hadn’t lowered his sword. He wasn’t going to. He wanted Merlin to feel the cold touch of his blade.

“I know, but Gaius is the only one who can talk reason into Uther where magic is involved.” Merlin’s eyes sparkled with intensity, and for the first time since Arthur had met him, the other man became an open book to him. A struggle raged in his blue eyes—not a new one, but one Arthur could now read. There was pain simmering there, and a desperation Arthur hadn’t expected. “This is your call, Arthur. Not your father’s.”

Arthur swallowed. Merlin was right on one account. It was his call... for now.

“My call, is it?” 

He said it so quietly, he wondered for a moment if Merlin had heard, but he had. The sorcerer’s confidence faltered. Confusion crept into his expression. He clearly hadn’t expected that answer. “Well, isn’t it?” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” Slowly, Arthur retracted his sword from Merlin’s throat. He faced the point to the ground and brought it down hard, wedging the tip amongst the pebbles with a loud chink. His gaze lingered on Merlin’s befuddled expression, giving the sorcerer a second to process before turning to Cian.

He prayed the Archdruid wouldn’t spy any of his true emotions. He couldn’t afford that. Merlin was failing his second trial, but Arthur had predicted as much. Fortunately, it was not yet over. 

“Well, Cian,” Arthur began, snidely stressing the Druid’s name and also drawing on any sort of regality he had left. It was time for a little bit of theatrics. “You don’t seem to think much of noble-borns, or our loyalties. Fine. I respect that. You want someone more like you, and today, you’re very much in luck. I happen to have a non-noble for you.”

He gestured to Merlin at this, who had lost much of his initial gusto and was standing awkwardly between them, his buckled boots unbalanced on the rocks. He opened his mouth—probably to protest—but Arthur pushed on before he could. “Merlin was born near here,” he explained. “A place called Ealdor. Simple place. Farming community. He has his mother, no father. I currently employ him as my manservant. Is that common enough for you?”

The Archdruid cocked his head. His pale eyes, slightly narrowed, studied Arthur, as if not sure what to think of him now. He also did not seem to have expected this turn of events. 

Good. Arthur kept his expression frozen, unreadable. If the Druid surmised this was premeditated, Arthur had no idea what direction this would go.

But to his relief, Cian nodded. “I suppose," the Druid relented. "Although I don't see why it matters.”

Arthur smiled a little. Despite himself, he was enjoying this. “You will,” he said, and with that, he pulled his sword out of the ground and chucked it at Merlin.

Merlin, to Arthur’s little surprise, fumbled it. The steel clattered to the cavern floor, the sound reverberating throughout the chamber. “What’re you—” Merlin sputtered, struggling to maintain his balance. He dropped to the cavern floor, retrieving the blade and squinting up at Arthur in the half-light, but Arthur ignored his confusion. 

“I was thinking about our little conversation earlier, Merlin,” Arthur began, speaking to everyone in volume and not really looking at the manservant. Instead, he focused his attention on undoing the large clasp on his cape—two metal circles that only a royal’s cape displayed. In one fluid motion, he pulled it off and stepped forward. Then, he dramatically draped the red fabric over his servant’s scrawny shoulders like he'd done to countless young knights over the years. 

“There,” he declared, clapping Merlin on the shoulder like his father had done to him many, many times over the course of his life. Transferring the burden of responsibility. He stared at Merlin pointedly for a moment, showing the servant he was not at all kidding before turning back to the Archdruid. 

“Earlier today, Merlin told me he believes his humble servant opinion does not matter,” Arthur said, speaking with flair as he hopped down several large stones, pacing regally before the Druids. “He believes only the thoughts of the prince should count in important political situations. But Cian! You seem to disagree.”

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice wobbled as he straightened, holding the sword incorrectly. Arthur’s bright-red cape nearly swallowed him. “Arthur, that’s not what I meant when I said—”

“And fair is fair,” Arthur pushed on, speaking over Merlin’s panic. “I’ve decided it’s Merlin’s call now. As of this moment, I transfer all my royal authority over to him. The decision is his and his alone.”

With that declared, Arthur twisted away from Cian and graced Merlin with a mocking bow. He straightened from the motion very slowly, giving everyone present time to understand the implications of this decision. As expected, muttering quickly broke out amongst the Druids and the knights alike.

Arthur didn’t care about their reactions. He only cared about one person. “So, tell me...” he said, studying every semblance of fear growing in Merlin’s traitor face. “What are we to do, Common Man Merlin? Kill some Druids, and capture the rest? Or disobey the king and return empty handed? The choice is entirely yours.”

It was fascinating, really, to watch all the colour drain from Merlin’s already pale cheeks. “Arthur, I—we—” the sorcerer garbled, Arthur’s sword clinking against the stones as he almost dropped it. “You can’t—I-I can’t—”

His words failed him, and he swirled to Cian, obviously begging the old Druid to object. But, as Arthur had hoped, the sorcerer didn’t appear angry. If anything, he appeared properly surprised.

His major deed done, Arthur used this opportunity to fade into the background. He pulled back to his knights, effectively abandoning Merlin in the centre of the cave. What happened next was up to him. The stage had been set. It was time for the actors to dance. 

The manservant's lack of words hung heavy in the air. Cian, too, appeared thrown for a loop. For once, both sorcerers seemed unsure of what to say. Good.

Did Cian expect Merlin to protect him? Arthur couldn’t help but wonder. After all, Arthur wasn’t entirely sure Merlin would. It appeared the secret sorcerer had never truly sided with anyone. Not wholly. And he wouldn’t, not until Arthur made him. Merlin could not live between a rock and a hard place forever. 

The sorcerer had passed so far. Made it to Arthur's second trial. But now it was time for him to finally pick a side.

Cian was the first to come to a conclusion. He chuckled, and the sound confirmed Arthur’s suspicion. He was, to some degree, confident that Merlin would choose the Druids’ safety over Camelot’s law. And perhaps he was correct. 

Or perhaps he was dangerously wrong.

“Well,” Cian murmured. “So be it.” He laced his hands behind his back and bowed his head in Merlin’s direction. “Manservant Merlin, it appears our fate rests in your hands. What, pray tell, is your verdict?”

Arthur clutched the boulder beside him, watching Merlin intently. He hated to admit it, but part of him feared what came next. 

But, to his relief, as Arthur watched Merlin's face, the man he understood shone through. Terror quickly replaced his confidence. His posture loosened, growing hunched within Arthur’s cloak and from the weight of a sword he did not wish to yield. Gone from his eyes was the stony-faced wizard who had summoned a dragon and turned on Arthur in Camelot’s woods. Gone for now, at least. 

Arthur relaxed somewhat. It was a comfort to him that the humble side of Merlin was not all an act. Despite his magic, Merlin was no leader. Arthur had been faced with the burden of leadership long enough to recognise someone caving under its pressure. It only took seconds for Merlin to crumble, proving he was partly what Arthur had always thought him to be: a reactionary. Merlin was uncertain until conflict smacked him in the face. He was not the kind of man who would ever lust for the throne of any kingdom.

This was good. But it was also bad. Good because it meant Merlin wasn’t the ambitious, cold-hearted, and terrifying leader his father feared would one day rise up against Camelot. 

Bad because it meant Merlin was, to some extent, still the person Arthur had come to care for and trust. And Arthur still didn’t know what to do about that.

Merlin made a noise that sounded like a cross between a distressed sigh and a wounded gasp. “Can... can I think about it for a moment?” 

He addressed the question at Arthur, but Arthur merely shrugged. He gestured to Cian. “Up to him.”

Cian scrutinised Arthur at this, but Arthur had no trouble keeping his face a passive mask. He was growing rather good at it.

Desperation swam in Merlin’s features. He swiveled back to the Druid.

“Think on it,” Cian answered. His expression softened as he addressed Merlin, his tone growing smooth and soothing. It made Arthur’s skin crawl. “Discuss. I appreciate a man who does not act rashly.”

Merlin’s sigh of relief shook his whole body. Still loosely clutching Arthur’s sword, he hightailed it out of the cave with the red cape billowing behind him. Arthur pushed off his boulder to follow, but lingered.

Cian’s calm stare dissipated when Merlin fled. His now-frosty gaze settled on Arthur with disapproval. “For once, I don’t know what you are playing at, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “And does that bother you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hm.” Arthur smirked just a little before turning and exiting the cave.

                                                                                                         ~O~

Merlin was busy pacing the top edge of the slope outside when Arthur emerged, dragging Arthur's good sword carelessly in the mud behind him. “What was that?” he exploded as Arthur moved out of the cave shadows. He brandished the blade in Arthur’s direction, sending flecks of mud everywhere. “What is this?”

He gestured to Arthur’s cape at this, and Arthur sighed. He was not looking forward to this part. In their last one-on-one conversation, Arthur had been very open with Merlin. This time, he could not be. This time, he was bolstering a lie—a situation Merlin could not know was of Arthur’s making.

With a deep breath, he stalked angrily up the slope. 

“Don’t look at me,” he snapped, ripping his weapon back from Merlin’s hands. He pointed the tip between Merlin’s eyes, but quickly lowered it. “You were the one jumping in front of my sword.”

Merlin’s face hardened. “We gain no information by slaughtering them.”

“I disagree. We gain a lot if we take a few captives.”

“Captives your father will eventually execute!”

“Maybe, but orders are orders, Merlin.”

“And your orders are to kill peaceful people—people who aren’t even living on Camelot’s land." Merlin’s eyes were wide and wild with panic, and Arthur was strangely mesmerised by the thoughts whirling behind them. After all, Arthur was threatening his kin, and he was making Merlin an active participant in it. “This—we are on Cenred’s land. This could start a war, Arthur.”

“It could,” Arthur agreed. “But they are harbouring information that may outweigh that risk. They didn’t listen to our demands, and we warned them.”

“But what if Oliver lied?" Merlin looked like he was on brink of crying. "What if they really don’t know anything? What if—what if he’s gone to Cenred, and his men are on their way? Then what?”

“Then we’ll have to deal with it.” Arthur sighed, and his fatigue was not an act. “Merlin, as crown prince, I cannot just abstain from difficult situations. I try to think them through, but at the end of the day, a call needs to be made—and quickly. For better or worse, that decision is yours now.”

And with that, he tried to turn and leave, but Merlin made a sound like a strangled crow. “Arthur!”

“What?” Arthur roared, swiveling back to face him. Even his own anger surprised him. “I made my decision, Merlin! You stopped me from carrying it out. You decided on that. You made me look weak, and I had to act. Clearly, these sorcerers think nothing of me and my knights, but they seem to care about common folk, and you’re the only one I have on hand. I made a split second decision. Maybe you—I don’t know. Maybe you can get something out of them I can’t.”

Merlin’s lower lip trembled. He shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Well, then you have your answer, don't you?" Arthur hated how harsh he sounded, but it was necessary. "It’s your verdict, Merlin. Try, or don’t try. It doesn’t matter to me. Not as long as we return to Camelot with something. Emrys needs to be found, and Camelot’s safety matters the most.”

“You can’t be serious.” Merlin’s voice cracked. “You can’t—you can’t seriously be putting this up to me.”

Arthur rubbed at his eyes. “Look, Merlin, I don’t like it any more than you do. But I made my choice. I’m not backing out now. That will look even worse, but please, take you time!” His tone, which had bordered on sarcasm, now leaned into it fully. “It’s not like the longer we stay here, the more chance we have of being murdered by Cenred’s men!”

In the hour since they’d arrived at the cave, Merlin’s expression had gone from convicted to terrified to shattered. His shoulders slumped as he crouched on the slope, slowly sitting down on the edge. “Why can’t we just leave?” he asked, his voice almost at a whisper. “We could just… go. Uther doesn’t have to know we spared them.”

Arthur gave Merlin a weak smile. Wouldn’t it be nice if it were that simple?  “The knights are here, Merlin,” he reminded. “I am their future king. I must be seen to uphold the law, but you… I suppose you can do whatever you want. If you want to run away, go. I won’t stop you.” 

And with that, Arthur turned on his heel and slid down the slope, stalking back into the cave. He drew a rattling breath as the moonlight faded behind him, stopping for a second in the darkness of the cave entrance to recollect himself. 

Well, he’d done it. Administered the trial. It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it playing out, but it had worked more or less the same. Merlin would be forced to make his choice between a group of sorcerers that trusted him and the clear commands of Camelot's king. 

Now all that remained was the fallout.

Chapter Text

Silence greeted Arthur as he returned to the cave. The Druids had retreated farther since he’d left, most of them pushing their backs against the cavern wall. All of the knights had drawn their swords, keeping them hovering at the ready. Cian was the only one that remained where Arthur had left him, standing tall like a wise, wizened statue in the middle of the cave. His fingers lay laced before him, his pale eyes watching Arthur’s every movement.

He didn’t speak, so Arthur didn’t either, resigning himself to perching on his chosen boulder while he awaited Merlin’s return.

If Merlin returned.

The thought shouldn’t bother him. After all, in Arthur’s best case scenario here, Merlin would never set foot in Camelot again. However, logic didn’t seem to prevent a smidge of sadness from striking him. The thought of never seeing Merlin again wasn’t one he’d had time to process.

Luckily, he didn’t have to confront that reality yet. Merlin had not fled.

Cian must’ve seen him first, because his attention shifted from Arthur to the cave entrance. Arthur turned to look too, spinning just in time to see the forlorn servant-sorcerer trudging back. Arthur’s cape lay neatly folded in his arms. Everyone present, Druid and knight alike, watched silently as Merlin made his way across the uneven rocks to the centre of the cave, poised between Arthur and Cian once more.

The servant placed Arthur’s cape down gently on one of the boulders before straightening to face the Archdruid. “Thank you for the time to think,” he said. His voice was quiet. A little beaten down. He hated himself for it, but Arthur couldn’t help but feel bad.

Cian acknowledged Merlin’s thanks with a simple nod. His stance remained stoic, but Arthur could detect a bit of uncertainty in his expression now. 

Maybe Merlin did, too. His expression radiated sadness, and he wrung his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. 

“So, erm, while I was thinking,” Merlin began, and Arthur sat up a bit straighter. “I thought about my home. Ealdor. It’s not far from here, as Arthur said, and within Cenred’s kingdom. I—I guess what I thought is, I know what it’s like to live in fear.”

He took a deep breath, and Arthur cocked his head, unsure what Merlin was getting at. 

“Cenred didn’t—doesn’t—care much about his outlying communities, let alone the small farming ones,” Merlin continued. “My community didn’t feel we had much protection, as when attacks did come, our cries fell on deaf ears. We were often too scared to report anything. Living with fear… it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? It becomes a part of you, whether you want it to or not, and sometimes it feels like there is no other option than lying down, giving up, and dying.”

He paused, and as he did, a cold realisation washed over Arthur. 

Merlin wasn’t talking about living in Ealdor. 

“It took me a long time to no longer jump to that option. Just lying down. Giving up. Dying.” Merlin began to pace, and the noise of his boots on the stones marked the only sound in the space. “It took a father figure and finding something worth living for to knock me out of it, and I’m not sure if that’s something I can give to you.” 

He gestured to the assembly of Druids at this, before pausing once more, as if unsure if he should keep going. “After all, you are right that Uther had no intentions of giving you the haven he promised,” he admitted, and Arthur winced. That bordered on treason. “Uther sent us in Gaius’ name, but Gaius himself never gave him that blessing.”

Merlin crossed his arms tightly, almost hugging himself before looking back up at Cian. “But despite that, I can’t help but hope such lies can be forever in the past. Maybe it’s unrealistic to imagine peace can be achieved, but I can’t help but dream about it every day anyway. I hope that one day soon a king will offer a true haven.”

He gestured to Arthur at this and Arthur didn’t have time to process the motion before Merlin pushed on. “I hope that one day your secrets won’t need to be kept. But that day will never come if someone doesn’t take the first step towards a better future.”

He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, and Cian smiled weakly. “A touching story, and a wonderful sentiment, Merlin,” he said. “And while I appreciate your hopes, I do not know if it can be applied today.”

“And why not?” Merlin insisted. Even in the dim light, Arthur could see tears growing in his eyes. “The Druids place peace before violence, when possible. Arthur only wants to protect Camelot. You feel the need to protect this… powerful sorcerer Uther is hunting. I suppose my question is why? What has he done to deserve that loyalty? What hope do you have in him that you’re willing to die for him?”

With each word, Merlin’s voice grew more shrill and Arthur’s understanding of him grew more painfully clear. His thoughts swarmed, trying to categorise everything he was hearing, and he suddenly realised what Merlin was saying—what he was actually on about.

Merlin wasn’t anguished over Arthur’s threat. What he was anguished over was the Druids’ willingness to lay down their lives to keep his secret. Because why were they protecting it? And was it really worth dying for?

It was ironic, as these were questions Arthur had asked as well. What he hadn’t counted on was Merlin’s perspective on them. After all, every knight in Camelot’s army was willing to die for Arthur. It was an uncomfortable thing to know, but it was a reality he had grown used to. Clearly, Merlin was neither comfortable nor accustomed to that sort of fealty. 

And it also spoke of Merlin’s character. Truly, it was a comfort to Arthur to see Merlin did not crave power. If he did, he would be pleased by all this. In that fact, Arthur took heart.

“Knowledge comes with a price,” Cian was saying, and Arthur crossed his arms, focusing back in on the conversation. “In the wrong hands, it can do far more damage than the sword. Prophecy is the most dangerous kind of knowledge. Some outcomes are inevitable, but how they come to pass can be manipulated.”

The Druid heaved a sigh. “There are many prophecies about the sorcerer Emrys,” he admitted, and Arthur flinched at the mention of the name. He hadn’t told it to Cian. Neither had Merlin. “Many writings that Emrys himself does not—and should not—know. Not yet. However, all the prophecies would do great harm in the hands of Uther Pendragon. He will not understand them, and he will not try to.”

“And why is that?” Merlin asked. His voice had grown soft now, the shrillness gone. It occurred to Arthur that Cian had just told Merlin new information. Prophecies—many prophecies—written about him. 

Prophecies he didn’t know.

Cian pursed his lips, clearly debating whether he wished to say more. Arthur sat forward, awaiting his decision with bated breath. He hadn’t really thought Merlin would get anything out of the old Druid. 

For once, he enjoyed being wrong.

“Emrys represents everything Uther fears,” Cian said finally. “Peace with magic users. Reconciliation. All you have said you hope for. But if it comes about, it will not be on Uther’s terms. There are many ways these prophecies can run their course, and several of them end with an Albion where my secrets are not needed and our safety is not a lie.”

A smile had wormed its way onto Cian’s lips—one of wonder and hope. It was not lost on Arthur, but it quickly faded. 

“There is not, however, any option where this future is achieved without magic,” the Druid continued. “And that is why Uther will cast it—and the good it allows—aside. Worse, he will try to prevent it.”

The Archdruid took a pointed step toward Merlin, and Arthur noticed the servant did not flinch. “You ask what this great sorcerer has done to deserve our loyalty,” Cian declared, and his expression turned scary in the flickering firelight. “Allow me to answer that with another question. What has this prince done to deserve yours?”

He gestured to Arthur at this, and Arthur’s eyes widened, unprepared for the attack—and certainly unprepared for Merlin to look at him. Their eyes met for half a second, both men processing different things before Merlin grimaced, turning back to Cian.

“Hope and loyalty are close friends,” Cian continued before Merlin could answer. “We are loyal to Emrys in the hopes of what he may achieve, just as you are loyal to a man you hope will be a good king. Let us hope neither of our loyalties are misplaced.”

Something had changed in Cian’s tone. His words now sounded suspiciously like a threat. Arthur didn’t think he was imagining it, and Merlin looked more uncomfortable than ever. 

He had been called out. That much Arthur knew, his brain struggling once again to translate what Cian was really saying. You know why we are willing to die to protect you and your secret? Because we believe you will help us, just like you believe this prince will help you. Let’s hope we aren’t both misled. If so, the outcome may not be pleasant.

A grim thought. Arthur could see Merlin’s laboured breathing. “That traveller,” Merlin blurted, and Arthur frowned at the mention. “Oliver. He came to us and said you believed Emrys to be in Camelot. Do you still believe him to be there today?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure why Merlin would ask such a question.

Cian tilted his head, his narrowed eyes a mirror of Arthur’s confusion. “I am not sure what you mean by that. Are you asking do I believe he is there now?” 

“Yes,” Merlin confirmed. “We were told Emrys was in Camelot, but is he still there? Is he aware we are looking for him?”

Cian paused, clearly still deciding how to respond, but after a second, the corners of his mouth lifted somewhat—almost like a smirk. “I do believe Emrys knows of your hunt,” he informed. “What he thinks of it, I cannot say, but to the best of my knowledge, Emrys has left your kingdom. You can rest easy in that knowledge. In fact, I have been told he is travelling back in the direction of his natural home, occupying someplace within Essetir. Whether he is fleeing or pursuing some other goal, I could not tell you, although I doubt Cenred would welcome an investigation.”

Natural home… Travelled back… It took Arthur a moment. It took him far too long to realise just what smart little trick Merlin was playing, and when he did, he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

Yes, technically Emrys had left Camelot. Technically he’d gone to Cenred’s kingdom, and technically Cenred’s lands were his natural home. Technically Cian had been told as such—and just now, by Arthur himself.

How very clever.

Merlin laced his hands behind his back, his posture straightening. A bit of confidence seemed to have returned to him, emboldened by his own quick thinking. “The safety of Camelot is our only concern,” he said, and Arthur cringed. For some reason is bothered him to hear Merlin say it. “You know for sure Emrys has left Camelot? And you don’t believe he meant the kingdom harm?”

“I can confirm Emrys has travelled on,” Cian confirmed, and he did seem to be smiling a little. “And I do believe he had no intention of spreading panic amongst your kingdom. If anything, it’s the enemies of Camelot that should continue to fear Emrys. He is more their enemy than yours.”

Merlin’s confidence faltered a little. He opened his mouth to respond, but Arthur beat him to it. “And why is that?” 

Cian turned his attention to him, and Arthur couldn’t quite decipher the look on the sorcerer’s face. Something between weariness and resignation. “I think you’ll find that Emrys has silenced many enemies of Camelot’s crown,” Cian explained, and at his words, Arthur’s blood ran cold. “If he hadn’t, I don’t believe you would be standing here today.”

Arthur pushed off his boulder with force. Something like fear rocketed through him. Fear mixed with outrage. “What are you saying, exactly? He’s been killing Camelot’s enemies? Assassinating them?”

Cian pursed his lips. “Quite the contrary. I am saying he has been protecting you from assassination. You, and your father. By all accounts, you should have perished some time ago, Arthur Pendragon. You have Emrys to thank for your head.”

Something else bubbled within him. Something not unlike the outrage or the shock, but worse. Disgust. He felt objectified. Of course. Of course that’s how the sorcerers would frame it. Protection of their interest. He was like a delicate vase to them. A priceless chess piece. An object. 

Merlin looked extremely uncomfortable at the turn in conversation. He glanced at Arthur, who struggled to remain a face of impassivity in the face of what Cian was saying. It was a lot to digest, and it left Arthur with a new question.

How many people had Merlin killed?

He drew his sword. He did so without thought, but it prompted his knights into motion, forming ranks. Snatching his cape off the boulder, he stalked up beside Merlin and squared up with the Archdruid. He knew he was breaking the set up of his own trial, but he suddenly didn’t much care.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me who Emrys has killed in my name. And tell me the prophecies about him.”

Beside him, Merlin inhaled sharply, but Cian just laughed. “You speak of prophecies I am keeping from Emrys himself, Arthur Pendragon! Do you really think I will just impart them all to you? I am deeply sorry, but I would rather die.”

“That option is not off the table,” Arthur growled, but Merlin caught his arm, pulling him back. Arthur hadn’t even realised he’d stepped forward, his sword point an arm's length from Cian’s chest.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin hissed, and Arthur hated having to look at him. His blue eyes had regained intensity and focus. “Your father sent us here to find out about Emrys’ whereabouts and learn of his aims. If he’s gone, if he doesn’t wish to attack Camelot, then we have the answer we came for. We’ve obeyed orders. We’re done here.”

“No, we’re not,” Arthur snapped, and he ripped his arm out of Merlin’s grasp, turning his fury back onto Cian. “I wish to know these prophecies. Especially if they concern me. Do you not think I have the right to know them if they speak of me? Or my kingdom?”

He took another step toward the Druid, leveling his sword with Cian’s heart, but Merlin stopped him short. “Prophecies are magic, Arthur!” he reminded, and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. “You’ve said it yourself, we can’t trust magic. What’s stopping this sorcerer from telling you a string of lies and leading you to your death? If you listen to his prophecy, you are trusting in him and his magic first and foremost. And what would your father say to that?”

He said it forcefully, almost like a reprimand, and Arthur looked back at him. He stared at this sorcerer, his friend, long and hard. Despite everything, despite all he had learned about Merlin’s true nature, he was once again stunned by the sorcerer’s words. All this business with “technically, Emrys has left Camelot,” and now expertly turning Arthur’s own convictions against him. 

It was ridiculous. Ridiculous because he was right. Arthur didn’t believe he could trust magic. Certainly his father didn’t. And as much as Arthur yearned to know what the Druids believed about him and his future—and about where Merlin lay within all that—he could not trust any narrative given to him by a magic spell. Not publically. Not today.

Clever, clever, clever. It was a word Arthur had never attributed to Merlin, but he was forced to assign it to him now. Merlin was annoyingly and frustratingly clever—somehow managing to wiggle his way out of Arthur’s impossible trial. He hadn’t chosen. He’d protected the Druids without sacrificing the tenets of Camelot’s anti-magic laws, and he had acquired what Arthur had been sent to collect—information on Emrys. In the end, Merlin had gained enough reconnaissance to bring back to the king and put his mind at rest. The hunt for Emrys would end.

It was incredible, really, to look at his not-so-idiot servant and realise how this was his life. Wording things delicately. Finding the loopholes. Struggling to reconcile his heritage with his lifestyle. It must be terrible. Frustrating, and tiresome. The pain Arthur had seen shining in Merlin’s eyes earlier was still there, simmering below the surface—although now the sorcerer mostly expressed concern. Concern for Arthur. Fear for the Druids. He really did mean well, didn’t he? It felt wrong to think it, but Arthur did think Merlin meant well. 

It seemed insane, but then again, the truth often was. Trial two’s verdict was very clear. Merlin, for better or for worse, had passed. Only one trial left to go.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a big breath, trying fruitlessly to wrangle the hurt, the anger, and the frustration he possessed. He felt like a deer in the path of a hunter’s crossbow, but he’d acted out of anger too many times before. It never ended well. He needed to control himself. Now was not the time to pursue potentially useless prophecies.

“You are positive Emyrs has left Camelot?” he demanded of Cian, trying his best to keep his tone civil.

Cian nodded solemnly. “I am.”

“Good. Fine. Fine.” Arthur hated how breathless he sounded. He felt tears forming, but he pushed them back. He was losing all composure and he needed to end this. “And will he stay away?”

“That I cannot say. However, if you believe in my foreknowledge at all, your kingdom has nothing to worry about from this particular sorcerer. You have plenty of other enemies to worry about instead.”

“How very comforting.” Arthur couldn’t keep a hint of contempt out of his voice, but he slowly lowered his sword. Glaring at Cian, he realised what he hated about the Druid. The old man seemed to stare right into his soul with a knowing smiling, sensing his true thoughts and feelings. Perhaps he could sense them, and Arthur didn’t like the thought of anyone wielding that kind of power. 

He took a step back. “In exchange for your life, then, I have one condition,” he decided, and he swung his sword in a loop just to see if Cian would flinch. He didn’t. “If you meet Emrys again, you must assure he stays away from Camelot. If he does return, or if he tries to do my kingdom any harm, he will pay for it with his life and so will you. Do you understand?”

Something shifted in Cian’s eyes, but he nodded. “I understand.”

“Wonderful,” Arthur said listlessly. He sheathed his sword with a reverberating shinck, and behind him, he heard his knights do the same. “Then we will take our leave in peace.”

“Glad we could be of use, Arthur,” Cian drawled with a smile, and his dry sarcasm was not lost on Arthur. That, and that for the first time he’d referred to Arthur by only his first name. As if they were equals.

Exhausted and frustrated, Arthur ignored the jab. He swivelled on his heel and drew his cape around his shoulders, storming out of the cave. Merlin scrambled to follow, but Arthur didn’t acknowledge him, focusing on his exit. He just wanted to return home and crawl into bed. He had too much to think about, and for every question answered he had gained several more. Prophecies the Druids refused to part with. Some prophecies Merlin knew, some prophecies he was barred from knowing, and all of which Cian refused to reveal.

All this, and also a new thought to chew on. Merlin was quite a killer, apparently, and Arthur didn’t know what to make of that—let alone know what to do about it. An assassin in the night, using his magic to kill Arthur’s enemies? Or something far worse? What was Cian implying?

It was a lot to process, but before he could think on it further, he heard the splash of running feet behind him, crashing through the shallow creek of the cave.

He whirled around, hands on the hilt of his sword, but only to see the little Druid boy from earlier ducking under Merlin’s startled arm, his big blue eyes wide and innocent. “I’ll be praying for you!” he cried, giving Arthur a wide grin and showing off several missing teeth. In his chubby little hands swung a metal necklace of some kind, and Arthur stared at it, fixated, while the pendant twirled and glinted in the moonlight. The circular centre presented curved symbols Arthur didn’t recognise. “I hope you find peace and forgiveness!”

And with that, the Druid boy bounced back and ducked behind Merlin once more, disappearing into the cave darkness as quickly as he’d come—leaving Arthur frozen.

He stared. Stared unseeingly into the blackness of the cave where the Druid boy’s ragged brown cloak had vanished. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, standing and staring like a madman before Merlin moved into his line of sight.

“Are you okay?” the servant whispered, reaching for his arm, and Arthur swallowed, shaking himself out of it. He dodged Merlin’s touch, turning away and burying himself in his cape.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, stalking up the muddy slope with heavy footfalls. He’d never felt more tired and empty.

Today, his only prayer was for this waking nightmare to be over.

Chapter Text

Setting up camp within Cenred’s lands was not an option, as much as Arthur wanted to lose consciousness for a while. After dealing with the likes of Cian, he’d developed a throbbing headache and was now faced with the sobering reality of nightfall in enemy territory. Their little party couldn’t afford to make camp—not when it would mean war with Cenred if they were discovered. So that meant their mission tonight was getting out of Essetir as quickly and as stealthy as possible.

With this in mind, Arthur decided to order only a single torch lit and complete silence until they reached Camelot’s border. 

If he was being honest with himself, the silence was partially a logical command and partially a selfish one. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all to Merlin, who was hanging back in the group and probably more than a little upset about what he’d just been put through. That was more than fair, but Arthur wasn’t prepared to defend his choices at the moment. With two trials completed, he needed time to think. Think and plan. 

This was much easier said than done. From the moment they’d left the cave, a creeping tingle had crawled up the back of Arthur’s spine. He couldn’t help but fear Cenred’s army was imminent, about to crash upon them from the dark trees. At a time like this, he couldn’t juggle his knight instincts and the emotional problem that was Merlin all at once. He’d pushed aside his knight sensibilities for the sake of the trials, and now he couldn’t handle both.

But, perhaps he could.

If he combined them. 

Arthur hesitated at the thought. He sat on the idea for some time, turning it over in his head like a decision might be made for him by dithering.

But the decision was all his for the making. As would all of Camelot’s decisions, eventually. 

“Roldan,” Arthur called finally, sitting up straighter on his horse and breaking his ordered silence for the first time in several hours. He questioned his decision the moment he opened his mouth, but what else was new. 

He was relieved to find his voice sounded confident. His call prompted the lead knight to halt and peel off from the pack, lighting a second torch—Sir Roldan, bald and muscular and stoic as always. The rest of the knights slowed, but Arthur signalled for them to continue on. He could feel Merlin’s gaze lingering on him, but Arthur ignored that, pulling back alongside Roldan while the others moved on ahead. 

Roldan was the logical choice for something like this, Arthur decided. Tall and stony faced and having spent nearly the most years in Camelot’s service, Roldan was known to the court as a smart tactician. No-nonsense, and surprisingly stealthy for someone his size. He was the best choice for this plan, if it could even really be called that.   

Roldan stared at Arthur now, holding his newly-lit torch aloft and not about to speak until Arthur gave him permission to do so. His respect for Arthur’s status made fresh guilt crawl through his body like wildfire. Giving orders never grew any easier. It put all the more pressure on him to be worthy of the power he was given by default. And was he acting worthy of it today?

He wasn’t sure. He was never sure. 

“What do you make of it, Roldan?” Arthur asked, keeping his horse as close to the other knight as possible. The enemy trees seemed to close in on them.

Roldan frowned, leaning in, too. “Make of what, sire?”

“Our heading. And Cenred.”

Roldan’s frown deepened, but he nodded slowly. “We’re making good time,” he reported, his voice deep and rolling. It was comforting to Arthur somehow, despite the “but” he knew was coming. “But to be frank, my lord, we risk crossing paths with an Essetir patrol if we don’t reach the border by dawn.”

“Thought as much.” Arthur sighed. The confrontation with Cian and the Druids had taken longer than he’d hoped, as had their journey home. Dawn was only hours out, which probably meant dawn patrols would be dispatching from Cenred’s castle in their direction. Even quicker than that if Merlin was right and that smirking nomad Oliver had sold them out hours ago. 

Arthur truly hoped not. He hated the idea of being double-crossed almost as much as he hated the idea of Merlin being right about something. Not to mention, had it even been worth it? Was Arthur about to risk losing good men for the sake of maybe releasing a sorcerer? He still wasn’t sure if the risks outweighed the benefits. Logically, they didn’t, and it all just made him feel more guilty and irresponsible. 

But it was too late to play hindsight now. Arthur and Roldan were both men of action. And it was high time action was taken. 

“I have a thought, Roldan,” Arthur said, and he tightened his grip on his reins. He wasn’t quite sure if this thought warranted an order, but here he was, voicing it anyway. “A task for you.” 

It was rarely a good thing when any royal said anything like that, but Roldan didn’t seem fazed. “Anything you need, sire.”

Right. Anything. “It’s risky,” Arthur warned. “But I want you to seek out the dawn Essetir patrol. Try to map their heading, or warn us if they are planning an ambush. Cenred may have been alerted to our presence. If we are discovered, it could very well give him cause to invade our lands. Knowing him, he may be looking for just such an excuse.”

Roldan nodded solemnly. “War with Essetir is the last thing Camelot needs,” he agreed, and he unfastened off his cape without prompt. He folded it neatly before offering it up, and it only took Arthur a moment to realise what he meant by the gesture. “If it comes to it, I will make sure Cenred holds no proof I am a Camelot knight. Your father can deny my existence. If you call on my wife and son, I’m positive they’ll do the same. They’ll understand the reason is to protect the kingdom.”

Sometimes nobility was a nice quality. Other times it made guilt weigh on Arthur’s ribcage like a too-tight breastplate. Sacrificial talk was certainly easier when he was the one dumping it on others. 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Arthur responded, but he accepted the cape all the same. “How old is your son now?”

Don’t ask that, his brain chided immediately. 

Roldan smiled at the question. It was one of the few times Arthur had seen him crack one. “Nearly nine. He’s energetic, that one. Spry. He looks up to you. And he’ll make a fine knight one day.”

“And you’ll live to see it,” Arthur promised on reflex, regretting those words even more. There was nothing worse than a promise he couldn’t insure. 

But Roldan knew that. He was already gearing up to go, his usual stoicism replacing his rare smile. “I hope to see you by first light, sire,” he said. “And hopefully with a clear path ahead.”

“Yes, hopefully,” Arthur agreed, and his thoughts whirled. One last fleeting possibility. One he was even less sure of. “Although, Roldan, I have one more assignment for you.”

Roldan nodded. Once again, not fazed. “Whatever you need, sire.”

Arthur paused before continuing. “If it comes to it, and we are ambushed, I don’t want you to fight.”

That actually fazed him. Roldan’s eyes widened. “My lord,” he sputtered. “If talking about my son gave you any—”

“It’s nothing to do with that,” Arthur assured. “I know what you are willing to do. If it comes to battle, I have another job for you. I need…”

He trailed off again, still not sure if this is something to ask. It wasn’t asking for confidence, necessarily. But it was admitting something he had not yet admitted to anyone else.

Roldan waited expectantly. The rest of the knights were significantly up ahead now. 

Arthur chewed on his bottom lip, hesitating for another second more before just blurting it. “If it comes to battle, I want you to watch Merlin. Closely. Very closely.”

Roldan was clearly not expecting that either. He cocked his head. “Merlin?”

Arthur swallowed. “Yes.”

Confusion creased Roldan’s features. Even in the dim torchlight, Arthur could almost see his thoughts running, trying to decipher the reason behind the order. Arthur supposed that was to be expected. Merlin, in theory, shouldn’t even be part of the equation. But if only Roldan knew the true circumstances.

“Of course, sire,” Roldan said regardless, obedient as always. He straightened his posture, looking out at the trees. “Do you suspect him of something? Working for Cenred?”

“Not necessarily,” Arthur evaded. “I… he worries me. In battle. He’s better with a sword than he once was, but he’s not a knight. He probably shouldn’t be on these missions. I just need you to observe him. Observe, and then report back to me. And only me. Is that understood?”

Roldan nodded. “Yes, sire.”

“Good.” Arthur heaved another sigh. He was doing a lot of lying today. It was mentally exhausting. “Right. It’s time I caught up with the others. Godspeed, Sir Roldan.”

He held out his arm, and Roldan grabbed it at the elbow. A farewell as much as a good luck. 

They met each other’s gazes, nodding at each other, and with that, Roldan was off and Arthur was not. He was back to trotting with his silent group of knights. Back to Merlin. And back to a growing sense of guilt and fear.

It was a slight and sudden change of plans. Originally, Arthur had planned to test Merlin when they returned—conducting a potential mock attack on Camelot to see how Merlin would respond. Either way, it was time to bring others into the equation, as much as Arthur wished he could keep this all to himself. He had heard Merlin speak of his secret hopes and dreams. He’d seen Merlin defend both sides of the growing conflict. 

What he hadn’t seen was Merlin in action. Swirling leaves and consorting with dragons was one thing. Combat magic was another. 

Killing was another, and it was only something Merlin would do if he knew Arthur wasn’t watching. This Arthur knew. An ambush by Cenred—much as he did not want it—presented an opportunity he couldn’t resist. Not a mock conflict. A real one. While Merlin would attempt to hide his power from Arthur, he wouldn’t know about Roldan. The faithful knight could observe what Arthur desperately wanted to see and yet deeply dreaded… what Cian claimed Arthur had been blind to all this time. Not a coward Merlin. A warrior Merlin. And it wasn’t so much about him fighting as it was about the way he fought. That’s what Arthur needed to know. 

As much as the possibilities scared him, in this trial he needed to know about the Merlin that existed when his back was turned.

He didn’t like the images his mind was producing. Merlin, in battle, doing magic. He had seen magic used in battle before. It was terrifying. Bodies thrown from invisible winds. Trees come to life. Tidal waves crashing. Knights set on fire. Sorcery could come from any direction—sneakier and more sudden than any strike by a mortal army. Magic in battle was chaotic, forceful, and it was just that—a force, not a tool. Primal. A sorcerer’s anger only made them more chaotically powerful, and there was little precision required. Sometimes, it didn’t even look like they meant to strike. Their power billowed out of them without thought or effort.

In contrast, for a knight, forethought—and precision—was everything. Control over one’s blade could be the difference between life and death. A knight was required to hit the right chink in the armour, to block a fatal strike with the most strategic of angles. Knights, from their first days in training, understood the key words control and predict and strategise. 

Sorcerers, however, did not require the same lessons. And if Merlin was considered more powerful than most...

Arthur highly doubted Merlin was summoning tidal waves on the regular. That would be difficult to miss. But both Cian and the dragon implied Merlin was more than capable of formidable magic, so if not that, what sort of magic was he conducting? Was it possible Merlin did have a sense of control? A powerful sorcerer possessing both precision and restraint? 

Precise and calculated sorcery was not something Arthur had ever encountered, nor considered. As terrifying as that still would be, the thought of it greatly diminished Arthur’s fear of Merlin. A sorcerer with precision could be predicted, and a sorcerer with restraint could be reasoned with. If Merlin had both those things, then maybe, maybe, Arthur could let him go knowing he wasn’t letting off a man too powerful for his own good. After all, that was the problem with magic, wasn’t it? It gave mortal beings something greatly beyond them. They said a few words, moved their hands, and altered the forces of nature. Mass destruction and meddling with the elements wasn’t what Arthur called control, and it certainly didn’t teach restraint or chivalry. 

Perhaps Merlin was different. Perhaps he was the exception. After all, there was an exception to every rule, and Merlin liked being an unsolvable enigma. Arthur could not pigeonhole him, even now.

In a perfect world, there would be no attack. Essetir’s patrol would miss them, Roldan would return to the pack, and they’d carry on to Camelot without incident. From there, Arthur would reevaluate.

But if not, and if Cenred was destined to attack…

Well. Then Merlin’s final trial was upon them.

                                                                                                                        ~O~

Merlin did not like the look on Arthur’s face.

He didn’t know what the prince had said to Roldan, but he didn’t need to. They were still deep in the thicket of Essetir, a good ways from Camelot’s border, and an ambush felt dangerously imminent. They’d spent far too much time in the Druid cave… which was not Merlin’s fault. That was definitely on Arthur. 

He kind of wanted to scream at Arthur for that, but the prince had conveniently ordered silence. 

Then again, Merlin wasn’t sure what he’d actually say anyway. 

The farther they rode on into the trees, the more the events of the cave were beginning to feel like a bad dream. They weren’t, unfortunately, and Cian’s mental warning—his voice cold and almost war-like—kept ringing in Merlin's brain. 

"There is a reckoning upon us, Emrys. One in which I have not foreseen. I can sense it. We all can, and I am not surprised to find you at the centre of it.”

A flash of anger had bubbled to life in Merlin at this. He was already frustrated with the whole blasted situation, so that didn’t help. His mental words back to Cian were more cutting than any words he would have actually spoken. “A traveler came to Camelot,” he accused, his brain flashing images of Oliver coming to court, paired with his ever-present fear of discovery. He wasn’t sure that all transferred to Cian, but he hoped it did. “Bearing my Druid name. Emrys. He said he learnt it from you lot, as well as my whereabouts. So whose fault is it that we’re here?”

“It’s our fault that the moment Uther hears of a possible sorcerer he comes after our peaceful people?”  Cian countered. “My dear Emrys, there is a reason we discuss you. You’ve been discussed long before you were even born. It might pain you to know it, but many of us fear you as much as Uther does. Perhaps it is because we are unsure of where your loyalties truly lie... or, perhaps it is because you don’t know that answer yourself?”

A twisting, sinking feeling had settled in Merlin’s stomach at this question. He’d shut his thoughts off from Cian then, unable to retort. He knew the Druid was right. It was often clear which he should side with, but many times, it was not so clear cut. More times than not, he sided with whatever benefitted Arthur, but he could never shake the feeling that every time he did so he took many more steps back than forwards. Instead of real progress, he kept finding himself in more and more situations like this one, just trying to live another day without much blood on his hands. A few steps back in the hopes of one big leap forwards. One day.

He hadn’t reopened dialogue with Cian telepathically past that small exchange. He was satisfied that Cian had picked up on the double meaning woven into his speech, and he was relieved to have wiggled himself out of that particular hot spot… sort of. Perhaps relieved wasn’t the right word. Was he relieved?

Not really. Merlin had a bad feeling it was only a matter of time before another hot spot presented itself. That, and Cian had chosen to leave him with a few mental parting words that chilled him to the bone. 

“Be careful with your next steps, Emrys. Every move you make creates ripples that every sorcerer in Albion can and will feel. Don’t forget that.”

Right. Of course. His next, oh-so-important steps. Merlin almost laughed at the warning. He had no idea what his next steps were going to be. Hopefully, they were to trek back into Camelot and launch himself into bed for a long nap. But, by even thinking that, he probably ensured it wasn’t going to happen. It seemed that was how destiny liked to play its little game: putting him in the saddle while yanking away the reins. Sometimes Merlin loved magic. Other times, he really didn’t. 

Why didn’t destiny give Arthur magic? That was a thought Merlin couldn’t help but consider at times such as this, bouncing around and brooding in his uncomfortable saddle after hours of riding. It was too bizarre to actually entertain, but he did wonder. Wouldn’t that have been easier? Then it would be Arthur having to wrestle with his identity—to choose between two extremes. To struggle with secrecy. Merlin could just be a spectator. A helpful voice now and again. Wouldn’t that be nice?

But a stronger part of him balked at the idea. Who would he be, without his magic? Without this warmth that swirled within every inch of his body—an energy he was always latently aware of? A peculiar knowledge of the earth, the sea, the sky he couldn’t put to words. A Merlin without that would have no destiny, no reason to move to Camelot. A Merlin without that was a nobody, and more than content to farm in Ealdor for the rest of his short life. 

A Merlin without magic was just Merlin. No Emrys. No mystery. No adventure. 

Merlin couldn’t quite bring himself to want that. So, what he supposed he wanted was to have magic but also have no responsibility but also have Arthur at his side and also peace between Camelot and all sorcerers.

While he was coming up with unrealistic expectations, he might as well throw in a unicorn as a replacement for his current horse. With his limited knowledge of magical creatures, he figured a unicorn would be a bit more considerate and not try to eat a bush every five minutes. 

In the end, he just wanted a nap. Just one. A long nap and all his worries to go on hiatus for a few hours. Or maybe just one day off work? Just one? Was that so much to ask?

Apparently. 

“ARTHUR!”

The warning cry pierced the trees, shrill and loud but unmistakably Roldan. Merlin couldn’t see him, but he quickly caught on to the clamour of hooves in the distance. Not a happy sound.

An ambush by Cenred. Exactly as they’d feared. 

Clutching his horse’s mane, a familiar stroke of fear coursed through Merlin at the sound of enemy swords unsheathing. The Camelot knights reacted in turn, drawing their own swords with their faces steely, ready to engage.

Merlin reacted too, but he ignored his sword completely, opting to push out of his saddle and drop onto the crunchy leaves of the forest ground. He kept himself low. 

That was lucky. An arrow flew over him a minute later. Adrenaline shot through his body as battle cries pierced the air, followed by a mob of darkly-clad Essetir knights descending on them from the thicket. A swarm of angry, bloodthirsty men with weapons drawn. Some on horseback, some on foot, and far too many to be a normal patrol.

Great. Merlin’s hands curled into fists as he attempted to calculate the enemy numbers, mentally cursing that stupid, cocky traveler for creating this terrible situation in the first place. Fate really despised his existence, didn’t it? Whispering his secrets to the wrong people and placing him in the middle of yet another ambush. He’d seen his fair share by now. He couldn’t even say he was surprised by the attack. Could it really be called an ambush if you were already dreading it? 

And with every attack, there was only one thing to be done. For not the first time, Merlin retreated from the battle into the trees. 

He had almost developed a routine. Once the chaos of fighting ensued, step one: recede, and step two: eyes on the prize—Arthur, and keeping him decidedly not skewered. 

Easier said than done. Arthur had predictably thrown himself into the middle of the fight, sword first. He was deft with it, a seasoned professional, but there were three times as many Essetir knights as there were Camelot knights. They were being overwhelmed on all sides. 

Merlin took no pleasure in evening the odds... or so he told himself. There was something a little satisfying about tripping up the two closest attacking knights to Arthur. Flick of his wrist—oops, one tripped on an exposed root. Throw of his arm—yikes, one missed his swing. It was subtle, Merlin’s spellcasting, and almost second nature to him now. It didn’t take much effort to curse his enemies with obstacles and unfortunate circumstances, although that never prevented his heartbeat from stomping loudly in his ears. Even after years of thinking on his feet and performing secretive magic, Merlin doubted he’d ever shake the fear of screwing up and letting Arthur die.

That’s why he kept his eyes locked on the prince. 

And that’s why he didn’t clock the knight sneaking up on him.

He wasn’t sure what set him off to the approaching presence. A snapped twig maybe. A slight movement out of the corner of his eye. It didn’t matter. All he knew was his quick reaction, whipping around palms first and a scathing non-verbal spell. The enemy knight went soaring—ramming into a tree with a resounding thunk— and Merlin didn’t spare him a glance to see if he was dead. He turned back to the fight, knocking off one, two, three—five—more Essetir attackers before the battle subsided.

Arthur had the final swing, cutting down the last Essetir knight and ending the short, bloody fight. Camelot, thankfully, had come out on top, but Arthur's face didn’t exude victory. Merlin could see stress in every line in his face, calculating what this would mean for the kingdom’s politics with Essetir. It was already rocky, and an attack of this size more or less confirmed Cenred knew of their trespassing. War could be on the horizon… and for what? Uther’s peace of mind? 

Anger and frustration boiled in Merlin’s stomach. All of this was senseless. Uther had nothing to fear from him and everything to fear from Cenred. If only he could say that. Prove that. 

With a sigh and a moment to recollect himself, Merlin slipped from the shelter of the trees back to the main event. 

He surveyed the damage, snatching up a fallen sword to feign some non-magical involvement in the battle. Two of their knights were down—Sir Edgar had taken a rough hit to the arm and Sir Bertram was bleeding from the leg. That, and one of their horses had been struck by an arrow. This compared to the close to thirty Essetir knights they’d taken out wasn’t a bad loss. Merlin had to take some credit for that. 

Arthur, similarly, was busy surveying the newly-created battlefield, his sword still in hand. His gaze fell to Merlin, and Merlin’s heart skipped a beat to see his expression darken. 

He didn’t have much time to process the sour reaction before the prince went back to surveying the bodies. His motions were a bit more frantic now. He was sorting through the mess, kicking over bodies and scanning the recovering knights. Squinting at the trees.

Confused, Merlin opened his mouth to ask him what exactly he was looking for, but before he could, Arthur stalked his way and provided the answer.

“Merlin,” he said, his tone grave, and a fear Merlin hadn’t expected shone in the prince’s eyes. He looked shaken. Shaken, and almost angry.

“Merlin,” he said again, and this time, Merlin really didn’t like the sound of his tone. “Merlin, where is Roldan?

Chapter Text

Bewilderment. Arthur knew the definition of the word, but he wasn’t sure if he’d truly seen it personified more often than on the face of Merlin. 

It might as well be the man’s natural state. Blue eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Hands moving, but definitely not doing anything to help the situation. Arthur had grown accustomed to this look, but at the moment he wasn’t exactly asking where his socks had disappeared to. This was far more critical.

“Merlin,” Arthur repeated, resisting the urge to grab the sorry excuse for a sorcerer and shake the answer out of him. “Merlin, where is Roldan?”

“I…” Merlin stammered. “I—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him, I just heard him call out before he… before we…”

He trailed off, his face a contortion of emotion, but Arthur was done waiting for him to get a hold of himself. He pushed past Merlin, stalking into the forest and ignoring the servant’s continued blubbering. 

He hadn’t gone far before he heard his name being yelled from afar—Sir Gareth’s frantic voice through the trees. Dread snaked through Arthur’s veins, and he broke into a run, pushing through the branches in the direction of the knight’s voice.

He didn’t have to travel far before he found Gareth, kneeling in the brush alongside one of his other best knights, Sir Kay. For a fleeting moment, Arthur thought maybe it was Kay who was injured.

Then he saw he was cradling a body, and he knew it was Roldan before he even grew close enough to see his bald head. 

A lump formed in his throat at the sight. Flashes of Roldan’s young son flickered through his brain, but he pushed that away, dropping to his knees by his fallen warrior’s side.

“Is he breathing?” he asked.

To his relief, Kay nodded. “Barely,” he responded. “I—”

“Where’s he hit?” Arthur demanded, searching Roldan’s torso with a gloved hand, but there was no sign of blood. “His back? Shoulder?”

“That’s the issue, sire,” Kay said. “He doesn’t appear to be hit. His spine… I’m no physician, but he has suffered some injuries to his lower back.”

“And his head,” Gareth confirmed, examining the back of Roldan’s bald head with ginger fingers. “Looks like he was thrown with some force.”

“Or fell from the tree, perhaps,” Kay suggested, glancing up at the sprawling oak above them before turning to Arthur. “I’m not sure if we can move him.”

The lump in Arthur’s throat grew larger, his thoughts a darkening tangle. “We’ll have to find a way,” he decided. “We’re still in enemy territory, and we have to get him back to Gaius.”

He stood, but only to find that Merlin had followed him and had halted at a distance, watching the whole affair like a limp rag. His already pale face was ashen, eyes fixated on Roldan’s unconscious form, and Arthur searched his expression carefully. A knot twisted in his stomach as he found exactly what he didn’t wish to find within it.

Fear. 

There were other things in Merlin’s expression, of course. Worry, and maybe sorrow. But the fear was unmistakable. It was the one emotion Arthur could always identify, even in a short second, as it was the reaction he saw the most often in his enemy’s faces. Spying it on Merlin now brought about a slew of questions he really didn’t want to entertain. 

Clenching his jaw, Arthur stepped forward and snapped his fingers—quick and loud in Merlin’s face. The servant jumped, snapped out of his trance, but Arthur didn’t give him a chance to recover before he gave his order. “Gather the horses, Merlin, and tell the knights to ride to the border. The three of us will have to carry Roldan to prevent further injuries.”

“Right, I—of course,” the servant sputtered, and then he was off, tripping over himself as he disappeared back into the trees.

Arthur watched him go with a sinking heart, finally entertaining some of the darker thoughts—darker fears—about his manservant he’d pushed to the back of his mind. 

Merlin was a sorcerer. This was a fact. A fact Arthur was still processing, but a fact nonetheless. 

Another fact was that when sorcerers engaged in battle... they rarely left a mark. Certainly no stab wounds.

Fallen from a tree, Kay had suggested. The more naive Arthur Pendragon from a week ago might have believed that. But, with the knowledge he possessed now, and with the very specific mission he had entrusted to Roldan… 

Well, suddenly Gareth’s assertion of “thrown with some force” felt all too possible, and all too real. After all, it didn’t take much for sorcerers to show a display of force, and a deadly one at that. 

A cold feeling began to root itself in Arthur’s gut. A mixture of dread, sadness, and grief, and this was not the time or place to unravel it. Sucking in his breath, Arthur turned back to his faithful knights, refocusing his mental efforts on Roldan. They had to keep his injured back straight while they transported him the rest of the way home.

Arthur would deal with the question of Merlin when they returned to Camelot.

~O~

If there was one place in Camelot Arthur truly hated, it was the physician’s quarters.

It wasn’t anything against Gaius. He just had too many bad memories attached to this cluttered, odd-smelling space. Stretching back to when he was a young boy, he’d seen the life slip away from the bodies of too many men and women he loved in this very room. Time and time again he’d be in here, and he’d stare at that little wooden bed and wonder if that’s where he too would breathe his last. That rickety slab of wood, which had likely been soiled with the blood of more innocents than any battlefield.

Arthur always imagined he’d die on such a battlefield. That seemed... correct, somehow. Fitting. But as he and Gareth made their way inside the room and gently laid the unconscious form of Roldan onto the dreaded cot, Arthur couldn’t help but see the injured body of every dead knight he’d ever known lying there. It was only a matter of time, really, before he himself was mortally wounded by an enemy. An assassin. A king. A sorcerer. Would he be leaving behind a child of his own, like Roldan? Or would he never even make it to the point where he had an heir? After all, he knew of many princes who had suffered such a fate—Odin’s son Magnus, for one, who had died at Arthur’s very hand. 

But he was being stupid. This was no time to think morbidly, and certainly not about his own mortality. Roldan was still breathing, and there was much to be dealt with. Twisting his mother’s ring around on his finger, Arthur relished the calming cold of the metal before facing Gaius. 

The physician had been informed of the situation in full by Sir Kay and was already in motion, busy checking out the state of Roldan’s neck with knowledgeable hands. Arthur watched him carefully, feeling wary of the physician in a way he’d never felt about him before. As if he was no longer trustworthy. 

That’s because he isn’t, his brain chimed in, and he didn’t appreciate the reminder.

After a few minutes, Gaius stopped what he was doing and moved to his work table without a word, beginning to flip through a stack of books gathered there. Arthur followed him, resting both his hands on the table so he couldn’t be ignored. 

“What’s your diagnosis, Gaius?” he pushed, feeling the sudden urge to do something. Anything. Any sort of action. “Please. Just tell me. Does he have any chance?”

Gaius slowed his movements, his fingers hovering over a page of one of the books. Arthur briefly noted a detailed drawing of a spinal dissection before he glanced away from it, feeling sick. 

“I’ll know more if he wakes, sire,” Gaius answered. His voice was calm, but Arthur didn’t like the word if. “He has suffered dislocations in his back and neck, with possible trauma to the head as well. If he does wake, I’m afraid it’s unlikely he’ll ever walk again.”

His words, predictably, felt like a punch to the gut. It was the opposite of what Arthur had hoped for, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t expecting it. Even if Roldan survived, it was another good knight lost. And for what, exactly? What had they even accomplished?

Gaius must’ve spotted the look on his face because he sighed, putting on his glasses. “I will not lie to you, Arthur,” he said. “It’s possible he may not survive the night. His breathing is unsteady. I will work to stabilise him, but we must prepare for the worst. His family should be notified.”

Arthur blinked a few times, unprepared for the tears that had risen. But he straightened and took in a big breath regardless. “Yes,” he agreed. “Of course. I’ll arrange it.” 

And with that, he turned to Merlin. 

It was the first time he’d really paid the servant proper attention since they’d returned. The secret sorcerer appeared an anxious wreck, hovering near the door and just wringing his hands like the useless servant he was. Looking at him now, Arthur suddenly found it very hard to contain a rush of fury. A fury that wondered—feared—his suspicions were true and that Roldan’s attacker stood before him right now. And not just any attacker. A sorcerer attacker. A former friend. 

Betrayal created a weird brand of fury, and Arthur was becoming terribly accustomed to it.

“Merlin,” Arthur said loudly, forcefully, and Merlin jolted like a scared fawn. 

“What?” 

“Can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

Merlin nodded, and Arthur stalked out. As he threw the door open, he glanced out of the corner of his eye, making sure Merlin was following him. 

As he did, he caught sight of Merlin and Gaius making eye contact for a split second. A secretive gesture. A gesture that made Arthur’s blood boil. 

Never before was the slightly fresher air of the corridor more welcome. Arthur inhaled it in large gulps, reigning in his emotions before turning to confront Merlin. It was a real struggle to keep his face passive, and also not to seize Merlin by the collar and slam him against the wall. To demand in no uncertain terms if he’d done it—if he’d attacked Roldan. Put him on that bed, that bed of death Arthur so despised.

But he didn’t. Instead, he looked Merlin in the eye and did the next best thing. Possibly an even better punishment. “Merlin,” he began, selecting his words very carefully. “I know it’s not a happy task, but I need you to go to Roldan’s house for me. Inform his wife and son about what happened. I would go myself, but I want to stay with him for now in case he wakes.”

To Arthur’s no surprise, horror sparked in Merlin’s eyes. Horror, and perhaps guilt? “I-I—” Merlin stuttered. “Are you sure I’m the best one to do that? I should be staying with Gaius so that I can—”

“I’ll ensure Gaius has all that he needs,” Arthur cut him off, grateful for his decision to hold this conversation in the corridor. That way, Gaius couldn’t rush to Merlin’s aid. While the servant might have wiggled out of Arthur’s trap in the cave, he would not be wriggling out of this one. “I know Roldan’s wife. Hannah. She’s a wonderful woman, but suffers from a long term illness. She’s going to need someone... gentle to break this news to her and her young son. James, I believe his name is. A non-knight would be best. I’m trusting you with this, so just do as I tell you, alright?”

He turned on his heel sharply, not giving Merlin the chance to argue—or himself a chance to betray his blossoming anger. As he re-entered the physician’s quarters, he couldn’t help but slam the door behind him. All he hoped was that if Merlin had done this—if he was responsible—that the grief of Hannah and James haunted him forever. That his guilt consumed him and he realised, to the full extent of his being and whatever goodness lay within it, what he’d done. What his power had done. The exact opposite of gentle. 

But most of all, Arthur cursed himself for even giving Merlin the benefit of the doubt. Deep down… he had a very bad feeling Merlin had done it. He didn’t want to embrace the implications, but whether accidental or intentional, that mix of grief and guilt and fear in Merlin’s eyes just now felt like confirmation. It felt like one of the last nails in the coffin Arthur had been in denial existed, and it also ignited all the hurt and confusion that had been swirling inside him since the dragon incident.

In the end, it only served to transform the last few reservations he held into rage. A rage he should have felt from the beginning. But he had to be sure. Wanted to be sure, if only to be able to finally face Merlin properly and with all the facts laid out like cards on the table. Then everything could be laid bare. That’s all Arthur wanted. A righteous path if there was one left to be had. 

Gaius looked up from his book as Arthur returned. A look of concern crossed his face before it settled back to neutral, and this was not lost on Arthur. “Where’s Merlin?” he asked, innocently enough. Too innocent.

“I’ve sent him to Roldan’s family,” Arthur said curtly, walking past Gaius and settling in the small chair by the death bed. His hands were shaking, and he buried them in his lap. “If you need anything, Gareth or Kay can get it for you.”

Gaius nodded slowly. “Ah, well, as a matter of fact, I will be needing a few things,” he said, and he turned to Gareth and Kay. “If one of you could fetch me some water from the well, please, and if one of you could get me some cloves from the kitchen to reduce inflammation.”

Both knights bowed, obedient as ever, and together they headed out—leaving Arthur alone with Gaius and the unconscious Roldan. Which should have been a non issue, but for some reason it didn’t feel that way.

A silence fell among the two of them. It occurred to Arthur that he never really stayed with any patient like this—partially because he often wanted out of these quarters as soon as humanly possible. But this time was different. If Roldan awoke, Arthur wanted to be here for every second of it. He wanted to hear every word Roldan had to say, first hand, and thus he stayed rooted in that uncomfortable little chair.

For a while, that’s all he did. Just sat there, brooding on ever-darkening thoughts about Merlin, Cenred, and how this whole thing should be handled. Meanwhile, Gaius shuffled around working with vials and various ingredients Arthur only half-recognised. It shouldn’t feel tense between them, but it definitely did. 

After a little while of this super-charged silence, Gaius spoke. “Sire, don’t you need to speak to the king to give your report?” 

Something curdled within Arthur at the suggestion. Again, the naive version of him would have not questioned this reminder, but it felt like Gaius was trying to get rid of him. 

No, not felt like. He was trying to get rid of him. And not too long after he’d gotten rid of both Gareth and Kay. Maybe Gaius hoped Arthur wouldn’t notice that little tactic.

He would like to think that Gaius wouldn’t do anything morally reprehensible. That he wouldn’t do something like kill Roldan to silence him, but the thought did cross Arthur’s mind. As the warrior he was, he couldn’t not think it, and after all—Arthur had also thought Merlin was an innocent buffoon who couldn’t lie for his life. That had been proven extremely wrong. There was no more trust to be had in this situation. 

“Sir Kay can update my father,” Arthur replied a bit coolly, trying very hard to keep the edge out of his voice. “I’d prefer to stay with Roldan. I sent him after the Essetir patrol on his own. It was my call that resulted in him being separated from the pack.”

This was true, and Arthur’s guilt was very real. Crushing, even, although he wasn’t sure if it was really the Essetir patrol he regretted sending Roldan to spy on. 

“I’m sure he understood you had Camelot’s best interests at heart, sire,” Gaius said, moving to grab yet another vial. How many did the man need? “As crown prince, you must make the tough calls.”

“Yes,” Arthur said flatly. “That I must.”

His response, thankfully, ended the conversation. Another silence fell upon them, and Arthur was grateful for it. Technically, Gaius didn’t have the authority to make him do anything he didn’t wish to do and Arthur planned to sit here until Roldan opened his eyes or drew his final breath. Whichever came first. 

The second round of silence didn’t last much longer than the first before Sir Kay returned, a bowl of cloves in hand. 

“Ah, wonderful,” Gaius said, almost as if he’d forgotten he “needed” them. “You can put them over there.”

Kay nodded, placing the bowl down where Gaius wanted. “I’ve just spoken with the king,” he announced as he did so, and Arthur’s head snapped up. “He has requested your presence, Gaius, to speak about Roldan’s diagnosis.”

Arthur watched Gaius’ face closely at these words, but the physician’s expression betrayed nothing. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I will be with him shortly.”

Kay nodded once more before turning to Arthur. “Do you require anything, sire?” 

“No, Kay, thank you,” Arthur said, giving the knight a weak smile. “You’re dismissed. Get some rest.”

Kay bowed and left, allowing Arthur to continue to observe Gaius. The physician finished whatever he was doing with the numerous vials and heaved another long sigh, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “Are you planning to stay here, then?” 

Arthur nodded slowly. “Yes. I’d like to be here for him.”

“If he wakes, be sure to summon me right away,” Gaius reminded, and there was something in his expression now. A worry that Arthur hadn’t spotted before. For Roldan?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

“Of course,” Arthur answered.

The physician lingered for a moment longer, almost as if hoping Roldan would wake up just then. But he didn’t, and then Gaius was gone. Finally, it was only Arthur and Roldan.

The absence of Merlin and Gaius was most welcome. It occurred to Arthur that he hadn’t really been free of them since the revelations about Merlin had come to light. Their presence felt like it was choking him, and that made the quiet emptiness of the physician’s quarters oddly comforting. For the first time since discovering Merlin’s magic, Arthur felt like he could close his eyes and just breathe…and yet, it felt wrong to do so when Roldan’s breaths were shaky and shallow. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, finally allowing himself to close his eyes and rest before Roldan’s hand grabbed his wrist.

Arthur jumped so hard he almost fell off his chair, but he opened his eyes to find Roldan's eyes open to, and relief flooded his system to see that. He wasn’t sure he’d even get a chance to speak to him again. 

“Roldan,” he wheezed, dropping out of his chair and almost knocking it over as he kneeled in close to the bed, his chainmail clinking. It occurred to him only then that he’d never taken it off. “Please, don’t move. You’re injured.”

Roldan coughed, and it was a heavy, racking cough. “Yes, I’d figured that out,” he rasped.

Arthur’s lip quivered, and he suddenly felt more unbalanced than he’d felt in some time. A knot twisted in his stomach, and he grabbed Roldan’s arm at the elbow, holding it in a motion that felt like brotherhood. Like security. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he expressed, forging ahead. He didn’t know how much time he had before Merlin or Gaius returned, and this was exactly the type of opportunity he’d hoped for. “I want to—need to—apologise. It is my fault you’re in this state. But please. I must ask. I must know. What happened to you?”

Roldan’s expression hardened. He took a moment, trying to catch his breath. He sounded like he couldn’t breathe properly, and in that moment, Arthur wondered if he should discard this opportunity and run for Gaius instead. He even started to, but Roldan pulled it together, drawing in large, shaky breaths.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’m fine. But.... Merlin.”

A jolt went through Arthur at the mention. “Yes? What about him?”

With a squeeze, Roldan clutched Arthur’s arm in return. His hold was weaker than usual, but still strong. His face was strained, the veins popping on his temples. “Sorcery,” he managed. “He’s a sorcerer, Arthur. I moved to take him out as soon as I saw, but he sensed me coming.”

The knot in Arthur’s stomach twisted further. For not the first time, a terrible wave of sadness, acceptance, and rage washed over him.

It wasn’t new information, Merlin’s sorcery. Certainly it was one of the only things Arthur had been thinking about, and yet finally hearing it confirmed from the mouth of another knight felt like the final nail in a coffin.

Merlin’s coffin.

His lack of surprise must have been evident because Roldan frowned.

“You suspected him, didn’t you?” the knight said, his expression darkening. “Of sorcery. That’s why you sent me to spy on him.”

Arthur nodded, admitting it finally, and he hated to feel tears welling in his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I had my suspicions. But I wished I hadn’t. I shouldn’t have knowingly put you in harm’s way. Your son—”

“—will be fine, my lord,” Roldan assured, and he gave a thin smile. “If I don’t make it, or even if I do, he understands my job is to protect you and Camelot. I’m only glad I was able to assist in the capture of an enemy within our walls.” 

Arthur swallowed thickly, feeling a bit like a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. His guilt was fresh and raw. “Indeed, you have,” he agreed. “You’re positive it was Merlin who attacked you? With magic?”

Roldan began to nod, but quickly stopped, emitting a hiss of pain that made Arthur’s stomach churn. “Lie still,” Arthur reprimanded him, and he held the knight’s arm tightly while Roldan struggled to breathe once more.

When his laboured breathing subsided, Roldan spoke again, but his voice sounded much weaker. “He didn’t even look my way,” he croaked. “He must have sensed me magically. I moved towards him and he threw his arm out. It was like getting hit in the chest with a powerful wind. That’s the last thing I remember.”

Arthur shifted on his knees, wrestling with that mental image. It was not a nice one, and he couldn’t help but recall how Merlin had looked in the forest that night after the dragon. Standing there, strangely confident and foreboding. Arms raised. Is that the Merlin his knight had encountered? A dark version of him that casted a spell without even looking? A sorcerer who robbed a man of his mobility—and perhaps even his life—without even turning his head? At least Arthur looked men in the eyes when he killed them.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Still couldn’t reconcile the Merlin he knew with that sort of dishonour, carelessness, and abuse of power. But the facts were staring him in the face. He knew them now to be true. Things had gone on much too long, and much too far. Roldan’s blood was on Merlin’s hands, but in the end it was on Arthur for putting his knight in the dangerous path of a known sorcerer. A wanted sorcerer. Named Emrys. Named Merlin.

Roldan coughed violently again and Arthur flinched, squeezing the knight’s arm. “Please lie still,” he said again. “Thank you for telling me this. For doing your duty. Now it’s time to do mine. I’ll get Gaius.”

He started to stand, but Roldan wheezed, clawing at Arthur’s arm. “No!” he hissed. “I must inform the king. I must give him my testimony. Especially if Merlin was sent by Cenred. We must act quickly.”

Panic circled in Arthur’s chest. For some reason, he desperately wanted to keep his father out of this. Just for a bit longer. “No, no, you’ve done enough already, Roldan,” he insisted. “You need rest. I will be taking care of this personally. Merlin is my manservant, and his presence in Camelot is my responsibility. Any harm he has caused is on me and me alone. Your testimony here is enough and all that is required from you. Okay? So, please. Lie still. Rest. You’ve done your duty in full.”

Roldan’s face was strained. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, I am,” Arthur said, and he meant it. Merlin was his problem. Always had been, always would be. His fate would be determined by Arthur alone. “Right now, my main concern is making sure you have proper care. I’m off to find Gaius.”

He began to leave, but stopped midway to the door, his boots scraping to a halt on the wood floor. “Also, Roldan,” he added softly. “Please don’t mention anything about Merlin to Gaius. I don’t want him tipping him off and causing him to flee. That’s the last thing we need.” 

“Yes,” Roldan rasped, and Arthur was relieved to hear him agree. “Yes, of cou—” 

He cut off, only managing to emit half the sentence before he exploded into a terrible round of racking coughs—worse than any that had come before. Arthur’s muscles seized, desperate to do something, but he was no physician. 

“Lie still!” he shouted again, his voice breaking as he threw open the door. “Just… just breathe. I’ll be right back.”

And with that, Arthur sprinted out of the physician’s quarters for the council chambers.

~O~

The next half an hour felt like a terrible blur for Arthur. A horrible, hideous, nauseating blur, and one that he had a bad feeling might come back to haunt him in a nightmare later. 

It already felt like a bad dream. Rushing through the corridors, ripping open the wooden door of the physician’s quarter’s, skittering inside with Gaius behind him, the older man trying his best to keep up with Arthur’s pace… 

Only to find that Roldan was no longer breathing.

It was not the first time Arthur had been slammed with a wave of guilt. Certainly, one would imagine he’d be accustomed to the feeling by now. Knights had died on his watch many, many times. It was the nature of the world, and his role in it. But that didn’t stop Arthur from analysing every possible thing he could have done to prevent it. To recognise their willingness to lay down their lives for him, but ultimately prevent it from happening.

He hadn’t done that with Roldan. 

No. No, he had been so busy trying to prevent Merlin’s death, hadn’t he? In trying not to kill one friend, he’d killed another. Killed the one that didn’t deserve to die.

It sort of felt like a weight had promptly been dropped on him. He didn’t even hear Gaius confirming the death. Following a grim checking of Roldan’s pulse, a buzzing overtook Arthur’s eardrums and he could only see Gaius’ mouth moving, forming the words “I’m afraid he’s gone.” Another confirmation Arthur didn’t need to be told to know its truth. 

And that should have been the worst of it. Should have been the worst minute of Arthur’s day. 

But it wasn’t.

What was worse was at that very moment, Merlin returned with Roldan’s wife trailing behind him.

The whole horrid scenario played out in slow motion. Arthur saw the door open out of the corner of his eye. He turned on instinct, his blood running cold to witness first the entering of Merlin, and then of Hannah. Roldan’s sweet and quiet wife, looking deeply worried, but not yet shattered. There was still hope shining in her gentle features—a hope that was about to be squashed forever.

But if that wasn’t bad enough, Arthur then spotted the telltale blond hair of Roldan’s son, James, waddling in alongside his mother and clutching at her long skirts. A child no older than nine, and suddenly, terribly, Arthur could only remember when he was that age. Walking into this very room at his father’s heels. Beholding the death and pain it harboured.

If Arthur was smarter, quicker, better, he would have stopped them right then. Ushered them back outside into the corridor before they saw what lay beyond the entrance. 

But today was a day of countless failures.

Hannah’s shriek of grief was deafening. Her eyes had fallen upon Gaius, his fingers still conspicuously holding her husband’s limp wrist, and that was confirmation enough. Hannah moved in a flurry, charging past Merlin and Arthur like a woman possessed and abandoning little James altogether. She collapsed next to that dreadful bed, sobbing, and this left Arthur facing both James and Merlin at the same time. Viewing their faces as they began to understand what had happened. 

He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t handle staring at the both of them and watching the combination of horror and anguish overtake their expressions. It was a mirror of everything Arthur was feeling. A loss of innocence in James. A strike of guilt in Merlin.  

And that was it. That was the last straw for Arthur. There had been so many straws, but this was definitely the one that broke the camel’s back. His hands shaking, Arthur shoved past Merlin and dropped to his knees in front of James.

Tears were already welling in the boy’s wide blue eyes. Arthur could feel some welling in his, too, but he pressed his unsteady palms to James’ small shoulders. 

“I am so, so sorry, James,” he managed to get out. “Your father was one of the best knight’s I’ve ever known, and I failed him today. He talked about you often. Very often. Told me how proud of you he was, and how you’re going to make him so very proud in the future.”

He swallowed, sucking in a large breath. “I just wanted to say that I’ll be here for you,” he promised, his voice cracking, and he squeezed the boy maybe a little too hard. “I’ll be here for you, and your mother. I promise you that. Okay? I swear it.”

And with that, Arthur straightened, no longer allowing himself to look at the boy. If he did, he would definitely cry, and he nearly punched open that stupid wooden door. “Arthur—” he heard Merlin’s voice call, and that was fuel enough to make him move faster. Away from the physician’s quarters. Away from its traitors, away from its broken promises, and away from its stench of death.

He didn’t even remember reaching his own chambers. Slamming shut the door, collapsing in his chair. He sort of recalled it in a haze, but he was mostly grateful to be in a space of his own. To not look at anyone’s face for a whole minute.

He wasn’t sure how long he slouched there, just staring off into space and twisting his mother’s ring on his finger until it hurt. It might have been hours. Might have been minutes. He didn’t really care. 

But, eventually, there was a knock on the door, and Arthur flinched at the sound.

If it was Merlin, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He wasn’t sure if he could handle another encounter without losing it entirely. Some small part of him even wished it was Merlin, just so he could finally let loose. He'd showed enough restraint at this point. Far more than Merlin deserved.

He didn’t answer, hoping whoever it was would go away. But after a pause with no response, there was a repeated knock. 

Arthur exhaled, his breathing uneven. “Who is it?” 

“Leon, sire,” came the knight’s voice through the door, and Arthur’s shoulders relaxed. Why had he let himself get so worked up? It wasn’t like Merlin ever knocked.

“Enter,” he said, and his door swung open, revealing the ever-serious face of Sir Leon. The faithful sentry closed the door behind him politely—something Merlin rarely did—and he laced his hands behind his back.

“I heard about Roldan,” the knight expressed solemnly, and Arthur grimaced. “I was sorry to hear of it, as are all the men. He was a good knight. One of the best.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, his voice hollow. “One of the best.”

Leon gave a solemn nod, almost like a pause in respect for the dead. “I’ve just delivered the news to the king,” he reported, and Arthur had a feeling he knew where this was going. “He is most aggrieved.”

“I’m assuming he wishes to speak with me.”

“Yes, he does.”

Arthur nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. He gave his mother’s ring another hard twist. “Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”

Leon nodded once more, and he executed a deep bow before turning to leave. His chainmail clinked as he reopened the door.

He was halfway out in the corridor before Arthur stopped him. “Leon?” 

The knight halted immediately, twisting back around. “Yes, m’lord?” 

His words were innocent, normal, and yet something seized within Arthur. He’d imagined a moment like this for some time. Practiced it in his head, but it was suddenly all too real. Some things were just much easier to say in one’s mind than out loud.

But this had to be said.

“I’d like you to do me a favour,” Arthur began, forcing himself to relay the rehearsed words. He yanked his mother’s ring fiercely as he did so—hard enough that the friction of the metal dragged his skin. “One I’m not sure I should carry out myself.”

Leon frowned, but he nodded. Obedient as ever… just like Roldan. “And what’s that, sire?”

Arthur pursed his lips. He hesitated for just another moment. One final second to run the words through his head before he said them. A command he’d harboured for some time, and a sentence he should have declared long ago.

“Leon, I would like you to arrest Merlin for me, please.”

Chapter Text

It was not Merlin’s first time being thrown in the dungeon.

It wasn’t even his second. Or his third. 

To tell the truth, Merlin had long since lost count of his many damp, dark nights he’d spent locked beneath the castle, wearing down a path into the stone floor with his pacing. There wasn’t much use in keeping track of his privilege when so many sorcerers like him could not say the same. Certainly, Merlin’s position as the prince’s servant had granted him many miraculous escapes, but with each time of being tossed down here, Merlin had to face the possibility that this night could be his last. One final stay in the dungeons, and the one that eventually concluded with him six feet under. Laid to rest in an unmarked grave, as sorcerers were not permitted marked ones, although Merlin liked to think Gaius would leave something to mark it. Anything to let people know he existed once, and that he had tried to make a difference. Tried and failed.

It wasn’t a happy image to focus on, and yet, it was the only one Merlin could imagine. Just like every time he’d been thrown down here, his only solace now belonged to his pacing as he tried to not let his frantic thoughts spiral and as he silently prayed to any god or goddess who would listen that this wasn’t his final stay in the dungeons. That perhaps this was just another hiccup in his long list of hiccups.

This time around, though, it really did feel like the end. 

He’d done it. Deep down, Merlin knew he had done it. He had killed Roldan. He hadn’t seen his face, but there had been that knight—the one he’d thrown a spell at without really looking. He’d even glimpsed the body slamming against that tree out of the corner of his eye. Heard the crack of a spine...

Closing his eyes, Merlin clawed at his hair and sank slowly to the floor, scraping the back of his skull against the unforgiving stone of the cell wall. Careless. Utterly careless. He had assumed it was an enemy knight, and he hadn’t looked. He had not spotted the signature red of a Camelot cape, and thus he’d moved without thinking, performing a duty he had executed countless times. Protecting Arthur, and evening out their battle odds in secret. He’d managed it so often that it was really no surprise he did it without thought—and at what cost? A loyal knight’s life, and probably his own as well. After all, he had a deep, dark, burning feeling in his gut that he wouldn’t be wiggling his way out of this one. Not with the look on Arthur’s face back in the physician’s quarters.

Merlin knew Arthur better than he knew himself at this point. He had served the prince every morning and every night for the entirety of his four years living in Camelot, and he could safely say he had never seen Arthur look at him in the way he had an hour ago. The prince’s expression had been alternating between despair and disgust, and it was a look that sent every alarm bell in Merlin’s brain clanging like the enemy was at the gates. It left him now with a hollow feeling that ate at his soul, the frozen image of it burned into his mind’s eye.

Roldan had said something to Arthur. He must have. Merlin had hoped to heal him in secret while he was still unconscious, but with Arthur present… it hadn’t been possible. He had hoped that maybe Gaius could intervene, but Roldan must have awakened before he’d passed on. It was the only explanation, and the only reason Merlin could be sitting here now with no formal announcement as to why. It was one of those times where he could feel the truth of the situation deep in his bones, like his body itself was aware of the gravity of it and that the fear he had been harbouring for years inside himself was finally, horribly, brutally coming to life. 

Arthur knew he had magic. He must know.

And yet Merlin needed to know for certain.

“Leon,” Merlin managed to say, his heart racing as he leapt to his feet, calling for his friend just as the stoic knight finished speaking to the prison guard. Leon had just begun to make his exit, but thankfully, he stopped at Merlin’s voice and turned back to face him. This left Merlin to try and appear calm as he wrapped his hands around the dungeon bars, although he instantly failed at it. His hands were shaking, and with a jolt, he wondered if this was the last time he’d see a friendly face. 

“Leon,” Merlin tried again, and he cringed at the desperation hanging in his voice. “Please, Leon, can you tell me why I’m here?”

Leon paused, and to Merlin’s dismay, he didn’t come back to the bars to talk with him. Keeping his distance. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Merlin,” the knight answered. “I’m sorry. Arthur didn’t say. Only that I should organise your arrest.”

His words seemed to echo off the dungeon walls, repeating themselves, or perhaps that was just Merlin’s head spinning as his heart sank to his toes. He had hoped not to hear mention of Arthur’s name, but he was unsurprised by it. It felt like the final nail in the coffin he’d been building for himself ever since he’d first stepped foot in Camelot.

For some reason, he’d always hoped it would be Uther’s order in the end. Had always imagined his death sentence would come from the king’s mouth like so many other sorcerers before him. That, at least, would feel inevitable.

But it hadn’t come from the mouth of Uther, and that meant Merlin’s worst fears had been realised. A confirmation of something his entire mind was already screeching at him in utter terror.

Arthur knew.

He knew.

Merlin’s fear must have been evident on his face, because Leon’s shoulders slumped and Merlin was touched to see a bit of conflict in the loyal knight’s face. To his further surprise, Leon came back to him, walking to the iron bars so they could talk properly. “Merlin, I don’t know what you did,” the knight said, talking low enough that only Merlin could hear him. “But with the state I just saw Arthur in, I’m not sure I want to know.”

Merlin’s lip quivered at this, and he looked down, dropping one hand from the bars to tug at a ragged hole in his jacket sleeve. It was a hole he’d discovered weeks ago and he’d been meaning to mend it. 

He likely wouldn’t get the chance now. 

“Trust me, Leon,” Merlin whispered back after a moment, and it took everything in him not to break down right there and then. “I don’t think you want to know. But you’ll know soon enough, I’m sure. As will everyone else.”

Leon grimaced, and his expression reflected everything Merlin was feeling. A grimace that said they both knew how this was going to go. “I wish you luck, Merlin,” Leon said. “But I’m afraid that’s all I can give you.”

Merlin managed a weak smile. “I know. And thank you, Leon.”

Leon tried to return his smile, but he didn’t quite manage it. He patted Merlin’s hand in an attempt at comfort, and then he turned on his heel, his red cape trailing behind him.

Merlin watched him go, his fingers shaking a little on the frigid metal. “Leon?” he called once more, just as an afterthought, and once again he was grateful when the knight turned back.

“Yes?” Leon said.

Merlin swallowed. “Just… please. When everything comes to light. Don’t hate me for it.”

Leon grimaced again, and he opened his mouth to answer, but as he did, someone answered for him.

“I’m afraid that’s a bit of a big ask, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Because he’s definitely going to hate you.”

Dark, putrid terror instantly shot through Merlin’s body like a bolt of lightning. For one terrible moment, time slowed to a standstill all around him, rooting him in place and rendering him unable to move from the sheer force of his dread.

He had never wanted to turn invisible more than that moment. Never wanted to run for the hills and never look back quite like now, but everything seemed to move in slow motion as Leon jumped to attention, startled by Arthur’s arrival. “Sire—” he began, but Arthur raised a black-gloved hand, cutting him off as he strode into the dungeon’s corridor in full.

He was still dressed in full armour. Still somewhat bloodied from the battle, although it was likely not his blood by the looks of it. The little bit of sunlight the dungeon did receive glittered on his single silver pauldron—one that Merlin had polished countless times before. It was a terrifying image for some reason, and it left Merlin witnessing the version of Arthur Pendragon other imprisoned sorcerers must see and know. A tall, broad-shouldered, and battle-hardened knight who regularly massacred his enemies with calculated precision, and at the same time a stoic-faced prince who watched sorcerers burn to death at the stake. A confident and often arrogant royal who brought down raids upon their homes, robbing them of their livelihoods, and not to mention the beloved son of one of the most brutal rulers this land had ever known. An extension of his cruelty and persecution.

And suddenly, standing there with his hands wrapped around the cold dungeon bars, Merlin saw Uther in Arthur’s features for the first time. 

“Leave us,” Arthur ground out. He was addressing the guard and Leon, but his gaze never left Merlin’s. “Both of you.”

“But, sire—” protested the guard, but that was the only two words he managed to get out. 

“That’s an order, Madoc!” Arthur barked, and his tone was so sharp and angry it made Merlin recoil.

“Arthur—” Merlin managed to say, but his voice was so shaken and broken that he didn’t have any more words as Arthur advanced, removing all space between them. On instinct, Merlin scrambled back from the bars, tripping over himself and landing hard on his back, palms braced against the rough stone. It was a natural reaction to an advancing enemy knight, but not one Merlin had ever had with Arthur.

Years ago, when they had first met, Merlin had refused to back down from the challenge in Arthur’s eyes. But today, he instantly backed down from it. How quickly the tables had turned between them. 

From beyond the cell door, Arthur stared down at him like a specimen in a vial—cold and calculating. His arms lay crossed against his armoured chest and his expression was stony.

“Hello, Emrys,” he hissed softly, and Merlin flinched at the name. He hadn’t thought this could get any worse, but hearing his Druid name in Arthur’s voice felt so wrong and so terrifying that it sent chills skipping down his spine. 

His mouth had gone dry, but Merlin tried his best to spit some words out. Anything. Any sort of excuse or explanation. He pushed himself to his feet with all the strength that he could muster, approaching the bars once more and bringing himself as face to face with Arthur as his prison would allow.

 “Arthur,” he began, and he was relieved to find his voice wasn’t shaking too terribly. Maybe he could somewhat recover from this. “I think there has been a misunderstanding. I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me, Merlin,” Arthur snarled, and his tone was so terse that Merlin recoiled on instinct. “I’ve had quite enough of that. And I think you, like me, have been dreading this conversation for some time.”

Merlin really thought his dread couldn’t dig its heels in any further. However, that was not what he expected Arthur to say. “Wha-what do you mean, for some time?” he managed to stutter, and his voice was definitely shaking now. He was sure his fear was evident in his face, and perhaps that was what caused Arthur’s anger to wane somewhat, the vestiges of Uther fading from his face. 

It was a relief for Merlin to see the Arthur he knew return a bit, but the prince had still not answered Merlin’s question, and that sent a new stroke of fear coursing through him. A battle raged in the prince’s blue eyes—a conflict of emotions dueling for dominance, and it was not unreminiscent of the breakdown the Arthur had had in his chambers the day before. Merlin had been a bit taken aback by all that raw emotion then, as it had seemed to come out of nowhere—unprompted. But Merlin was now starting to deduce just what had prompted it and he didn’t really like the conclusions his brain was jumping to.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” Arthur whispered, and his voice was wracked by emotion as he scrubbed at his face with his hands. He turned away a little from the bars, almost as if he suddenly didn’t want to look at Merlin, and fear pulsed in Merlin’s chest as he watched Arthur’s expression contort with pain. “I’m such a fool to have let this go on as long as it did. And now a good knight is dead because of it. I should have arrested you the moment I found out. The moment I saw you with that blasted dragon!”

He spat out the last few words, and as soon as he uttered the word “dragon,” all the air immediately left Merlin’s lungs. His chest heaved, and he squeezed his eyes to escape it all, bringing bursts of stars to the darkness of his mind's eye as his brain went fuzzy and he realised—horribly—just what Arthur was saying. 

What he had seen. What he had heard.

“You followed me,” Merlin wheezed, and by saying it aloud he confirmed to himself. Concluded, deep in his bones, just how much he had messed things up this time. How irrevocable that mistake was.

This wasn’t just about Roldan.

Arthur had known. Known for some time now. 

“Yes, Merlin, I followed you,” Arthur said flatly, and his voice was hardly above a whisper as he spoke the terrible confirmation. With a shaky breath, Merlin opened his eyes, but the prince wasn’t even looking at him anymore. His eyes were turned away, unfocused, as if he were reliving the fateful moment in his mind. “You’re not as sneaky as you’d like to think you are, you know. So, imagine my surprise to find you having a nice little evening chat with a monster I was pretty sure I killed not long ago.”

“He’s not a monster,”  Merlin said on instinct, but he instantly regretted it. Arthur’s eyes snapped back to him very suddenly, the fog of conflict clearing from his face.

“Oh, that’s the defense you’re opening with? Really?” Arthur seethed, and his ire bristled within him like a flash fire, his gloved hands curled into fists. He stepped even closer to the bars, and Merlin teetered back, recoiling. “Defending the dragon in all this? The demonic, fire-spewing beast that burned down half of Camelot? That is a truly excellent way to start your defense after murdering one of my best knights, Merlin. Well done.”

“I did not murder him!” Merlin retorted, defending himself, but he could already feel himself digging his grave even deeper. Tears were beginning to well in his eyes, and he wasn’t sure how much fight he had left in him. There wasn’t much of a fight to be had. “It was an accident, Arthur. I didn’t see a Camelot cape, and I—”

“Then you admit it, then?” Arthur interrupted him, and his tone was shrill, demanding. His nose was nearly touching the iron bars. “You admit you attacked him? Killed him? With magic?”

“I-I—” Merlin began, but words failed him. There wasn’t much he could say. No clever words to slink his way out of this one. The jig was up. Finally, horribly, terribly up, and any defense he may have had was coming crashing down around his ears. 

Over the years, Merlin had imagined so many scenarios of how this conversation would go. So many different ways it could come about. In a few more indulgent versions, things went well, but in most, they did not. After all, he would’ve been kidding himself if he really thought this conversation was ever going to go well for him. That Arthur was going to just accept his sorcery and carry on his merry day.

And yet, somehow... Merlin had never imagined it going quite as awful as this. Had never thought he’d be down here, behind bars, at a loss for words as he faced Arthur after having sent a beloved Camelot knight to an early grave. Accident or no, Roldan’s death needed answering, and Merlin knew that. Even if he had injured Roldan without magic, he would have ended up here. He was a servant, not a knight, and he did not receive any protection from such accidents. Not like Arthur did. 

And perhaps that was the fact that finally stirred Merlin’s own rage, buried deep within him. That thought and that knowledge that he would be standing here behind these bars even if he wasn’t a sorcerer. That a simple mistake was enough to condemn him, and that sorcery being involved was simply the icing on the cake that was his already dreadful sentence. Merlin had long harboured frustration at the injustices of Camelot, and all the inequalities and double standards that plagued its most caring citizens. From Lancelot to Gwen to Gaius, they had all suffered at Uther’s laws and biases, and all of them had ended up right where Merlin was standing now. He had made a mistake in attacking Roldan, and in a perfect society, he would be willing to take responsibility for it. But the kingdom of Camelot was no perfect society, was it? Far from it.

And now, Merlin’s biggest secret was out. Arthur knew of his true nature. There were no more excuses or blubbering left to shield himself from that fact. If anything, this could be the last conversation Merlin ever had with Arthur, and the terrifying reality of that struck him like a blow to the chest. It really was time to stop pretending, wasn’t it? It was time to drop the façade that had become second nature to him, and where clever words may now fail him, there were words of truth and pain to replace them. Years of thoughts that Merlin had crushed down deep within himself, and they were beginning to rise to the surface now in a terrifying rush. A tirade of thoughts that when said out loud may be his only defense—or else the final nail in his coffin.

It didn’t matter which outcome came to pass. Merlin could not and would not lay down and die in silence. Too many sorcerers had met their end that way for him to waste the opportunity to speak for them alongside himself. And all he hoped now was that those words would not fall on deaf ears. 

“I just want to hear you say it,” Arthur was saying, and his cold demand sent every molecule in Merlin’s body into overdrive. Rooted somewhere deep within him, his magic boiled, screaming at him to blast his way out of here. To strike Arthur down and never look back.

But he didn’t. Instead, Merlin took a big breath and looked Arthur straight in the eye once more. 

This time, his gaze did not waver. 

“Hear me say what, exactly?” he asked, almost in defiance. As if daring Arthur to continue his command, but Arthur didn’t seem fazed by his tone.

“I want to hear it,” Arthur growled, and unfortunately, Merlin knew exactly what he meant by that. “I want you to say what you are. To admit it. I want to hear it from your own mouth, and not just in the words of others. I think you owe me that much.”

“Right,” Merlin whispered to himself, exhaling through his teeth, and it sent a stroke of panic coursing through him to even consider saying those three words. Three words he had dreaded speaking for four long years. But he let them slip from his lips anyway. “I’m a sorcerer. Is that it? Is that what you wanted to hear, Arthur? Are you happy now?”

His whole body shook as soon as the truth left his lips, but Arthur’s expression didn’t change. If anything, the prince exploded into further rage.  “No, Merlin, I’m not happy!”  he erupted, and Merlin could see a deep, dark pain mixed in his features alongside his fury. It was a pain he recognised, having seen it in Arthur’s face several times before. Betrayal.  “I knew you were an idiot, but apparently I overestimated just how much. How stupid do you need to be, coming to Camelot as a sorcerer? To remain in my service? Whatever were you thinking, even stepping foot here?”

His voice cracked a bit at that, and Merlin was emboldened by the small note of caring in his tone. It gave him a tiny dose of hope. Perhaps there was still a war to be won here. After all, Arthur couldn’t entirely hide his true self from Merlin. Somewhere hidden within all that armour, there was a prince that cared about him, and that was the version of Arthur Pendragon that Merlin needed to somehow reach. 

The cat was out of the bag. The three words spoken.

There was no going back now.

“What was I thinking?” Merlin repeated Arthur’s question, his frustration rising unfettered in his voice as his brain prepared to rain his thoughts down like fireballs, letting out everything he’d been holding back for four years. The dam had been broken, and there was no way to stop the oncoming flood. “What should I have been thinking in your expert opinion, Arthur? What, in your perfect mind, do you think I should have been thinking about? That I shouldn’t be able to live and breathe in Camelot because I’m a walking, talking crime the moment I cross the border from Essetir? Is that it? Do you think I wasn’t aware of all that? The first thing I saw when I arrived here was the beheading of a condemned sorcerer! The whole thing wasn’t exactly lost on me!”

The words were coming hot and heavy now, Merlin’s pent-up anger flowing like lava, and Arthur’s whole demeanor shifted. He still moved with fury, his whole body taut and strained, but Merlin now noticed that his eyes were bloodshot. Exhaustion pulled at his features, and Merlin suddenly wondered if he’d been sleeping at all. He likely hadn’t. Merlin knew a thing or two about a secret eating you up inside and what that did to you.  

“Unbelievable,” Arthur grunted, and he stared Merlin down with the intensity and derangement of a man plagued by demons, his eyes unblinking. “If you knew of our laws, then why would you even attempt coming here? That’s all I want to know, Merlin! That’s what I cannot begin to fathom, as much as I’ve tried. Why wouldn’t you just stay in Ealdor? Or—or go off to a place where my father’s laws could never reach you? Why wouldn’t you want that for yourself, and save us all from the pain of what we are doing right now?” 

There was a genuine brokenness in Arthur’s tone, an honest incapability to understand, and Merlin pursed his lips. His whole body was vibrating with emotion, and he closed his eyes for a moment, beginning to realise just how hard this was going to be for Arthur to grasp… how deranged Merlin’s entire life mindset must look to Arthur. How much there was to explain. 

But he had to try. 

“I came to Camelot because I needed help, Arthur,” Merlin answered, and he opened his eyes once more, curling his hands around the bars as he tried desperately to urge the prince to look past his own biases for a moment. To push beyond the barriers of his upbringing long enough to begin to understand. “Isn’t that why so many others come here? I needed help and I needed Gaius. My mother knew that long before I did. I was so lost, and I desperately required some sort of guidance as my magic grew stronger with each passing birthday. My mother knew that Gaius could be trusted to teach me. He had known my father, and he had helped him escape Uther’s manhunt for him.”

Merlin sucked in his breath at this, debating on whether to explain further. But why not? What was there to lose now? “You even met him once,” he admitted, watching carefully for Arthur’s reaction. “My father. Balinor. The last Dragonlord.”

The words felt strange leaving his mouth, and for once, it was Arthur who looked like he’d been punched in the gut. “The… I—” he stuttered, and his face turned a ghastly shade of white. “The Dragonlord was your father?”

Merlin nodded, and it was weird to watch a wave of understanding flicker through Arthur’s blue eyes. It gave him a surge of hope. “Gaius didn’t tell me,” he began to explain, and the whole story started to flow out of him as he resorted to pacing the stone floor once more. It was a bit of a relief to move around instead of looking at Arthur, but at least Arthur was here. At least he was listening. “I suppose he was trying to protect me. But that’s why I am able to summon the Great Dragon. When my father was killed, his Dragonlord abilities passed on to me. I know I told you you had killed the dragon, but, well, I ordered him to go away. He has to obey my every word now that I am the last Dragonlord.”

Merlin said it rather matter-of-factly, but it was all clearly becoming a bit much for Arthur to take in. His eyes were glazing over, trying to process everything, but Merlin continued on before he could come to any conclusions.

“I know it’s hard for you to understand,” Merlin gushed, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible to avoid startling the prince further. “I know our lives are so different, and that it’s so hard for you to see through my eyes. But please. Please try. Gaius is one of the few people who survived the Great Purge. He is one of the few people who knows all the things my father was never able to teach me, and the only man who could ever hope to stand in for him. When my mother suggested I go live with Gaius so that he could mentor me, I was prepared to face the dangers of Camelot to get that. I will never regret doing so. Gaius saved my life by agreeing to take me in, and he did so despite the dangers I subjected him to.”

Merlin paused for a moment, catching his breath, and tears were beginning to well in his eyes again. He hadn’t realised how deeply he had been suppressing all of this until it had come bubbling up out of him—and especially as it was likely his last day alive to admit it all. Better late than never.

“I don’t regret coming to Camelot,” Merlin pressed on, and he hoped Arthur could see why he didn’t. “I won’t ever regret putting my life in danger to come here. I just didn’t… I never expected to meet you along the way. You were never a part of my plan. I hadn’t heard about the prophecy yet, or learnt that my arrival in Camelot had been foretold centuries ago by the Druids. When I first came to the castle, I didn’t know that it was the purpose of my birth to serve you and Camelot, and that’s why I never felt at home back in Ealdor… or why I’d often considered taking my own life.”

He stopped for a moment at this, shuddering, and unable to continue as he stared through his tears at the cell window and the bit of sunlight filtering through it. The thought of taking his own life was something he’d never admitted out loud to anyone but Gaius, but it was true. He had felt so adrift back then. So alone. The only sorcerer born in the middle of nowhere, with no idea what to do with himself or his powers. If he couldn’t use his magic for something, he was better off dead, right? What else was he good for? But the prophecy had brought his life into focus like never before. Gifted him a purpose much like Arthur’s—an ideal greater than himself, and a people worth fighting for.

Arthur himself hadn’t said anything throughout all this, and for a moment, Merlin feared he’d left the dungeon—but when he swirled back around, Arthur was still there, rooted listlessly on the other side of the bars. Just staring blankly at Merlin, as if Merlin was a unicorn that had wandered into his horse pasture, and Merlin figured he was a bit like that, in a way. He formulated his next words carefully. 

“I am a sorcerer, Arthur,” he said softly, and the three words felt strangely beautiful to say aloud this time. “You know that now. But what I need you to understand is that I’m not quite like others. I’ve had my magic since birth and I’ve always been in control of it, even without any formal study. I’ve always been an outcast, even among other sorcerers, but I know now why I am different from the rest. My magic was always meant to serve the betterment of Camelot. I was always meant to end up here. That is my destiny, foretold centuries before my birth under the name ‘Emrys,’ and it is why I am still living and breathing to this day.”

His whole body heaved as said those last words, finally finishing his spiel. It was a speech he had never written out for himself, and yet it was one that had been sitting in his heart from day one in Camelot. A hidden truth that was now out in the open air, and Arthur was still just staring at him. Lifeless. Emotionless. His face unable to read.

Merlin just stared back. He wasn’t sure what else to do. The truth was out there, and now it was up to Arthur to decide what to do with it. Merlin’s fate rested in his hands, and after a moment that felt like an eternity to Merlin, Arthur finally spoke.

“‘Betterment of Camelot,’” was all he said, repeating Merlin’s words dully, and that wasn’t exactly what Merlin had hoped for.

“Sorry?” Merlin asked, but to his great despair, he saw a surge of anger starting to flare in Arthur again. 

It wasn’t hard to spot the signs. Arthur’s hands curling into fists. His face reddening. His body tensing once more. It was all so familiar to Merlin, and yet all the more horrible to watch now than it had ever been before.

“Betterment of Camelot?” Arthur repeated again, and as his fury drove the syllables of the word ‘betterment’, Merlin was beginning to think maybe that wasn’t the best turn of phrase to use. “This is your star defense in all this, Merlin? That is your big call for understanding? That you should be forgiven and excused because some random Druids cooked up some prophecy in a fancy name, telling you that you were supposed to be here to protect Camelot? Oh, of course, Merlin, the oh-so-powerful Emrys, you definitely protected the kingdom just as promised when you murdered a Camelot knight in cold blood using the same magic you keep telling me I should understand and accept!”

His voice had risen to a screeching level in mere seconds, and Merlin’s heart plummeted to his feet, any remaining threads of hope vanishing from his body. All of his platitudes had soared right over Arthur’s head. Disappeared into the aether, followed by any of his surviving hopes and dreams.

They were back to square one. Back to the ghost of Uther shining in Arthur’s expression, stronger than ever before. No sob story from Merlin seemed to be able to banish the king’s poison from Arthur’s mind. It had been a futile attempt from the very beginning, and now it was Arthur’s turn to speak.

“Did it ever occur to you that this so-called prophecy is total horseshite?”  Arthur now roared in Merlin’s face, cascading into a furious rant of his own. Tears welled in Merlin’s eyes once more, and he had to stop himself from turning away from him to avoid the abuse. At this point, he might as well lay down on the stone floor and curl up in a ball to prepare for his execution. “Did you ever wonder if you’re really no different than any of the other sorcerers murdering my men, Merlin? And now you’ve dragged Gaius back into the old ways with your sorcery, making him complicit in your—”

“It was an accident, Arthur!” Merlin cried out in pain, cutting Arthur off. He couldn’t take it anymore. The accusations sent a flash of deep hurt and anger through his entire body and without thinking, he threw his arm forward in an angry gesture, causing Arthur to yelp—reeling away from a sorcerer’s outstretched hand. Fear instantly overtook the prince’s entire body at even the possibility of Merlin performing a spell, and it wounded Merlin like nothing ever had before. 

He instantly dropped his arm at the reaction, keeping his distance from the bars to alleviate Arthur’s fear. To try and appear non-threatening. But what was the point? His non-threatening days were over… as well as his days in general. “Please, Arthur,” Merlin attempted once more, his voice just short of begging now. “It was an accident. I need you to know that. It was a mistake, and one I could have remedied! I could have healed him with magic, and I would have, if you hadn’t sent me away. Did that even occur to you? Did it even cross your mind that I could have saved him?”

His voice croaked at this, and to his surprise, he witnessed a new emotion flash across Arthur’s face. It was an emotion that Merlin recognised instantly, but not one he would have expected to see in this moment. And yet... there it was.

Guilt. Fresh, dark, horrifying guilt, and it was a slip up on Arthur’s part that sent a new wave of understanding rushing over Merlin—especially as he watched Arthur struggle to conceal it. 

“It didn’t occur to you, did it?” Merlin voiced aloud, his words hardly above a whisper as that terrible realisation sunk into his bones. “It didn’t even cross your mind at all that I could’ve healed him? That I possess that ability? Was it deliberate, you sending me away? Robbing me of my chance to fix things?” His voice wavered, the words hardly able to form as he stared at Arthur in horror. “If you’d let me stay—if you’d trusted me—I could have fixed this, Arthur! Roldan could still be here!”

Merlin’s voice had spiked in urgency and grief by the end of his rant, and of all the truths that had been spoken, he quickly realised this was the last one Arthur wanted to hear.

The prince’s cheeks flushed scarlet, both from shame and fear—followed closely by denial. “Oh, no, ” Arthur raged, and he pointed an accusatory finger at Merlin’s face, his teeth clenched in fury. “You don’t get to put this all on me, Merlin. You don’t get to twist this, to—to wiggle out using clever words and dubious logic like you did back in the cave. I knew what you were doing with all that tricky little word play and secret meanings. ‘Emrys has left Camelot’?  Does it make you feel better to tell a clever lie over an outright one? Is this your way to alleviate your guilt for lying in the first place, and for not taking responsibility for your actions in the light of day like the rest of us?”

“Responsibility?” Merlin bristled in insult, and he really had never felt incensed quite like this. Arthur was deliberately changing the subject, deliberately steering around his mistake with Roldan. Purposely avoiding his own carelessness—avoiding his own responsibilities—and the audacity struck every nerve in Merlin’s body. “Responsibility for my actions, Arthur? Do you mean taking responsibility for existing? For being an illegal person by birth? Do you mean accepting consequences for protecting myself when a knight I thought was an enemy advanced on me with his weapon drawn? And really, Arthur, as prince of Camelot—when have you ever had to accept any consequences for your actions? Or your father for that matter?”

Outrage twisted Arthur’s features at this, and his mouth opened to fight back, but Merlin charged on forcefully before he could, trampling over any attempt to talk over him. “When you get someone killed, Arthur, there are never consequences,” Merlin seethed, fully braced up against the bars now. He was as close as he could get to being in Arthur’s face, his knuckles white around the dark metal. “When you get someone killed by accident, it’s actually ruled an accident. But what about someone like Gwen? Or her father? They can’t afford to make any misstep without winding up locked down here, and neither can I. This isn’t about responsibility at all and I think you know that!”

“Don’t you dare bring Guinevere into this!” Arthur thundered, and it took Merlin a moment to realise Arthur’s hand was squarely on the pommel of his broadsword despite the bars. “This isn’t about her. Or my father.”

“But isn’t it?” Merlin countered, and his anger faded suddenly, replaced by a sorrowful, tired cloud of defeat. “So, tell me then, Arthur—why do I still have a head?”

His voice quivered at the question, and Arthur blinked, clearly taken aback by it. “What?”

“You heard me,” Merlin said, and he pulled back from the cell door again, retreating to collapse onto the small bench of his cell, his limbs slumping with fatigue. “Why do I still have a head, Arthur? I know I’m losing it within a few hours, but you’ve known about my magic for nearly two days. Why are we only having this conversation now? Why didn’t you drag me to your father as soon as you found out? Or is the only reason I’m down here now and not then because I have the privilege of being someone you cared about? A privilege that has kept both Gwen and I from losing our heads at the hands of your father long ago?”

“Don’t you dare try to pin this on me!” Arthur screeched, and with every ounce of Uther returning in his features, Merlin lost more and more hope that he could ever get through to him. “There is no point in trying to spin this in your favour. I am duty bound to the laws of Camelot and the verdicts of the king. You know that. I do not always agree with those decrees, and one day, I may rule differently, but I don’t know where you got the inane notion that my thoughts on sorcery were ever going to change! Guinevere is no sorcerer. Tom was no sorcerer. You are. Therein lies the difference, Merlin!”

“And yet, you didn’t arrest me immediately!” Merlin retaliated, gesturing at the air like it may help his point. “And why is that, Arthur? Is it because, somewhere within yourself, you know that just because I have magic that doesn’t mean I am your enemy? That you understand, somewhere buried within you, that sorcerers should be judged the same as any man—on our actions, and not on the nature of something we are born with?”

He put as much emphasis as he could muster into every word, but again, they only fell on deaf ears. “Oh, based on your actions!”  Arthur scoffed, and once again, Merlin instantly regretted his word choice. “Alright, then, Merlin, let’s examine a list of your most recent actions, shall we? Because last I looked, that list begins with the murder of a Camelot knight!” 

Merlin’s face darkened, and he pushed himself up from the bench to try and conjure up a defense, but Arthur plowed on before he could. “I wanted to think you were the type of sorcerer you say, Merlin,” he raged, and he began to pace back and forth himself, leaving Merlin to recall how he had induced that habit on the prince over the years. “I wanted to believe that you were a sorcerer that wasn’t an enemy. While you obviously couldn’t stay in Camelot any longer, I wondered if perhaps I could help you find somewhere you could live.”

He stopped his pacing at this, and Merlin tried his best to avoid his gaze, but there wasn’t much use in it. Arthur stared at him so intensely now that he could not ignore it. 

“I wanted to believe you were my friend, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, and his blue eyes were so tortured and so sincere that these words cut deeper than anything that Merlin had ever endured. “I had wanted to believe that the man I’d come to know wasn’t just a façade built up to manipulate me. So, there’s your answer. That’s why I did not arrest you immediately, and that was why I didn’t tell you I knew about your terrible secret. I wanted to pretend that nothing had changed so that I could decide if you were an exception. A sorcerer that did not deserve to be put to death. But now…”

He trailed off for a moment, as if hesitant to say his next words aloud. But he said them anyway.

“Now I am more convinced than ever that those sorcerers don’t exist.”

Arthur swallowed at this, as if biting back tears at this, and Merlin did the same, both of them trying hard to keep it together. But there wasn’t much left to keep together. Arthur had more or less spoken Merlin’s death knell, and they both knew it. Merlin didn’t even have any words left in his arsenal to defend himself. It seemed more clear to him than ever that Arthur’s mind was beyond changing.

“I did try, you know,” Arthur admitted softly, almost in afterthought, and he drew in a large breath, attempting to compose himself. “I did what I thought was right, and I gave you time and space to prove yourself to me. But you failed my test. And now I’m left with no choice.”

He said it like he was trying to reassure Merlin, but Merlin flinched at the word “test.” While Arthur had been ranting, Merlin had gravitated towards the centre of the cell, and he now stood directly across from Arthur, the small sliver of light illuminating the blond prince amongst the gloom of the dungeon walls. It was an image that would forever haunt Merlin’s dreams now, as he stared at Arthur from beyond the cell bars.

 “Test?” Merlin managed to repeat softly, and he disliked everything that word implied. “What do you mean by ‘test’?”

A hint of guilt crossed Arthur’s face at the question, and Merlin did not like what that implied, either. “Well, not a test, exactly,” Arthur defended himself in a rush, and just as Merlin suspected, he stepped back a little. Trying to meld himself with the shadows like a shield. “A trial. One of my own devising, and not my father’s. I wanted to give you a fair chance, and I…” 

Arthur trailed off for a moment, and his expression was so disoriented that Merlin wanted to reach through the bars and shake some sense into him. But there was no use in it. “Merlin, I just wanted to understand the why,” Arthur said, his voice almost a sob, and the dreadful part was that Merlin wanted that, too. But perhaps that was impossible. “I just wanted to understand why a sorcerer would come here, serve underneath me, and then lie to me as you have. And can you blame me? Can you blame me for being unable to fathom what possessed you to do these things?”

There was a begging quality to Arthur’s tone now, and Merlin was at a loss of what to do about it. He desperately wanted him to understand, but this was not some heavy lifting Merlin could perform for him. He could not just erase a lifetime of misunderstanding from Arthur’s mind. So, instead, he just said the only thing he could think to say. 

“What is there to fathom, Arthur?” Merlin said, and it was a last-ditch attempt to reach his friend. To help him remove the Uther-shaped block in his brain that was preventing him from making progress—but, in the end, that was an obstacle that Arthur himself would have to remove. “I am still a person. Is it so hard to believe that I care? Care about Camelot? Care about you , despite my oh-so-detestable and evil abilities? Is that really so impossible to fathom?”

“Yes, Merlin, it is!” Arthur cried out, and he struck the dungeon bars with his steel gauntlet in a sudden attack, causing Merlin to flinch at the sound. The loud vibration of metal on metal bounced around the dungeon, clanging in both their ears. “It is impossible for me! I want to believe you, but I also want to know it isn’t all one big ploy to manipulate me because clearly, the majority of what came out of your mouth was nothing more than fiction!”

“And do you think I enjoyed lying to you?” Merlin retorted. “Do you think I take pride in sneaking about and hiding parts of myself?” 

His voice stalled a little at this, and he brought a hand to his chest, begging Arthur to see past the surface just a little bit. “I’m still me, Arthur,” he implored, and he prayed to the old gods and the new that Arthur believed him. “I was and am always me. But I’m only the amount of me I can legally be around you. No part of that is a manipulation, and you will never understand what it is like to live your life like that. No amount of testing me is going to help you know what it is like to remain in a kingdom where your very existence is hated and hunted. I’m glad you wanted to give me a fair trial—really, I am, but I do think in most fair trials the accused is allowed to know they are being interrogated!”

Merlin had let a bit of his anger leak into his voice at the end there, and that had been a mistake. 

“Oh, of course that’s your spin on this then, isn’t it?” Arthur fumed, and once again Merlin had failed to clear that Uther-shaped barrier. “That I’m incapable? That I can’t possibly understand? That I’m in the wrong for giving you a taste of your own medicine? Do you really think that all your lies are justified? That I am the enemy here, for going against my own father’s wishes by not dragging you to him in chains when I first discovered your betrayal?” 

His voice had gotten so shrill that it was a miracle the whole castle hadn’t awakened to hear them. Merlin wondered if they had. “I wanted to let you go!” Arthur howled at him, and his flushed face was a painting of mixed emotions. Rage. Confusion. Sadness. Guilt . Merlin imagined his own tortured expression wasn’t all that different. “I had wanted that for both of us, Merlin! I had hoped that it could come to pass! You even passed the first two trials. Just not the third.”

Arthur paused there, out of breath, and Merlin took the chance to cut in. “So, there were three tests?” Merlin accused, not even bothering to hide his disdain at the mention. “Three attempts to put me through your secret trial? What were they? I feel I have a right to know.”

Arthur deflated a little at this, a bit of shame crept back into his expression. At least that was a small victory on Merlin’s part. He should be ashamed. “Our conversation in my chambers was the first,” Arthur admitted, and he couldn’t quite meet Merlin’s eyes anymore. “The Druids were the second.”

“Right,” Merlin murmured, processing that. Arthur’s odd emotional breakdown alongside the bizarre display in the Druid cave. It all checked out. “And the third?”

“If Cenred’s men attacked, I wanted to see how you fought in battle,” Arthur explained slowly. The guilt in his voice was rising by the second. “I wanted to see how you went about it. If you had control over your… spells. Evidently not.”

He gestured vaguely at the word “spells,” and Merlin frowned, realising all too haltingly what he meant by that. I wanted to see how you went about it.

“I—wait,” Merlin said, and he took an unsteady step back. His palms flew to his temples and he tried to wrap his mind around this, pressing hard on his skull as a speculation he didn’t want to consider fluttered across his mind. “Arthur, you—you didn’t you send Roldan to spy on me, did you?”

A rush of panic sliced across Arthur’s face at Merlin’s question, and Merlin’s eyes instantly widened at the sight of it. Arthur attempted to shield it, but it was too late. Merlin knew what he’d seen. 

“You did send him, didn’t you?” Merlin breathed aloud, and he hardly dared to believe it. To digest that, and process how it changed things. “You ordered one of your strongest fighting knights to follow me during a battle and you’re surprised when I thought he was an enemy knight? What were you thinking, Arthur?”

“I didn’t think you would kill him!” Arthur screamed, but Merlin could see the shame gnawing at his every feature. A worm eating at his core, and wondering if he was more at fault than he’d realised. “I knew you wouldn’t perform magic in the open, and I didn’t think…”

“Well, no kidding, Arthur,” Merlin snapped, cutting in with a rage he hadn’t expected. “You clearly didn’t think!  We were ambushed!  I was fighting for our lives, just like you, and I must have saved you from countless enemy knights over the years! That is my job. Keeping you from harm, even if I have to keep it a secret! Even if I never get any credit for it! And yet, here you are, sending a knight to spy on me in the middle of a bloody battle, charging in to the Druid cave and threatening their leader—”

“I was never going to kill the Druids!” Arthur defended himself, but Merlin thought even he could see the weakness in that argument. “I have no quarrel with them. I just wanted to see how you’d respond, so I—”

“—threatened a large group of innocents with murder just so you could test my strength of character?” Merlin finished his sentence for him, incredulous. “Do you even hear yourself, Arthur? In what world is that a trial worth having? In what way was all this violence worth it? Why didn’t you just talk to me!”

“Why didn’t I just talk to you?” Arthur yelled in echo, and the tears had broken free now, rolling down the bridge of the prince’s nose. Merlin had to bring his hands to his own face to confirm he was also crying. The floodgates had really opened now. “Merlin, why did you never talk to me?  Four long years of being my manservant and you never figured this was something I should know? Or did you just decide that it was better if I found out on my own? That somehow it would be my responsibility to confront you about it?”

His voice had collapsed, swirling with hurt and brokenness, but Merlin could hardly contain his rage. “Oh, that is just rich, Arthur,” Merlin seethed. “Me, tell you I’m a sorcerer? I screamed it to the whole war council once! None of you believed me, and don’t you think I would have told you about it, if it would’ve meant things would go any differently? I think we both know it wouldn’t have made any difference, and I’d still end up exactly where I’m standing now sooner rather than later. I wanted to explain everything to you! I wanted nothing more than to stop hiding from you! But I’m not a fool. I knew the turmoil it would cause you and I didn’t want to burden you in that way. I didn’t want to put you in the exact position that you are in right now!”

He took a big breath in then, once more trying to nail his point home, but it still felt all too futile. “It is my destiny to serve you, Arthur,” Merlin said in a whisper, and he hoped the sincerity of his tone carried across the iron bars and buried themselves in Arthur’s thick skull. “It’s my destiny to live here, in Camelot, so that I can protect you in a way only I can while we work towards a future you cannot yet see. I knew this wasn’t something that would be easy for you to understand, and so I tried to protect you from it for your own sake. And that’s why I hid this from you.”

He said it with as much goodwill as he could muster, but Arthur was still not getting it. “But you’re still hiding from me, aren’t you?” Arthur accused, and it was as if Merlin's words had flown in one ear and sailed right out the other. All of Merlin’s deepest, darkest truths bounced off of Arthur like broken arrows, and Arthur stepped away from the dungeon bars, spreading his arms wide to show Merlin off to an imaginary crowd. “Look at him!” he yelled to the invisible jury. “He’s still  hiding from me! The great and powerful Emrys!  Renowned by the Druids to the point that they would die for him, and yet, this entire time we’ve been talking, he hasn’t performed a single spell.”

He pivoted back to face Merlin at this, and his expression had a deranged grimace on it. “Your secret is out, Emrys,” he said in a slightly crazed tone, still gesturing with his right arm wildly. “And there is nowhere left to hide, and yet, you haven’t made even the smallest indication of who you really are. I don’t hide who I am like you, because I can’t. I am the crown prince of Camelot, a future king, and I wear my crest and my armour in the light of day. I wield my sword with precision and honour. But when you hide destructive, murderous powers, and when you clearly can’t control them—”

“Control?”  Merlin roared, and at this time when he snapped, he could feel the ancient dragon magic within him boil to the surface. His voice deepened, a growl buried within it not unreminiscent of Kilgharrah, and beneath his feet, the whole cell began to shake. “Control?  You want a spell, Arthur? Fine! Then have a spell!”

And with that, Merlin thrust his arm out towards Arthur, feeling his powers explode within him—a tidal wave of fury, pain, and grief turned into pure energy.

And then the whole row of dungeon bars flew off their hinges.

The bang was deafening. Sparks flew off the metal as the dungeon door rose into the air, a supernatural wind kicking into existence as the whole row of dungeon bars soared away from Merlin, careening for Arthur’s face. Merlin was pretty sure he heard Arthur cry out—saw his armoured arms shoot up to protect himself, but Merlin stopped the bars just before they struck him, the metal hovering just centimetres from Arthur’s nose.

For a moment, they both just stood there: Merlin with his right arm outstretched, his magic coursing through his veins, and Arthur only a few yards away from him, his back arched and forearms crossed above his face to protect himself. Meanwhile, the dungeon bars gently drifted above Arthur’s head, the steel somewhat warped from the strength of Merlin’s magic.

In the silence that followed, Merlin slowly advanced, emerging from the shadows and taking a single step over the dark line that had once held his prison.

“I do possess control, Arthur,” Merlin ground out, and he could feel his eyes glowing gold. His words were less a threat and more a fact. “I’ve had control of my magic since before I was old enough to speak. It is an inseparable part of me. It is no different than my arms, or my legs. I have more control over it than most of your knights ever will with their weapons, and my magic is not a weapon. It is only a weapon when I choose it to be.”

He spat out those last words, and as he stood there, performing his magic knowingly in front of Arthur for the first time, Merlin did not regret his outburst. He could feel his raw magic radiating down his arm to his fingertips, controlling every minor movement of the eviscerated dungeon door. He was in complete control of it, keeping it bobbing in midair as easily as he would hold a jug of water. It felt good to take control. It felt good to be himself—openly and without apology.

But what didn’t feel good was the look on Arthur’s face.

Fear was an understatement. Complete and utter terror had overtaken the prince’s face, and in a way Merlin had never witnessed before. He had seen Arthur look at him in a multitude of ways, but never like this. Never like Merlin was a monster that had crept up from the depths of the underworld, threatening his life with outstretched claws, and it was a look that shredded any good feelings within him instantly.

Merlin had never wanted Arthur to fear him.

Slowly, Merlin’s conviction wavered, his fury dissipating, and he retracted his arm, calling the bars back towards him and placing himself voluntarily back into his prison. The whole door swooped back into its spot in a graceful arch, snapping back into the floor with ease, and Merlin melded the metal back to the stone with a simple flick of his wrist. If someone had looked closely, they would be unable to tell that the bars had been blown off their hinges, but Merlin’s point had been made all the same. He could walk right out of here if he wanted to. Take on the guards. Make a run for it. Perhaps even survive the escape attempt.

But that was not the overall point he was trying to make. Merlin did not consider himself an enemy of Camelot, and the last thing he wanted was to justify that narrative. Somehow, deep within him, Merlin had known this day and this war between them would come. The last thing he wanted was to choose the wrong power play at the end of the chess game, and he dearly hoped that he hadn’t made a fatal misstep by acting out as he had just now.

“Arthur, I’m not your enemy,” Merlin said softly, trying to curb his anger a little as he could feel them both moving into an endgame of sorts. A final plea for mercy on Merlin’s part, and a final attempt at reconciling any sort of relationship he and Arthur shared. “I am your friend, and somewhere within yourself, you must know that. My many mistakes only define me if I don’t atone for them, and you have many mistakes to atone for as well. Just because you haven’t known a sorcerer to stand at your side doesn’t mean I’m not the exception. We’re not as different as you’d like to think we are, and I do not oppose you.”

He said it with conviction, almost like a declaration, but his confidence was not shared in Arthur. The prince looked shattered as he cowered before Merlin even from a long length away—a deep, dark shame overtaking his features as he realised just how badly he would lose to Merlin if Merlin didn’t hold back.

“But you d-do oppose me, don’t you, Merlin?” Arthur managed to stutter, and he lowered his armoured arms very slowly. He had still held them raised, shielding his face despite the iron bars having already been returned and fixed. The fear in the prince’s face was even more apparent now, and it was an image worse than any other for Merlin to watch as Arthur stood there like a leaf quivering in the wind—weakened despite his armour, and appearing like even the smallest gust might blow him over. A shell of the Arthur Pendragon that Merlin had come to know.

“You do see that, Merlin, don’t you?” Arthur whispered, and Merlin had to move in closer just to hear his soft, crestfallen words. “You must see that. There is no way forward for you here. You stand opposed to the governing of Camelot, and that is everything I represent. That is my destiny.”

“But, no, Arthur, it isn’t,” Merlin tried to argue, and he fought back tears of his own as he realised just how useless his words truly were. “You are destined to be king, and to make this kingdom your own. I… I stand opposed to the governing of Camelot as it pertains to one article in particular. Why does that suddenly make me an enemy of the crown? Do I have to be perfect in upholding your father’s ideals to call you my friend? I think we both know that isn’t how it has to work, and you can’t claim you’ve never disputed a law before. I saw how you argued against the First Code as it pertained to Lancelot. You saw the honour in him, and his will to serve. You begged your father to reconsider, and you let him go. I don’t see myself as any different, nor do I see any difference between Lancelot’s sword and my magic. And yet... here we are.”

“Yes,” Arthur said flatly, and even as he said it, a stoic, emotionless mask returned to his face. A dark sense of conviction creeping into his features, and a mental veil that dropped into place to conceal his pain and fear, hiding his inner thoughts from the world once more. With a pang of loss and guilt, Merlin watched as the Arthur Pendragon he knew and loved retreated once more into the depths of Arthur’s mind, replaced only with a stony warrior façade. A mental armour braced against the world, and this time… this time, there would be no breaking through it. “Here we are, Merlin. And here we will stay. Goodbye, Emrys.”

And with that, Arthur turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the dungeon, rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight before Merlin even registered what he was doing. The blood red of his cloak snaked behind him like a flag, dragging around the dark corner with terrible finality, and unlike Leon—Arthur did not turn back. 

For the second time that night, Merlin felt like all the air had been sucker-punched right out of his lungs. It was incredible to him how quickly it felt like he was drowning, choking on air as his chest struggled for oxygen. Panic instantly rose within him, seizing up his muscles as he stood there, immobilized, and somehow—somehow, he had thought he’d had more time. Somehow, he had thought he had had more words to say. More defenses to summon, or more heartstrings to pull—

But now, there were no more words to say. Just like that, it was all over.

“Arthur?” Merlin called out, his words echoing down the dungeon corridors as he touched the bars, clasping them with his clammy, quivering hands. But his solitary cry was spoken aloud for only the unforgiving stone of the castle to hear.

Arthur Pendragon was already gone. 

Chapter Text

Arthur barely managed to wave Sir Madoc back down to his post before his whole arm began to shake. 

It was a familiar feeling to him now, the sensation of shock, and Arthur cursed the tingle of it as it ran down his limbs. His body was finally catching up to everything that had just occurred and the steps of the staircase swayed beneath his boots. Every word that had left Merlin’s mouth came crashing down on him in full force and it was only a moment, but within it, Arthur couldn’t quite shield his fragile mental state from Madoc. He stumbled against the staircase railing and he saw the guard’s eyes widen in surprise at the display of weakness. It shouldn’t have happened. Arthur had trained for things like this, prepared himself for facing sorcerers, and yet...

Nothing could have prepared him for Merlin attacking him like that. The dungeon bars hadn’t actually touched him, but Arthur had never experienced fear like he had in that moment. The image of Merlin buried in the shadows, his molten eyes the only thing visible in the gloom, was a nightmare Arthur had never imagined for himself. Despite knowing of Merlin’s sorcery for days now, Arthur had never truly processed the fact that his manservant could absolutely murder him without a second thought. All that power lay within his fingertips—

And yet, he hadn’t done it. Merlin hadn’t killed him, or even actually struck him. Instead, he’d pulled back and replaced the bars as if the outburst had never even happened. A display of power beyond Arthur’s wildest fears diminished in favour of the Merlin that Arthur knew: a man that spoke his mind, but then left it at that. Left the final decisions up to Arthur and respected his authority at the very same time that he challenged it. It was a paradox within Merlin that Arthur had never been able to put his finger on. He still couldn’t. For years now, Merlin would argue with him and tease him until the cows came home only to stand by his side in his time of need without question. He always displayed a loyalty Arthur had never encountered in any other person. It was baffling then and it was baffling now.

But that wasn’t the worst part, was it? No, what was worse was that even with all the truths that had come to light, that version of Merlin still existed. It hadn’t all been a lie. Merlin had chosen not to escape from his prison. He was still very much the loyal servant he had always been as he rotted down below the castle, voluntarily. So what exactly was he trying to prove to Arthur? That he was powerful and stupid?

Perhaps, and that thought wrecked Arthur more than anything. But it didn’t really matter. None of it mattered anymore. Merlin had finally shown his true colors and he, Arthur, the crown prince, had taken the necessary action. Only two days ago the court of Camelot had heard the words “most powerful sorcerer ever born” spoken aloud in the throne room, but Arthur realised how much he’d been downplaying that meaning up until today. It felt strange to understand such a thing, but if Merlin could perform an attack that devastating without uttering a single word, what other sort of feats was he actually capable of? Maybe he had been wrong earlier and perhaps Merlin did possess control of that magic of his...

And perhaps that was even worse. 

The whole thing made Arthur’s stomach churn and there were tears forming despite his efforts to hold them back. Any sort of clarity he’d achieved in arresting Merlin had been officially shattered. He was right back where he started—with shock coursing through his veins and his thoughts a mess of indecision that his father would despise. Arthur didn’t know what direction to take now, and maybe it was too late to change course even if he wanted to.

But there was one thing he did know. He needed to retreat to his chambers before anyone else witnessed him like this. He couldn’t afford anyone else to see him so weak, and so with a small burst of strength, Arthur pushed himself away from the dungeons and ignored Madoc’s call questioning if he was alright. He was not alright, and with stumbling steps, Arthur began to stalk down the corridor, pushing through the tingles of shock and holding back his tears—

Only to run almost headfirst into another person entering the dungeon from the opposite direction. 

And it was exactly the last person Arthur wanted to see.

“Gaius—” Arthur croaked as the person’s features came into focus through his watering eyes. There wasn’t enough time to wipe the tears away before the physician saw them on his flushed cheeks. “I apologise, I—”

“Where is he, Arthur?” Gaius cut him off in a rush, and he didn’t even bother adding any sort of proper reverence to his tone. The physician’s face was a storm of fear for his charge and that look made a sharp pang of guilt slice through Arthur’s core. He was sure his visible tears were not lost on Gaius. “Where is Merlin? Leon informed me he’d been arrested?”

Arthur paused, unsure how to respond. He’d wanted to avoid this exact interaction, but there was no running away from it now. His mind was melted mush, but he couldn’t afford to continue to act a mess in public. Against his better instincts, he opened his mouth. 

“Yes, he has been arrested,” Arthur answered, and that was all he could say at first, but the much harsher words soon followed. “Although I believe you know why, Gaius.”

He hadn’t really meant to say it like that. It came out far more accusatory than he would have liked. A tinge of his anger at the situation had returned to him, and Arthur hated how much he sounded like his father. He didn’t enjoy watching Gaius’ expression fall and he could see the wheels turning in the physician’s brain, putting the puzzle pieces together.

There was a good minute of silence between them before Gaius spoke, and when he did, his voice was quiet. “May I see him?” he asked. “Or will you be barring me from that?” 

It was a genuine question, but there was also a hard edge to it. It was about as angry as Arthur ever saw Gaius, and almost like a father’s way of saying “I’m very disappointed in you.” Somehow, it was worse when Gaius did it than when Uther did it. The dungeon walls seemed to press in on them both, sucking all the air from the chamber, and Arthur honestly didn’t know how to answer Gaius’ inquiry. 

There was also something far worse to mull over. In that moment, Arthur realised he actually needed to make a decision on Gaius himself. It was a terrible thought to consider, but Arthur knew now that Gaius was complicit in Merlin’s operations— very complicit. And yet, Gaius hadn’t murdered a knight and that was enough to make Arthur hesitate despite knowing his father would absolutely execute the physician for this. So why couldn’t Arthur bring himself to do the same? Why was he so weak in this department? His father was going to be furious that Arthur had let Merlin off the hook as long as he did...

But Arthur couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d had enough loss today. Proven incapable once again.

“Yes, you can go see him,” Arthur decided, and he felt deficient as soon as he allowed the words to leave his lips. He’d never felt as feeble as he had in the past few hours, but he turned around, glancing down at Madoc and signaling to the knight that Gaius was allowed to approach. Madoc nodded in understanding, but he still looked concerned for Arthur, and Arthur’s face was grave when he returned to the physician. “But I must warn you, Gaius,” he added, speaking low so just Gaius could hear him. “I don’t think Merlin can walk away from this one. He killed Roldan. He’s confessed as much and he attacked me just now. With magic. You know that is something I can’t just ignore. I’m bound by the laws of Camelot, as are we all.”

He tried to keep his voice even as he said it, making it more of a political statement than a plea for forgiveness, but his tone gave him away. Arthur could hear his own grief and indecision in his words and he was sure that wasn’t lost on Gaius. He was an emotional wreck and there was no hiding that anymore.

To make matters worse, there was no forgiveness or sympathy for him in Gaius’ expression. The court physician didn’t say anything for a moment, just staring at Arthur in a way that dressed him down with more efficiency than Uther could ever hope to do.

 “I was trying to save him, you know,” Gaius said eventually, and it was as if he’d guessed what Arthur had been thinking back in his quarters. “Roldan. We were both trying to save him. I hope you know that.”

And with that, he brushed past Arthur, beginning to make his way down the steps, but Arthur threw out his arm, catching Gaius by the elbow before he could. 

He could feel Gaius go rigid in his grasp and that pained him. But he said what he had to say regardless. “Please be careful, Gaius,” Arthur warned, and he kept his voice low. “I don’t want to arrest you. I know my father would have me do so, but it seems to me that Merlin coerced you into this in some way. I don’t want you to make a misstep that you can’t come back from. I don’t want you making the same mistakes as Merlin.”

He meant it in goodwill, but Gaius looked gravely disgusted by it. The physician ripped his arm from Arthur’s grasp and leveled him with a glare Arthur really hadn’t thought the old man was capable of. “There has been no coercing here,” Gaius snapped, and he said it loud enough that Merlin could probably hear him. “You don’t get to pick and choose who to save, Arthur. I’ve learnt that the hard way myself. I knew this day would come, and yet I hoped it would not. You know I care for your father, but I’d hoped you may see things differently than him. However, I am not surprised you have chosen the same path as he has. Unlike the rest of us, you are not as bound to his laws as you think you are.”

Gaius paused for one second more, braced at the stop of the stairs, and for a terrible moment, Arthur was worried he might fall. But Gaius held fast to the railing, looking Arthur dead in the eye. “Do what you will, sire,” Gaius said, and his tone held a dark warning in it that chilled Arthur to the bone. “But I’d advise thinking long and carefully about your decisions. One day, you will be king, and it’s about time you start deciding what kind of king you will be for your subjects. All of your subjects.”

And with that, Gaius turned his back to Arthur and made his way down the dungeon steps. Arthur watched him go, his body shaking with emotions he could not sort out, and with that, he finally left the dungeons behind him. Fleeing the scene like the coward he was and attempting to outrun his problems. The castle halls were empty—a small mercy—and Arthur was grateful to reach to his chambers unencumbered, relishing in the therapy that was slamming his chamber door shut. Alone once more.

Usually, the two rooms of Arthur’s chambers were a refuge for him. A place where he could finally slump his shoulders and relax. But today, the mess of Arthur’s living space only reminded him that Merlin was under lock and key and nothing would be the same in these rooms ever again. Biting back another wave of emotion, Arthur collapsed onto his red bedclothes, armour and all, and a headache worse than any he’d ever had bloomed at his temples. He just wanted to sleep, but there was no way his brain would allow it. He could still feel the tingle of shock flowing through him alongside the echo of Gaius’ cutting words. His thoughts were a jumble of confusion and conviction, and his mind was clambering over mountains he’d already climbed. Did I make the right decision? What would Roldan think of all this? What would my father? What will he think of it, when he does learn of it? Will Gaius ever speak to me again? Will I be a good king? Am I even a good prince?

Am I really going to kill my best friend?

The dark tangle of it all was too much and Arthur buried his face in his pillow, taking some small amount of comfort in the feeling of cool silk on his tear-stained cheeks. All he could really do was lay there and hope that no one disturbed him.

But of course it wasn’t long before he heard a knock on his door, and Arthur bolted upward at the noise.

He tried his best to wipe any remaining tears from his cheeks as he stared at his chamber doors, praying that it was Guinevere and not his father. He wasn’t sure if he could handle an encounter with the king right now, nor did he think he could hide his obvious crying just yet. “Who is it?” he called, and to his surprise he heard Morgana’s voice filter through the wood of the door.

“It’s me, Arthur. May I come in?”

Arthur exhaled, relaxing a bit at her voice and wondering if he should order her away. But he doubted that would do much good with Morgana. Knowing her, she’d come in anyway, and at least she was better than his father. With a groan, Arthur dragged himself from his bed and made his way to his chair instead, collapsing upon it and attempting to look a bit more dignified. Only then did he call back to Morgana, granting her permission to enter.

The door swung open slowly and Morgana poked her head around the corner, her long, dark hair falling behind her and her face a cross between concerned and inquisitive. She looked dressed for court, which was probably not a good sign. 

“I just wanted to see if you were alright,” Morgana announced, and she strode into the room with a very Morgana-specific confidence, closing the door gently behind her. She studied Arthur with a critical eye and Arthur suddenly felt a bit like a frog caught in a jar on Gaius’ work desk. “Leon told me that Merlin’s been arrested. What happened? You look awful.” 

“Awful, do I?” Arthur muttered grimly as he rubbed at his eyes with a gloved hand. He supposed he must. Still sweaty and bloody in his armour from the battle. Face probably red and raw from crying. What a model of a future king. “Brilliant. Glad to hear it. What exactly have you heard, Morgana?”

Morgana frowned as she claimed the chair opposite Arthur, sitting upon it sideways and letting her long skirts flow off the side. Arthur was struck for a moment with the memory that Merlin was the last person to sit there… back when Arthur’s trials for him had just begun. He had been a bit more optimistic about the outcome then. 

“I heard you were caught in an ambush in Essetir,” Morgana answered, and she tapped her nails on the tabletop as she talked. Perhaps she’d picked up that habit from Arthur. “That Sir Roldan perished in the fight. That Merlin was arrested sometime thereafter. Is he suspected to have something to do with it? Are you injured at all? You haven’t taken off your armor.” 

“I haven’t gotten around to it,” Arthur said with a sigh, and he avoided Morgana’s other questions for a moment while he unstrapped his gauntlets. It was a good distraction, although it mostly reminded him that the only reason he still had on his armour was because he didn’t have Merlin to take it off him. 

Morgana was still staring him down, her one green eye and one blue eye as intense as ever. “Come on, Arthur,” she urged, and her voice was as no-nonsense as it always was. Cutting straight through to the point. “Stop stalling. What happened? We both know you wouldn’t arrest Merlin over nothing.” 

Arthur’s hands quivered a bit and he shoved them in his lap before Morgana saw. “He has magic,” he blurted out, and it was stupid that he felt so weird about revealing a secret that wasn’t his.

Silence met him from the other end of the table. Morgana just stared at him blankly for a moment, her face a mixture of surprise and confusion. A reasonable response. That would have been Arthur’s reaction too, if he’d heard such nonsense a few days ago.

But it didn’t take long for Morgana’s surprise to fade. Her expression soon morphed from bewilderment to firm disbelief. She didn’t believe him. 

“Merlin has magic?” Morgana echoed, and she said it more like a joke than a question. “We’re talking about the same Merlin here, right?” 

“I wish we weren’t,” Arthur replied, and his tone held a dark seriousness. He was not in the joking mood, and as Morgana took in his absolute sincerity, her disbelief began to waver. “I witnessed it, Morgana. With my own two eyes. And he’s admitted to it. He’s powerful, too, and I—”

His voice broke off for a second, as he didn’t know what else to say. This was his first time talking about everything he’d learnt with someone other than Merlin himself. It was too much betrayal and confusion to really put to words. “I found out a few days ago,” he pressed on, and it seemed strange to say it out loud. “I saw him sneak out to the forest and I followed him. He didn’t realise I was there nor that I’d seen him perform his… magic spells, or whatever you’d call it.”

He didn’t mention the dragon. Somehow, that seemed like too much to explain and Arthur still didn’t totally understand all that either. He struggled to figure out what else to say, but in the ensuing silence, Morgana’s disbelief fully disappeared from her face. Arthur could see realisation beginning to dawn on her. 

“You’re not joking… are you?” Morgana said slowly, and her voice was somewhat hollow now. Arthur could see his own distress and confusion reflected in her eyes—processing the magnitude of what Arthur was saying. “A sorcerer? Merlin?”

“Trust me, I know how it sounds,” Arthur muttered, and he scrubbed at his face with both hands. He could feel his exhaustion weighing on him more than ever. “But I’m not messing with you, Morgana. I swear it. You didn’t see what I saw. I don’t know if this whole time it was all just an act, or—”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Morgana murmured, cutting him off, and it was almost comical to see her go through the same stages of horror and confusion as Arthur had. Her eyes were wide now, and a bit wild . “Why would he—this doesn’t make any sense!”

“Welcome to my past few days,” Arthur grumbled, and he resisted the urge to just slam his head down on the table and never get back up. Despite seeing Merlin perform magic several times now, it still didn’t feel real or true. 

Morgana’s gaze grew distant, her eyes staring at Arthur without seeing him. Arthur could practically see the wheels in her head turning and he granted her the time to process. After all, he’d needed a moment or two to think when he’d first discovered all this.

“You said you found out a few days ago,” Morgana said finally, and something else had changed in her expression. The wildness was gone, replaced by a slight frostiness. It unnerved Arthur somewhat, although he wasn’t sure why. “And yet you only arrested him today. Why? Why didn’t you arrest him immediately?” 

Arthur had been dreading that question. He hesitated for a moment, playing with his gauntlet straps and struggling to find an answer that didn’t make him sound insane. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, and he wished he had a better answer. “I guess I wanted to figure out why he would come here. What stupid plot he was up to to think he could stroll in to Camelot and just be my manservant for years on end. You’re right, it makes no sense. It still makes no sense, and I suppose I thought…”

He scowled at himself, realising just how stupid he was sounding. “I was naïve,” he concluded after a moment. He hated to say it aloud, but it was true. “Despite what I’d seen him do, I thought maybe he wasn’t that dangerous. That I could observe him, test him, and figure out why he was here. And then maybe I could get him out. Like we did the Druid boy. But I was kidding myself. He is dangerous, and now a good knight is dead due to my carelessness.”

Morgana’s face was like stone. She seemed almost angry, and that surprised Arthur. “And you haven’t told Uther any of this?” 

With slight embarrassment, Arthur shook his head. “I figured I’d leave the court details for the morning,” he said softly, twisting his mother’s ring back and forth on his finger until it hurt. “It’s nearly sundown. I thought it was best to bring it all to his attention tomorrow.” 

That was an excuse, of course. In truth, Arthur secretly hoped that Merlin may escape in the night. Blast his way out of the dungeon like Arthur had already witnessed he was capable of doing. Since Arthur had yet to deliver the details of Merlin’s arrest to his father, the manservant’s fate was not yet sealed. Some part of Arthur was still fighting for Merlin’s reprieve in that way, even if it felt futile at this point.

Morgana’s eyebrows knit in confusion at that answer. “You’re stalling for him,” she accused, and Arthur flinched at her correct assertion. “Why? Why are you protecting him? If you saw what you think you saw, if he’s killed a knight—”

“Because, Morgana, what if I was wrong in all this?” Arthur snapped, and he threw his hand up in exasperation, surprising even himself at the outburst. He hadn’t meant to cry out like that, but the inner turmoil had been bubbling just below the surface, just waiting to break free. “What if it was an honest mistake, and Merlin didn’t mean to injure Roldan? What if he could have healed him? What if he’s never meant me or anyone any harm like he claims? What if Roldan’s death is my fault, and what if…”

He trailed, unsure if he was willing to speak the next few thoughts that came to mind. But he let them slip through his lips anyway.

“What if our ban on magic is wrong, Morgana?” he asked, and his voice wavered as he said it. He struggled to fight the tears returning to his eyes. “What if it’s causing more harm than good? Creating more enemies when there doesn’t need to be any? What if I may have just condemned a friend to death?” 

The words felt like treason leaving his mouth. They were Merlin’s words, and he could hear that as soon as he spoke them. They were a reflection of everything Merlin had been trying to convince him of back in the dungeon. How the ban on magic was wrong. How Roldan’s death was an accident, and no different than if Arthur had accidentally harmed a fellow knight. How Arthur and his father had driven people like Merlin to the lengths he’d taken, turning loyal friends into dangerous enemies. 

Morgana’s eyes widened at his declaration, and Arthur could see just how crazy his words were to her. “Do you really believe that?” she asked, and her voice was a stunned whisper. “Do you really believe that your father’s laws are wrong? That magic should be legal?”

“I-I don’t know,” Arthur answered, and that was true. “I don’t know what I believe. I suppose that’s the issue. I know magic is dangerous, and it has caused us so much grief. So why does arresting him feel so wrong? I don’t… I don’t know what to think, Morgana. My head is telling me one thing and my instincts another. But what do you think?”

He hadn’t planned on asking her that. After all, Merlin had told him that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. That only Arthur’s opinion mattered in the end. But Arthur still didn’t know what his opinion was, even after hours and days of wrestling with it. He needed advice and if he knew anyone who didn’t struggle with indecision, it was Morgana. She would give him a straight answer.

“What do I think?” Morgana repeated, and she looked more shocked by this development than Merlin’s sorcery. “Well, I… I do think you may be right, Arthur. I’ve always held my doubts about Uther’s brutality. You know that. And I will forever be grateful that you helped me get the Druid boy out of Camelot. He was an innocent in all this, and Uther would still have him killed. Perhaps reconsidering the ban on magic is something that should be done for the good of the people… both magical and not.”

She had a point, of course. She always did. Arthur had brought up the Druid boy in this conversation himself and it was reassuring to hear Morgana agree with him. It meant he wasn’t crazy for entertaining the thought of lifting the magic ban. And yet it still felt impossible and useless. “Reconsidering,” Arthur repeated, and he choked out a bitter laugh at that. “Yes, that’s something my father is wonderfully good at.” 

“Well, I can’t imagine Uther would ever consider something like this,” Morgana agreed with a small sniff, and her gaze grew distant again. Her expression turned wistful. “But he will not be here forever, Arthur. Perhaps in the future, things can be different. Perhaps you will have made your mind up by then, and maybe then... we could work on it together?”

She said it tentatively, focusing her gaze on a crease in her skirt and speaking as if she thought Arthur wouldn’t like the idea. But Arthur appreciated the sentiment. “Perhaps we can,” he said with a weak smile, and he ran a finger over his mother’s ring once more. He wondered what she would have thought of all this. “It’s a nice thought, Morgana. But that’s not something we can work on now, is it? And this is now. Merlin is now. You were right, I am stalling for him. I didn’t want to arrest him, and I am not sure if I made the right call. I just… when that traveler came here and told us of the sorcerer called Emrys, I never thought…”

He trailed for a moment, trying to find the right words. These days he had to fight to form a coherent sentence. What a mess he was. “I just never fathomed it would be Merlin, of all people,” he said finally, and he felt stupid for saying it. What an idiot he was for not seeing it sooner. “I mean, would you have ever guessed he was Emrys? Or was I just woefully blind in all of this?” 

Across the table from him, Morgana went rigid. “Emrys?” she repeated, and she said the name oddly. Almost with a tinge of fear. 

“Ah, yes, that seems to be what the Druids call him,” Arthur explained, and he realised he’d forgotten to mention the part about Merlin’s other name to Morgana. “The group of Druids we encountered yesterday kept going on about a prophecy. Something about Merlin being Emrys and a destiny for him. It sounds ludicrous to me, but Merlin seems to believe in it.”

Morgana suddenly abandoned the crease in her skirt, leaning forward with a sharp intensity, and Arthur flinched at her quick change in demeanour. He was getting jumpy with any sudden movement now. Merlin’s magic had made him feel so vulnerable, and even in the company of safe people like Morgana. 

“Arthur, think about this,” Morgana said gravely, her hands on the table, and Arthur didn’t like how serious she sounded when speaking his name. “Do you not think that a prophecy about a sorcerer more powerful than any other is something to be taken seriously? And especially one that the Druids hold in high regard? One that they hope may act as a weapon for them?”

She said it with a hint of obvious fear, but Arthur groaned at the question. “Honestly, Morgana?” he replied, and he rubbed at his temples, trying with no luck to get rid of his burning headache. He didn’t know what he was thinking, unloading all this on her. Now it was two of them having a mental breakdown. “I think it may be a load of Druidic hogwash. Merlin has magic, that much is clear, but I don’t know about this whole grand destiny he seems to believe in so strongly. I imagine the Druids have made it up to recruit him for their crusade to overrun the kingdom with the Old Religion. It’s a fool’s errand, and nothing more.”

But even as he said, Arthur wasn’t entirely sure if he believed that anymore. After all, Merlin had just blown up his dungeon cell without so much as a murmur of a spell. Arthur knew now that Merlin was absolutely as dangerous as the Druids claimed he was. And what if Morgana was right? What if the prophecy had merit? What would that mean for him, exactly? The thought of his life being ruled by magical divination was something that horrified him, but he was also lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to know what the prophecies said about him. He wanted to see what the Druids were hiding from him, and Merlin held the key to those answers. If Merlin died, those secrets would likely remain secrets forever.

Across the table, Morgana looked a little shaken and Arthur was unnerved by that. “Are you alright, Morgana?” he pried, and his brow knitted with concern. It took a lot to shake her, and Arthur had just unloaded a lot of information on her in a short span of time. “I’m sure this came as quite a shock. I should have broken it to you more gently. I wasn’t the only one he deceived.”

“No, it seems you weren’t,” Morgana said with a tinge of frustration, and Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her quite so tense. “But what it’s worth, Arthur, I think you did the right thing in arresting him.”

Arthur blinked in surprise at that. “Really?” he managed, and he couldn’t quite hide his shock at that answer. For some reason, it filled him with a wave of despair. “You… you really believe that?”

“Yes,” Morgana said, and she spoke with a certainty that Arthur did not possess. Her expression was stony once again, and this time Arthur knew why that unnerved him. It reminded him of his father. “I do. And as sorry as I am to hear it, I don’t think this is the same situation as the Druid boy.”

“It isn’t?” Arthur said, and he wasn’t quite sure why he was so unnerved by her decision. After all, he’d asked Morgana for her opinion and he’d gotten it. She’d even come to a similar conclusion to him. So why was he so defensive? “But I thought you just said we should reconsider this whole ban on magic? And yet you believe Merlin should be executed?”

“No, no, of course I don’t wish to see him executed,” Morgana said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and she got up from her seat, moving to the window and peering out of it. The late afternoon sun was flowing into Arthur’s chambers, dancing in the blues and purples of her dress. “But I was there when that man came to court. I heard what he said. He spoke of a sorcerer named Emrys that was an obvious threat to Camelot. And you think that is Merlin?”

“That appears to be the name the Druids have drawn up for him, yes,” Arthur confirmed, and he didn’t like the tone Morgana was using. Almost like she wasn’t telling him something. “And Merlin didn’t deny it. But what are you getting at, Morgana? What are you hiding from me?”

Morgana paused, pursing her lips, and that was confirmation enough for Arthur that she was withholding something. “Morgana, whatever it is, tell me, please,” Arthur pressured, and his mind was whirling with what she could possibly know. Something about the prophecies the Druids had mentioned?

There was silence between them for a long moment—a silence in which Morgana simply stared out the window, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. She looked like she was battling with what to say, but eventually, she opened her mouth.

“Arthur, do you remember when I was kidnapped by that violent band of Druids?” she asked, and she was not meeting Arthur’s eyes. Her gaze was still focused on the courtyard below them.

“Yes,” Arthur said slowly, and he recalled those rather horrible few days. His father had gone stark raving mad trying to find her. “We were very relieved to bring you back home safe. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Morgana said flatly, and she looked at him properly now, her eyes as bright and intense as ever. “When I was with them, I heard the same whispers that this traveler brought to us. About a sorcerer named Emrys. More powerful than any warlock that has ever come before him and a prophesied threat to Camelot’s rightful heir.” 

Threat. Arthur’s breathing hitched at that. For not the first time, he struggled to understand what he was hearing. A threat to Camelot’s rightful heir. An ominous warning, and that wording couldn’t refer to anyone but him. But was this one of the prophecies the Archdruid had spoken of? 

“You heard this?” Arthur pressed, and he hoped against hope she’d been mistaken. “In those exact words? You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Morgana said, and her voice was hollow. Fearful. “Arthur, if Merlin is Emrys, there is a prophecy about him and it’s something the less peaceful Druids hold dear. I fear they are plotting against us. In fact, I’d be shocked if they haven’t already made some sort of move against you.”

Arthur suddenly felt terribly cold. He could now hear his father’s words of caution echoed in Morgana’s voice. She had never sounded like him before. “Why did you never tell me of this, Morgana?” Arthur prodded, and he was unable to fully disguise a shred of anger in his voice. “Why wouldn’t you have told us this immediately? Especially if I was in danger?” 

“I-I wasn’t sure how,” Morgana stuttered, and her eyes were watering a little. “Like you, I thought it might be superstitious nonsense, or… or just a tall tale they created to scare me. But what the traveler said, and with what you’re telling me now, I don’t think it is. Whatever information the Druids are withholding from us, they are willing to die to protect it. The last thing I want is to see another innocent person killed at Uther’s behest. You know that. But Merlin might not be innocent in all this. If he is Emrys… he could be actively plotting with the violent Druids to overthrow Uther. First him, and then you. Perhaps his killing of Roldan was not an accident.”

Arthur frowned at that, leaning hard against the back of his chair. Like so many things these past few days, he didn’t know how to process this new information. It made logical sense that Merlin may be plotting with the more violent Druid sects. Certainly their recent encounter with a band of Druids hadn’t exactly proven him to be innocent. And yet, for some reason, everything Morgana was concluding felt… wrong. Wrong in a way that surprised even him.

“I don’t know about all this, Morgana,” Arthur said softly, and he battled with himself internally, struggling to select the words to describe what he was feeling. “I didn’t… one of the reasons I didn’t arrest Merlin right away was because I wanted to test him. He’s been here a long time without harming me or my father, and he passed several of my tests. I honestly don’t think he is plotting anything against us. If anything, the Druids we met seemed at odds with him.”

“And how do you know for sure he was at odds with them?” Morgana countered, and she returned to the table, placing both her hands down on the wood to look at him with anger in her colourful eyes. “How do you know he hasn’t attempted to hurt you or Uther? Did he admit as much to you?”

“No,” Arthur admitted sheepishly, and he realised he didn’t know how to articulate why Morgana’s conclusion felt so wrong to him. “But when I did talk to him, Merlin didn’t seem—”

“Merlin didn’t seem a lot of things,” Morgana hissed, and she looked furious now in a way that startled Arthur. He’d rarely seen her this intense, and when he had, it was never good. “He didn’t seem like a sorcerer, did he? Or the type to try and kill his friends? I’m sorry, Arthur, but I think you may be blinded by bias on this one. All information points to Merlin being a threat to the crown. Something must be done.” 

And with that, Morgana turned on her heel and strode for the door, the glittering layers of her purple skirts billowing behind her. She moved so fast that Arthur hardly had a chance to react and he started in his chair, grappling for words. “Wait a minute, Morgana, where—” he blubbered, nearly tipping the chair over with him in it. “Where are you going?”

“To Uther, since clearly you don’t seem to be all that quick about it,” Morgana snapped, and she ripped open Arthur’s door with her hand, leveling him with a glare. She looked possessed by a righteous fury, but she calmed somewhat for a moment, her expression softening. “Look, Arthur, I’m sorry,” she added, and she did sound sincere in her pity for him. “Truly, I am. It’s clear to me that you’re very torn up about this. That’s understandable. Merlin meant a lot to you, and he did to me as well. But if Merlin has admitted to being Emrys, then he isn’t like the Druid boy. He isn’t an innocent, and he’s already killed a knight. Your father needs to know all of this and if you won’t tell him, then I will.”

“Morgana—” Arthur tried, but Morgana had already gone, stalking out of Arthur’s chambers and into the corridor. With a stroke of panic, Arthur bolted up from his chair to give chase, catching the edge of his door before it slammed shut—

Only to stop in the doorway, frozen in his tracks and staring out into the corridor just as Morgana’s skirt train turned the corner. She was no doubt going to the throne room but Arthur stalled in his pursuit of her. After all, what would he achieve by following her? What did he possibly have to say in Merlin’s defense to his father? This feels wrong? I shouldn’t have arrested him? Please let him go? Morgana was absolutely in the right, and Arthur had been too conflicted to bring his concerns to the king directly. He had been holding out for no reason and Morgana was simply doing what Arthur was too weak to do himself. 

With a heavy heart, Arthur let go of the door and let it swing shut again, locking himself back inside. The silence and solitude of his chambers reigned once more and he returned to his chair like a man possessed, slumping back into it and burying his face in his hands.

He stayed there for a little while, just wallowing and acting perfectly useless. The stale air of his chambers felt like it was suffocating him, and it wasn’t long before Leon appeared with the court summons. As soon as the knight knocked, Arthur knew it was him. He barely lifted his head to mutter “Enter.”

Leon’s head poked around the door, but he didn’t come in fully. He looked a little uncomfortable, and Arthur wondered how terrible his appearance truly was. He didn’t want to glance in a mirror. “Your father requests your presence, sire,” the knight reported softly, and his usual stoic expression did betray some distress at the situation. At least Arthur wasn’t the only one. “He has summoned the court for Merlin’s trial. It requires your testimony.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur replied listlessly, and he stared at the chair opposite him. Now empty, but still lingering with the ghosts of Merlin and Morgana. They both were telling him such incredibly different things. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Right,” Leon said with an awkward nod, and he tried to leave, but Arthur stopped him with a hand.

“Wait,” he said. “You came here from the dungeons, yes? And Merlin was still there?.” 

It was a dumb question. Arthur knew that, and yet he couldn’t help but ask. Couldn’t help but hope that Merlin had come to his senses and blown his way out of the dungeon. He wanted that more than he cared to admit, but he knew deep down that Merlin hadn’t done it. If he had, Arthur would have heard the warning bells, telling him of Merlin’s successful escape.

Leon blinked in surprise at the question, and a sort of pity wormed its way onto his face. It wasn’t far off from Morgana’s expression. “Yes, Merlin was still down there,” he confirmed. “But… why do you ask? Did you not think he would be?”

“No, no, I knew he would be,” Arthur said with a shaky exhale, and he stood up in a hurry, grabbing his red cape and brushing past Leon. He summoned up all his courage and began to make his way towards the throne room, a dark sense of dread and grief settling over him. The empty castle cloisters felt like they were swallowing him whole and as Arthur abandoned the sanctuary of his chambers for good, he prayed that Leon hadn’t seen him wiping away a few final tears. He could not afford to shed any during the upcoming trial. The throne room was a place of dignity and law, and Arthur had to conduct himself as the future king he was. A stoic façade that agreed with his father’s every word...

And even if those words meant Merlin’s death.

Chapter Text

Arthur vividly remembered attending his first ever trial.

Like most trials held in Camelot, it had not ended in acquittal. It had been a young man, a sorcerer, condemned for some spell or another, and it bothered Arthur now that he could not recall what the charges had been. It hadn’t been the crime that mattered, really. It had just been the fact that a man possessing magic had dared to come to Camelot. “A precedent must be set, Arthur,” his father had told him as they’d strode to court, the king’s hand like a vice on Arthur’s shoulder. “Sorcerers must know they are not welcome here within our walls. I have witnessed first-hand the devastation that magic can bring if left unchecked, and we mustn’t let them think they can defy us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” Arthur had answered, because that was what he was supposed to say in situations like this. He’d learnt that fast as a child. Nod, and say “yes, Father.” There would be no speaking out of turn if he didn’t want to get put in his place later, and especially as trials were not akin to feasts or knighting ceremonies. They were not meant to be enjoyed, and they did not leave Arthur with a sense of peace or joy when they concluded.

This trial would be no exception, and Arthur steeled himself as he reached the set of doors leading to the throne room. He was no longer ten years old, but the oak paneling of the twin doors still stretched high above him, nearly touching the ceiling. The decorative dragon sparkled in the light shining through the windows, and the guards posted there reacted at his arrival, bowing in reverence as they drew the doors open for him.

When the doors parted, the splendor of the throne room revealed itself to Arthur, leaving him to join the crowd of Camelot’s court. He entered the hall feeling as if he were the one condemned—all eyes on him as he arrived to court late and as he spotted his father across the room. The king was standing near his throne, his red cape draped over his broad shoulders and his crown sitting prominently on his head. He was an impossible sight to miss, with the circlet glittering in the rays filtering through the stained glass. Arthur swallowed at the sight of it. One day soon, he too would wear a crown like that, and he could already feel himself collapsing under the weight of it. The thought made him want to retreat back to his chambers and never emerge, but he had to do this. Had to face this.

The king didn’t notice Arthur’s approach at first, but Morgana did, already sitting on her chair to Uther’s left. She shot him a smile from her perch there, and it was a sad smile—a silent apology for putting him in this position, but Arthur didn’t really have the emotional capacity to send her a smile back. Instead, he stalked the length of the hall to his own seat: a chair situated to the right of the throne. It was a chair that signified the king’s heir, but Arthur did not sit upon it. Instead, he elected to stand in front of it, his arms crossed as he observed the lords and ladies of the court milling about the room.

The hall was alive with soft chatter, and even Uther was talking away with one of the guards, a rare smile on his often stoic face. There were smiles on nearly everyone’s faces it seemed as the nobles settled in to their places, all acting as if they were gathered for some sort of celebration, and not a murder trial. Their audacity made Arthur’s blood boil, and it took a few minutes for Uther to actually notice his son’s arrival.

But when he did, his smile instantly faded.

“Arthur,” Uther said disapprovingly, his tone harsh on his son’s name, and for not the first time, it took all of Arthur’s strength to not squirm under his father’s critical gaze. “Glad to see you finally join us. I must say, I find it distressing that I heard your report from Morgana, and not from your own mouth following your return.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Arthur apologised, and he was relieved to hear that his voice sounded normal. He laced his hands behind his back to look a tad more diplomatic, but also to keep them from visibly shaking. He’d rehearsed his speech, but it still came out stilted. “I was… indisposed. The ambush took its toll on me, as well as the loss of a good knight and dear friend.”

His practiced excuse seemed to work. Uther’s expression softened somewhat, and his eyes grew distant. “Yes,” the king muttered softly, and the death of a good knight seemed to make him temporarily forget his disapproval of Arthur. “I was sorry to hear of Roldan’s passing. He was a great warrior. A good man, and a loyal friend, but am I to believe what Morgana tells me? That Merlin is the one to blame?”

Arthur’s lip quivered at that, but he nodded in confirmation. “Yes,” he confirmed, and he didn’t know why speaking the truth was so difficult. “He is.”

Uther’s expression darkened, and Arthur did not like what that looked entailed. “I am surprised to hear that he is a sorcerer,” Uther said, and he grew closer to Arthur, studying his son carefully. His green gaze seemed to pierce right through Arthur and Arthur struggled to keep his face impassive. “And you never suspected Merlin of magic, despite all this time? If I remember correctly, he has been your manservant for many years now.”

“I didn’t suspect him, no,” Arthur replied defensively, and he sensed an accusation hidden within his father’s words. “It was a failure of mine that I didn’t spy it sooner. He has managed to deceive us all these past few years, it seems. It’s been a shock to me that he was capable of such lies.”

“Yes, either that, or he has been enchanting you,” Uther said with a slight hiss, and his eyes narrowed. Arthur cringed at the assumption, but he wasn’t surprised that his father would conclude it. “And to think, it was I who granted him his position as your servant. How foolish I was then, and how lucky we are that Roldan bore the brunt of his attack. His heroic actions have spared your life.”

He patted Arthur’s shoulder at this, an attempt at affection, but Arthur barely stopped himself from recoiling. His father said it as if it were a good thing, Roldan’s death. A blessing to them both, and Arthur squirmed at that line of thinking. He didn’t like that the king was making out the whole thing to be a necessary sacrifice. In his mind, it was nothing of the sort, but like a coward, he merely nodded and said, “Yes, I am very lucky.”

Uther sighed heavily then, and Arthur got the impression he was already looking forward to this trial being over. The king glanced at his throne for a moment and his next words only confirmed what Arthur feared. “Well then, how would you like me to do it, Arthur?”

Arthur blinked at the question. “Pardon?”

“Merlin’s execution,” Uther said simply, and he sounded surprised that Arthur needed to ask. He met Arthur’s gaze and there was no sadness in the king’s eyes, merely emptiness. “I know this must be difficult for you, Arthur, condemning a friend. It is one of the worst feelings in the world. Believe me, I know it well, and yet today may not be the last time that someone turns against you. When you are king, you must grow accustomed to taking necessary measures when betrayal rears its ugly head.”

He said it more like an order than an observation, and as he did, Uther’s gloved hands traveled to his gilded crown—lifting it off his head and studying it for imperfections. Arthur watched him do this with a critical look of his own, observing as his father found a speck of dust on the crown and flicked it off. Nothing short of perfection for the King of Camelot.

“I do understand that this is your first time experiencing a betrayal like this, my son,” Uther continued, and he placed the crown back on his head. A symbol returned to its proper pedestal. “So tell me, what would be easiest for you? I’d like to be sensitive to your feelings in this matter. Hanging him may be less upsetting to witness, but the pyre or the axe are options if you’d prefer to extract revenge in Roldan’s name.”

He said it very matter-of-factly. Casually, and as if he were discussing what floral centrepieces to purchase for a feast and not execution methods. Arthur immediately balked at the question, scrambling to find the words to reply. The trial had not yet started. Merlin had not yet even been summoned, and yet here his father was asking what form of murder would help Arthur sleep better at night.

The thought triggered a revulsion inside Arthur that was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He struggled not to let it show on his face, but he needed to answer his father. Against his better instincts, he opened his mouth, forcing himself to speak.

“A hanging is more merciful,” he managed to say, barely able to form the words. “I would prefer that.”

It was true that a noose was the least violent of his options, but Arthur did not feel merciful for choosing it. His father didn’t seem bothered, however, simply nodding in acceptance of Arthur’s decision.

“A merciful hanging for a traitor it is,” Uther agreed, and despite saying the word ‘merciful,’ his voice was devoid of any such mercy. “I must say, though, Arthur, if you are to encounter treachery such as this again, I would advise you not to be so lenient. It is… understandable, this inclination towards clemency you have. It is your mother’s soul living within you, I suspect, but something she never understood is that mercy can often be foolish. Employed incorrectly and leniency can be your downfall. Don’t ever let mercy be your weakness. Do you understand me, Arthur?”

“Yes, Father,” Arthur said on automatic, and just like that, their conversation was over. The king had abandoned his son for the glory of his throne, sitting gracefully upon it and letting his cloak drape across the armrests. He perched there with such confidence—his back straight, his face stoic. All the markings of a king who ruled with certainty, and all the things Arthur wasn’t sure he was capable of as he stood beside him, restless and burdened with the knowledge that this trial was nothing more than a formality. The verdict was already decided, the method of execution sorted. Arthur’s secret trial had been the only one that really mattered and Merlin had failed it.

“Bring him in already, will you?” Uther muttered to his guard with a sigh, and Arthur twitched at his flippancy. “I would like to get this over with as soon as possible. We have other more important matters to attend to today.”

“Yes, sire,” replied the knight, and he left his position at the throne to approach the guards at the hall entrance. Together, the knights heaved open the double doors and a hush fell over the crowd—a dark apprehension settling over them all like a shadow. It was an eerie silence, and almost as if all the nobles of the court had turned to stone, lying in wait for the commencement of the trial.

But the silence was soon broken by the distinct noise of clinking chains.

The sound skipped around the castle walls, reverberating in Arthur’s ears, and it was all the announcement the court of Camelot needed of Merlin’s arrival. It was the sound of a prisoner being escorted to his doom, and Arthur sucked in his breath, trying to prepare himself for what was to come.

But nothing could have prepared him for it.

It was a terrible sight to see, watching a former friend walk through those oak doors. Merlin’s wrists were clamped tightly in shackles as he was dragged into the hall, flanked by two guards that dwarfed him in size. The accused sorcerer moved as if he were already condemned, his buckled boots unsteady on the throne room floor and his head hanging low, not looking at anyone. It was the march of a dead man, but as Merlin neared the throne and the king, he did look up just the tiniest bit, his eyes finding Arthur’s.

Arthur struggled to not look away. He felt he owed Merlin at least that much, but it was difficult to look at him. It was distressing to witness how different his friend appeared in this moment. Only hours before, Merlin had stood before Arthur as an equal—separated by bars, yes, but standing his ground, arguing with Arthur and pleading his case with a righteous determination. But now…

Now Merlin looked pale. Weak. Scared. It was hard to imagine him as a murderous sorcerer with his hands restrained in black cuffs and his whole body curled in on itself, pulled along by the guards like a sack of potatoes. It was almost as if they were two different people, the man in the dungeon and the man at the trial. In many ways, the man the Druids called Emrys was merely a battle persona and this was the real Merlin, looking up at Arthur now with his blue eyes welling with fear and defeat. The contrast was not so different from how Arthur often acted himself, really. Bold and confident in the heat of battle only to be saddled with doubts and fears the moment the fighting ceased.

So perhaps we aren’t that different after all, Arthur thought to himself, and he cringed at the implications of his own mind. It was all too little, too late. His father was already standing up from the throne and Merlin was already being shoved to his knees, forced to grovel at his king’s feet on the cold, dark floor. Merlin’s eyes shifted from Arthur’s face to the scratched wood of the hall’s floorboards, keeping his gaze downcast and not looking at anyone as the king towered over him like a shadow of death.

The throne room remained silent save for the slight clinking and clanking of Merlin’s chains. It was a pensive silence, almost as if the hall itself was holding its breath in apprehension.

But then the king spoke and the trial had officially begun.

“Merlin,” Uther boomed, and his powerful voice echoed off the walls. He pronounced the name with an air of contempt, and for some reason that made Arthur irrationally angry. “Or should I be calling you Emrys now? I have, after all, been informed that is your true name.”

He phrased his words as a question, but Arthur figured his father hadn’t really expected any answer. However, Merlin lifted his head up from his red scarf just a little, finally looking the king in the eye. “I prefer Merlin,” he answered softly, and his small request felt like a dagger twisting its way into Arthur’s heart. Merlin did not speak in the voice of a smug sorcerer. He sounded remorseful, resigned, and Arthur didn’t like what that implied.

“Well then, Merlin,” Uther sniffed, and this time when he spoke Merlin’s name, he said it like an insult. “You stand here accused of sorcery, first and foremost. Am I correct in saying this?"

Merlin swallowed. “Yes,” he answered hoarsely.

“And you admit to that?”

“Yes,” Merlin replied, but this time, he raised his chin in the tiniest hint of defiance, his eyes sparkling with spite. “Although I do not apologise for it.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat at that, a slight murmur traveling through the crowd at Merlin’s words, but Uther clicked his tongue, unsurprised. “Naturally you do not,” he huffed, and he threw a dismissive wave of his hand, quieting his court. “Is there ever remorse to be had in the voice of a sorcerer? And to think I allowed you into my royal household. To think I trusted you as a member of this castle court. I suppose this is a lesson to us that no one can ever be truly trusted, and that no man ever truly knows who is their enemy. Am I right, Arthur?”

He turned to Arthur at this, and Arthur fidgeted. “Yes, Father,” he mumbled, but he could not meet Merlin’s eyes.

“You also stand accused of murdering a Camelot knight, Merlin,” Uther continued smoothly, and he moved forward now. His boots passed slowly around the accused like a wolf circling its prey, his royal cape drawing a blood-red circle around Merlin’s kneeling form. “Am I correct in that?”

“Yes,” Merlin croaked.

“And you admit to that, too?”

“I do,” Merlin managed, but tears welled in his eyes at the mention. “But for that I do apologise. It was an accide—”

"Silence!” Uther roared, and both Arthur and Merlin flinched at that. The king’s hand flew from him as he spoke, and for one terrible moment, Arthur thought he might strike Merlin. But the king merely continued on his tirade. “I will not entertain false banalities from your wicked mouth. I’ve heard enough of them from your kind over the years. You can claim morality all you’d like, but I know the truth of the matter. There are no redeeming qualities in magic. Only death and destruction, and you have proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt today.”

“Proven?” Merlin echoed, his tone incredulous, and Arthur winced to hear him speak that way. He silently willed Merlin not to fight back—to not make this worse on himself, but Merlin charged on anyway, his posture taut and poised despite the chains weighing him down. “Proven what, exactly, Uther? That after all the death and destruction you have caused, somehow I am the only one guilty of it? That I am the only one to blame? There is blood on both sides of this story and you know it, Uther Pendragon. So let’s not pretend.”

There was a dark challenge in Merlin’s words, and Arthur saw what was about to happen before it happened. Merlin’s head was raised in defiance and this time when Uther moved, he attacked with lightning speed, the back of his black gloved hand whipping across Merlin’s face with power behind the blow.

The cruel crack of the slap reverberated throughout the throne room. It was worse than the sound of the chains as it echoed around the walls, and it was followed by a cry of pain from Merlin as he reeled from the blow. Blood seeped at the corner of his mouth, and the sorcerer brought his chained hands to his face gingerly, cradling a now reddened left cheek.

Small gasps flew around the throne room at the strike, wafting through the court, although they were quickly stifled. No one wished to appear in contempt of the king, and Arthur found himself a foot out of line, having nearly jumped to Merlin’s aid. He quickly stepped back in position, praying that no one had spotted him almost springing into action, but he glanced out at the court long enough to catch sight of Guinevere in the crowd. Her hand was covering her mouth to shield her horror, and Arthur felt the invisible dagger in his heart twist further.

It was not the first time the King of Camelot had struck someone in court. It would not be the last.

“Don’t you dare speak to me in that way, you vermin!” Uther thundered at Merlin, and his armoured arm was still raised, threatening another blow. “How dare you pretend that you are the victim here, and in my court of all places. A knight is dead by your murderous hand. A good man, and with a family now left uncared for, so do not pretend you are anything but an assassin and a traitor. You are guilty of all you are accused of, and you deserve to die for it!”

“And so the answer to violence is more violence, is it?” Merlin said, and Arthur sucked in his breath to hear him still arguing. There was contempt shining in the servant’s eyes now, and Merlin let his chained hands fall back to his lap. Dark blood flowed from his swelling lip, but he continued to stare Uther down, unfettered. “An eye for an eye? A tooth for a tooth? Is that your grand plan in this, Uther? We will get nowhere with that mindset and you know it!”

Merlin practically yelled the words, righteous fury shining in his every feature, but there was a rage within the king that far surpassed anything Merlin could hope to conjure. Uther’s every muscle was coiled at Merlin’s audacity, and this time when Arthur’s father primed his arm to strike, Arthur did more than just step a toe out of line.

His legs moved without thought or care. The world seemed to cascade into slow motion and Arthur’s whole body reacted without him meaning to, his limbs jumping into action before he could comprehend his own movements. It was a blip in time, a second at most, but Arthur shot forth on instinct, catching his father’s arm before it reached Merlin. His hand immediately tightened around his father’s elbow, holding the king at bay, and the rage in Arthur’s father’s eyes quickly melted into surprise.

“Stop,” Arthur whispered to him, and he had no idea what he was doing. For the first time in days, he’d moved on pure impulse, and it was not lost on him that this reaction was no different than Merlin’s in the Druid cave. He’d thrown himself between a knight and a sorcerer, moving in a clear act of treason, but to his own shock he felt no regret for his actions. His grip was firm on his father’s arm, shielding Merlin from another blow, and everyone present knew that the prince was the superior man in strength. Uther would not be able to break free from him unless Arthur allowed it.

The king’s dark green eyes were a cauldron of shock and fury as he stared Arthur down, questions brimming in his face that Arthur didn’t have the answers for. Beyond them, murmurs broke out amongst the court once more. “What are you doing, Arthur?” Uther hissed at him, and Arthur wished he had a decent reply, but he didn’t. He had no words. Only actions, and this was the decision his body had made.

The standoff continued for a few seconds—Arthur with his hand tight on his father’s arm and Uther with his expression growing more furious by the second, perhaps even considering striking his heir in lieu of Merlin. In many ways, Arthur would have liked to see how it may have played out, but thankfully, he was spared from facing his father’s wrath by a new arrival to the throne room. The voice of Gaius echoed across the hall, and immediately the court descended into chaos.

“Uther!” Gaius roared, and the bang of the throne room doors being thrown wide open was enough to break Arthur and his father from their vice-like confrontation. They both whirled around in surprise only to witness the physician storming into the chambers with his brown robes swirling like a tempest, his expression twice as angry as when Arthur had seen him last. Arthur hadn’t even realised that Gaius hadn’t been present when the trial began, but Merlin stirred at his arrival.

“Gaius, don’t!” Merlin exclaimed, rocketing to his feet, but the physician ignored him, cutting between his ward and the king just as Arthur had done. The energy in the room instantly shifted and in the confusion, Arthur managed to break away from the confrontation, retreating back to his spot. His breathing was heavy, his body shaking as if he’d just come from battle, but he was unsure what to do now as the king stared down Gaius instead.

“It was me who killed him, sire,” Gaius announced to the court, and Arthur’s heart sank as he realised just what the old man planned to do. “I am the one to blame for Roldan’s death. I am the sorcerer who has killed him once he was brought to my chambers. Merlin has been entirely under my control, I confess it—”

"No!” Merlin cried, and this time he tried to launch himself in front of Gaius, but the guards immediately seized him, pinning him back. “No, that isn’t true. It’s not true! It was me, Uther. I killed him. It was entirely my fault. I am the sorcerer here, he isn’t—”

“No,” Gaius cut him off, and Arthur could see a dark defensiveness in Gaius’ eyes as he ground out the single word. It was the sureness of a father protecting his child. A parent’s will that would not be easily denied. “No, it was me, sire, you must see that—”

“It was me!” Merlin howled, but this time as he screamed it there was a roar behind his words and Arthur recoiled, having learnt exactly what that deep roar meant. Merlin’s hands twitched despite the iron cuffs and his eyes burned a bright gold for all the court to see, a shock wave emanating from him. Beneath Arthur’s feet, the ground began to shake, cracks appearing in the wooden beams and dust raining from the ceiling in great clumps.

Fear rippled amongst the court, startled yelps breaking out among the people. The guards all drew their swords and within seconds, Merlin had a blade to his throat. The shaking immediately stopped and Merlin’s eyes shifted back to blue.

“It was me,” Merlin said again, quieter now, and more carefully this time to avoid getting his throat slit. His eyes were still somewhat glowing in defiance. “As you can see, Uther, I’m the sorcerer here. It has always been me. I have been a spy in your castle for years now, and Gaius has been completely under my mind control. I am the man they called Emrys. I am the sorcerer that you have been told to fear, and you should fear me. You should dread the likes of me, Uther Pendragon, because I alone represent magic returning to this kingdom one day and there is nothing you can do to stop me!”

And with that, Merlin let his eyes flash a brilliant gold again and he grabbed the sword at his throat with his chained hands, ripping it away from his face. Arthur cried out at the motion, rushing forwards as he expected Merlin to be cut—but instead the sword melted in Merlin’s grip, red-hot globs of metal dripping on the guard. The guard screamed in pain, jumping away from Merlin and leaving him free.

Horror overtook the crowd, the trial descending from chaos into a full-on battle. In a flash of steel, Uther unsheathed his sword and out of habit, Arthur did the same. The cold grip of his weapon felt right in his hands, cradled in his fists, but for once in his life, he didn’t plan on using it.

"Restrain him!” Uther screamed at his knights, fury taut in his every feature as he watched a sorcerer defy him in his own throne room. But the Camelot guards all wavered despite the king’s order, hesitant to advance. Every eye in the room was on the twisted, melted sword still sizzling on the wooden floor and the dangerous sorcerer standing over it, his eyes still conspicuously alight with sorcery.

Merlin smiled ever so slightly at their fear. It was an evil smile, and Arthur had never seen Merlin look quite so much like an enemy. “Scared are you, Uther?” Merlin asked, and his voice was suddenly threatening. He didn’t sound like Merlin anymore, and his words were now mocking, his posture cocky. It was as if he was putting on an act—becoming what Uther feared him to be for the sake of the crowd.

But it was not for the sake of the crowd, was it?

No, for the sake of Gaius. It took Arthur a second to realise it, but the truth soon became clear to him. He could see it in Gaius’ face as the man watched on helplessly from the sidelines—powerless now that there was no denying Merlin’s magic any longer. In his attempt to protect Merlin, Gaius had forced his hand and now Emrys would play the part of the evil, plotting sorcerer. He would do it if meant Uther believing in Gaius’ innocence and a clearing of the physician’s good name.

"Restrain him!” Uther screeched again, and this time, the guards did move, pushing in on Merlin in a circular formation. Arthur kept his sword raised, but he didn’t stray from his spot, his eyes glued to Merlin as he expected this to be the moment. The moment, where Merlin blasted everyone away in a powerful gust of magic and made his escape. Surely everyone in the court now knew he was capable of it and Arthur waited for Merlin’s hands to move—waited for his manservant’s eyes to burn once again and for him to leave everyone in the dust as he made his grand escape.

But, to Arthur’s surprise, Merlin didn’t do anything of the sort. There had been a supernatural wind kicking up all around them—a magical attack of Merlin’s just waiting to happen—but as the knights began to surround him, the magical gusts died back down to still air. As Arthur watched on, horrified, Merlin let the glow of magic drain from his eyes, his chained hands falling limp. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and before Arthur’s eyes, Merlin gave up entirely. He simply stood still, allowing the guards to seize him from behind and for a sword to be brought to his throat once more.

“No…” Arthur heard Gaius whisper, and the physician said what Arthur was thinking. What the hell was he playing at? Even Uther looked surprised at Merlin’s actions, but he quickly regained his composure, his expression hardening.

“Take him away!” the king roared, and his motions were wild—even delirious as he gave the order with a mad swing of his sword. “I will not entertain this madness any further! I will not entertain the sin of sorcery within these sacred walls!”

His voice cracked as he spoke, and Arthur was surprised to see fear cross his father’s face. The panic was only present for a moment before the king banished the emotion, and he made up for it by leveling his sword with Merlin’s chest. “I would slay you here where you stand myself, sorcerer,” the king seethed, and Arthur hardly recognised his father underneath all the unhinged ferocity. “But I want the public to see you die properly. I want you and your ilk to witness what becomes of anyone who dares enter my court as they watch the life drain from your wicked eyes!”

“Then do it,” Merlin replied, and this time when he spoke, Arthur could hear the authentic Merlin returned to his voice. Not mocking nor threatening, but rather sad. Resigned. Even tired. “Do what you want with me, Uther, but know this—there are so many more people like me. So many more sorcerers who are just people looking for a home and a family. Camelot could be so much greater than it is if you’d let those sorcerers find their way here. I have served you for a long time, and I could have served you all the better with my magic if you’d just let me.”

"Get him out!” Uther howled, and he hardly even entertained Merlin’s heartfelt plea before he whirled back around to face Arthur. His expression was a storm of murderous rage and Arthur balked to have his father’s eyes trained on him again. He’d half forgotten that he was a knight himself—a crowned prince and not just another spectator, watching on as the third act of the tragedy came to a close.

“Arthur, see to it that the gallows are raised this instant,” Uther commanded, and he waved his sword again—this time in Arthur’s direction. “I want this evil sorcerer dead and gone before sundown! Do you hear me?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Arthur managed to say, and as he said it, he realised that this meant it was over. Ten minutes had hardly passed and Merlin’s fate was now sealed in the worst way. There would be no sympathy in the court for him following such a destructive demonstration of magic, and the guards surrounding Merlin took action, hauling the sorcerer out of the throne room at sword point.

It all happened so fast. The guards dragged Merlin out in a vicious pack, prepared now for any counteract of sorcery, but Merlin’s eyes found Arthur’s one last time before the oak doors snapped shut. His expression was unreadable, perhaps a bit melancholy, but there was no explanation there—no justification as to why he hadn’t battled his way out like Arthur had expected him to do. Like Arthur had wanted him to do. Everything within him told him to call out to Merlin—to yell at him and ask what the hell he was playing at, but he couldn’t, not here, and the doors of the throne room swung shut for good. Merlin was gone, and this time there would be no more second chances.

None of it should’ve felt wrong to Arthur. None of it should’ve shocked him, and yet it did feel horribly wrong. The whole mess of a day made his skin crawl and made his blood curdle in a way he could not explain. He could still see the man from his first ever trial kneeling there at the base of the throne, begging for his life, and Arthur would not soon forget the image of his father striking Merlin. All that, and Merlin had allowed the guards to restrain him. He’d let himself be recaptured, and for what? What was he trying to prove? He’d had the perfect moment to make his escape and he hadn’t even made an attempt. Why?

It didn’t make sense to him. It didn’t make sense at all, but Arthur didn’t have any time to contemplate it before his father approached him properly, the fury he had directed at Merlin now directed towards his son as he bore down on Arthur like some sort of crazed animal.

“I don’t know what sort of demon possessed you to get in my way like that, Arthur,” the king hissed in Arthur’s face, practically spitting on him, and Arthur struggled to keep his expression passive in the face of his father’s frenzy. “But whatever sort of misplaced sympathy you have for that boy, I suggest you rid yourself of it. Now. For Camelot’s sake. You know what you must do. So do it. I will not stand for this blatant defiance of my authority in my court. He dies tonight and then you will ride out and kill those Druids you have spared. This madness ends tonight, do you hear me?”

And with that order given, Uther stalked back to his throne, not even waiting for Arthur’s response as he sat down upon it in a fervor—almost as if reminding himself that he owned it. That he was the king, and that he was in charge, not any sorcerer. The oft unshakeable façade of Uther Pendragon looked a bit shaken up by Merlin’s magic, and he should be. He should be shaken, Arthur realised, because Merlin could have absolutely murdered him in that moment. Merlin had simply chosen not to, and Arthur wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. After all, if Arthur had been in Merlin’s position… fighting for his life against a man who had hunted his kind for years…

He would absolutely have killed the king. It felt strange to admit that to himself, but Arthur knew it to be true. If he’d been in Merlin’s shoes, he would not have surrendered, and that realisation shook Arthur to his very core.

It was time for him to leave the hall. Arthur could feel his body beginning to scream at him in panic again, the walls of the throne room starting to close in on him, swallowing him, and the eyes of the court were too much for him to bear. The prying eyes of Gaius, Morgana, Guinevere—all looking to him now, as it was his turn to take action. It was his turn to take charge and order the knights to raise the gallows for execution, as was his duty.

But Arthur did not give the order. Instead, he ignored the king’s wishes and simply abandoned the room entirely, stalking out and making a determined break for his chambers once again. He heard his father calling his name behind him but he pretended not to hear. It wouldn’t matter that he ignored the king’s order. It wouldn’t matter that he never said the words “raise the noose” or that he looked weak for fleeing the scene. The knights would begin the preparations anyway and everything was out of Arthur’s hands. All he could do was retreat to his chambers to wallow in confusion and grief once more, slamming his door shut and locking himself inside.

The stale air of his room felt cold to him now and his red pillows were still stained with tears as he collapsed on them, burying his face in their comforting silk once again. Merlin was no doubt being shoved back into his cell right now, letting the iron bars swing shut on him despite having blasted them off their hinges just hours before. Of all the baffling things Merlin had done these past few days, this was truly the most confusing to Arthur. What in God’s forsaken earth was Merlin playing at? What was he trying to prove? Why wouldn’t he just leave?

Arthur couldn’t fathom it, but it didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered anymore. The trial was over, the verdict reached. Merlin would die in a few hours’ time, and all Arthur could do was lie there and wait, hoping against hope that no one would dare bother him.

But of course someone did, and Arthur’s blood ran cold at the sound of a soft knock at his door. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there, just clutching his pillow in a stupor, but he sat up regardless. “Who is it?” he called, and he hoped against hope that this time it was actually Guinevere. If he was honest with himself, she may be the only person he could bear to talk to right now without lashing out, and for once, his prayers were actually answered.

“It’s just me, Arthur,” Gwen said, her soft voice filtering through the door, and Arthur already relaxed a bit at the sound of it. He sat up straighter, but didn’t bother to wipe away his tears. There would be no point in hiding them from her. Guinevere would see right through him anyway. She always could read him like an open book.

“Come in,” he called to her, and the serving girl entered his chambers tentatively, holding on to the door with unsteady fingers. She looked unsure of herself, as if she’d made a mistake by daring to come here, but Arthur smiled at the sight of her and that helped her soften up. She closed the door behind her and crossed the room to meet him, playing with her curls as if she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands.

“Just thought you might need to talk,” she said as she stopped just short of Arthur’s bed, choosing to lean against the bedpost instead. She glanced out Arthur’s window for a moment, but only to see that the knights were working on the gallows. She quickly looked away again, wincing. “And I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do to stop all that?”

“Stop it?” Arthur repeated listlessly, and he allowed himself to look out his window for the first time since returning to his room. Sure enough, the knights were beginning their construction down in the courtyard—a large wooden crossbeam of nails and rope that would strangle his friend before sundown. “And how do you propose I put a stop to it, Gwen. After all, I am the one that put it in motion.”

There was a pause from Guinevere at that. “Yes, I suppose you are,” she said quietly, and Arthur suddenly felt bad for putting her in such a bad position. It was easy to forget that she was Merlin’s friend as well. This was just as painful for her as it was for him. “I did hear a little bit about that from Gaius.”

Arthur stiffened at the mention of the physician. “You spoke to him?”

“Briefly,” Gwen answered, and she was searching for something else to look at besides the window. She settled for Arthur’s desk, zeroing in on his inkwell. “He’s a bit of a mess, really. He was very set on taking the sentence for Merlin. I don’t think he can bear to watch the execution.”

Arthur bit at his lip at that, and his mind flashed unwillingly back to the distress on Gaius’ face back at the trial. The complete and utter brokenness of a father shining in his eyes when his last-ditch attempt to save Merlin had failed.

“Yes, it would be best if he didn’t attend,” Arthur murmured, and mostly because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He rubbed at his temples, still trying to rid himself of a headache that wouldn’t fade. “Merlin has always been like a son to him. If anything, I should have arrested him, too. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.”

It was a weird thing to admit aloud. He’d chosen not to arrest Gaius, and he didn’t regret that decision, but it still felt like treason to say it.

Beside him, Gwen didn’t look surprised by that. If anything, she appeared a bit frustrated. “And what would you have arrested Gaius for?” she asked, her tone bordering on defensive as she moved from the bedpost to plop down at the edge of the bed. It was a bolder move than she had attempted recently, but she didn’t move any closer, simply resting her hands in the folds of her skirt. “Would you really have arrested Gaius for sheltering Merlin?”

Arthur grimaced, fiddling with the fringe on his pillow idly as he clutched the silk to his chest, contemplating. “I should have done that, yes,” he answered, although he could hear his own lack of confidence in the answer. “He was complicit in all this, wasn’t he? Hiding Merlin’s sorcery from me. From us all. He was furious when I suggested Merlin may have coerced him into it somehow. Claims he wasn’t.”

Gwen frowned at that, and Arthur could see it out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t really think Merlin enchanted him, though, do you? Despite what he said back there.”

It was a pointed question and Arthur paused to think on it, rewinding back to Merlin’s display in the throne room. How he had taken on the role of the evil sorcerer as if it were a performance, protecting Gaius.

“No, I don’t believe Gaius was enchanted,” Arthur admitted quietly, and he sighed heavily, lying back on his bedspread. “I believe Gaius was acting on his own free will, stupid as it was. I think Merlin was just trying to protect him. And so was I.”

“Well, that’s not surprising,” Gwen said, and Arthur jolted at the slight mirth in her tone. “You and Merlin are not really as different as you may think. As much as you squabble, and as much as this is all a shock. You and him often have the same instincts. You are both cut from the same cloth, as they say.”

Arthur bristled a little at that. “What are you implying?” he said, and he sat back up, peering at Gwen. “Are you suggesting that I’m not that different from a sorcerer that murdered one of my best knights? Because I don’t think that’s a very fair comparison.”

He’d meant to say it with more accusation, but it was hard to truly get angry at Guinevere. She just looked at him with her sad, soft brown eyes, and Arthur knew that it was something he thought himself. That he and Merlin were not so different.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Arthur,” Gwen said, and her voice was even, calm. She still came off as reassuring, even as she called him out with a barbed tongue. How she managed to do that, Arthur would never know, but Gwen was fidgeting a bit. Almost as if she were weighing whether or not to speak her next words, but she spoke them anyway. “If anything, you really should arrest me, too, you know.”

She said it so nonchalantly. As if she was admitting to something of far less importance than treason, and Arthur’s eyes widened at her words. “What do you mean?” he stammered, and his heart rate rocketed in his ears, his thoughts racing to figure out what she could possibly be referring to. “You didn’t… did you know about this, Gwen? About Merlin’s sorcery?”

Gwen brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, avoiding his eyes, but she did nod—a small confirmation that sent a jolt through Arthur’s system. “I had my suspicions,” she admitted, and Arthur could not contain his shock. “I didn’t know anything for sure. There were just a few things that didn’t add up. I decided not to pursue it. I trusted Gaius, and I didn’t think it was as serious as all this. I thought… I don’t know, that maybe Gaius and Merlin were experimenting with healing potions. I didn’t think it was anything large or nefarious, or that Merlin was…well.” She cut off for a moment, as if searching for the right word. “Powerful,” she said finally.

Arthur simply gaped at her, unsure of how to respond and Gwen exhaled, looking back out the window. She frowned as she studied the knights working on the gallows. “I do suppose not reporting my suspicions would be a crime in the king’s eyes, though, wouldn’t it?” she mused, and she glanced back at Arthur worriedly.

Arthur winced, beginning to think about his father and how he would respond. It certainly wouldn’t be pretty. “It would be a crime, yes,” he confirmed, and he squirmed, unsure what to do with this new information. Any suspicion of sorcery was meant to be reported to the king immediately, and to avoid doing so was treason. Gwen knew this, and yet she’d kept her suspicions to herself. Why?

But Arthur already knew that answer. To protect Merlin. Just like Gaius had attempted to do, and just like Arthur himself had done. He had waited days to report Merlin’s sorcery, and technically that was treason, too. He was merely protected from it, unlike Guinevere.

“You wouldn’t arrest me, though, would you?” Gwen asked, and a bit of fear leaked into her voice, causing the invisible dagger in Arthur’s chest to twist ever deeper. If there was one thing Arthur didn’t want, it was for Gwen to fear him.

“Of course not,” Arthur answered in a rush, and he fought the urge to move over to her and envelope her in his arms. To assure her everything would be alright. “I would never do anything to harm you, Guinevere. You know that.”

“I do,” Gwen said, and Arthur was relieved to hear her trust in him. “You have a good heart, Arthur, and a protective instinct. I saw what you did there. You moved between your father and Merlin. You protected him.”

Arthur grimaced at that. “I shouldn’t have.”

“Then why did you?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur swallowed hoarsely, and he thought back to that moment. How he’d moved without thinking, grabbing his father’s arm. Defying the king and protecting Merlin, a proven sorcerer and a murderer. It sounded stupid in his head, but it made sense in his heart. A useless display in the long run. An empty gesture. Merlin would still hang. “I don’t—he shouldn’t have even come to Camelot, Gwen. Sorcerers are not welcome here. He knew this, and yet he came here anyway, forcing me to consider him my enemy. He made his choice and he forced my hand.”

“But did he, Arthur?” Gwen argued, and Arthur really hadn’t expected her to fight him in this way. He looked to her only to see her brown eyes on him, intense and sure of herself in a way that surprised him. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen Merlin successfully force you to do anything you didn’t want to do. He would not come to Camelot without reason. He would not risk his life over nothing, and that is speaking as someone who has faced execution just as he has.”

Arthur clenched involuntarily at her mention of execution, thinking about what Merlin said—about how Gwen was never safe from mistakes in Camelot. He wasn’t wrong. Gwen had faced her own unfair trial at the king’s feet, and all because Arthur had been unable to hide his feelings for her. She’d almost died. And for what? So that Arthur would marry someone more politically useful instead?

“You’re right,” he muttered, and he let the tension in his body uncoil, his shoulders drooping. He rubbed at his temples again, feeling like his head was going to explode. “I-I apologise, Guinevere, I should not be so insensitive to what you have been through. We were lucky that I was able to prove your innocence, but Merlin will not receive that same stroke of luck. He is a sorcerer, and he has now shown the court as much. What I don’t understand is why he hasn’t tried to escape. You saw what he did to that sword in the throne room, and then in the dungeons I saw him blast the bars off and put them back together like they were nothing. He’s powerful, Gwen. We all know that now. So why hasn’t he tried to escape?”

Gwen blinked at the mention of the dungeon bars, surprise crossing her face. So she hadn’t heard of that story. Perhaps Gaius hadn’t told her of it. “He put the bars back? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur muttered, and his mind whirled once more trying to make sense of it all. “That’s what baffles me. Perhaps he didn’t want to fight me.”

“Or perhaps he was trying to tell you something."

"Tell me what?”

“That he isn’t someone you need to fight.”

Arthur cringed at that. It was truly amazing how much her words were beginning to sound like Merlin’s. He had not expected it from her. “So you’re on his side with this,” he grumbled. “I see.”

“I don’t see it as taking sides, Arthur,” Gwen countered, and she was right of course. This wasn’t about taking sides. “Perhaps I simply have a different perspective from you, having been right where Merlin is now. Facing execution.”

Her voice took on a hard edge at that, almost accusatory, and Arthur scowled at it. “But you’re not a sorcerer, Gwen. It’s very different. Completely different, actually.”

“Is it?” Gwen asked, and Arthur had never seen her quite so defensive. “My sentence was for sorcery too, and all because I was not a part of the king’s will for this kingdom. So not that different, really, in the long run. Am I correct?”

There was an edge to Gwen’s tone now that Arthur was not familiar with. She sounded angry, even hurt, and Arthur suddenly wondered if Gwen’s time in the dungeon had been more traumatic for her than she’d let on. He often had to remind himself that his father had executed her father. This would never not be a touchy subject for her.

“You haven’t killed anyone, Gwen,” Arthur reminded her. “You haven’t murdered a knight.”

“No, I haven’t,” Gwen agreed. “But perhaps that’s why he’s still down there, Arthur. Perhaps that is why Merlin has chosen not to escape. Perhaps he feels he deserves to hang.”

The word “hang” came out like a sob from Gwen’s mouth and Arthur flinched at it. “What are you on about?” he asked, and he leaned in to Gwen, struggling to understand what she was trying to tell him. “Are you saying that Merlin wants to die?”

“I’m saying that Merlin may see all this as atoning,” Gwen explained, and there was an urgency in her voice now. Urgency, and also a deep sadness. “Or at least, that seems to be what Gaius thinks he’s doing. He told me he begged Merlin to escape, Arthur. As you said, he seems more than capable of doing it, but… he won’t. Gaius is worried he believes his sentence is warranted.”

Arthur sucked in his breath at that, processing, and his mind buzzed with the implications of what Gwen was telling him. Did Merlin think he deserved this? Was that the reason why he hadn’t attempted an escape? Had Arthur’s argument with him down in the dungeons convinced him that he deserved to swing for Roldan’s death?

Arthur’s stomach curdled at the thought, and he suddenly felt like he was going to hurl. He bent over a little, clutching his chest, and Gwen scooted closer to him, her eyes alight with concern. “You don’t wish to see Merlin executed, do you?” she asked, and it was a question he knew she’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. “Because I know you, Arthur, and I can see in your eyes that you don’t. You don’t believe he deserves this.”

“I… it doesn’t matter what I believe,” Arthur managed to choke out, avoiding her question, but the sad thing was that he knew it was true. His father was the king and not him. This was all out of his hands now, but Gwen seemed to disagree.

“It does matter,” Gwen insisted, and she moved even closer to him, putting her hands on his shoulders to steady him. “What you believe does matter, Arthur. Don’t you see that? You are the future king of Camelot, and you need to decide how you want to rule, even now. You might not be king yet, but your subjects still look to you. Merlin still looks to you, and don’t tell me you want to rule without him by your side because I’d just call you a liar.”

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose at that, closing his eyes. She was right, of course. As always, Guinevere read him like the open book he was. He did not want Merlin to die. If Arthur was honest with himself, he could not imagine a Camelot without Merlin and his stupid face. But it was far too late for that.

“It’s beyond me now, Guinevere,” Arthur whispered, and he could hear his own brokenness in his voice as he spoke. “I was the one who arrested him. When Roldan died, I made a decision, and when I did that, this whole situation left my hands. It’s up to my father now, and it—he—”

He couldn’t form the words, and Gwen leaned in closer. “What?” she pried. “What about your father?”

“My father had his mind made up about this trial before it began, Gwen!” Arthur snapped, and he hadn’t realised how much it bothered him until he said it out loud. How the trials of Camelot were nothing more than ceremony. How Merlin’s verdict had been set in stone long before he’d even had a chance to present his case. “Don’t you see that? Merlin is already dead. He was dead the moment he stepped foot in Camelot.”

“But he’s not dead,” Gwen insisted, and she had a hope shining within her eyes that Arthur did not share. “He’s still breathing, Arthur, just as I was when I was down there in that dungeon not months ago. You saved me then. You can save him now. You are not your father, and just because you are his son does not mean you have to be completely like him. You can take some and leave some. Take the good. Leave the bad. We’re all a mix of good and bad in the end. Not everything has to be black and white, and you can love someone and still recognise their faults. You know that, don’t you?”

Her voice cracked at this, her plea for Merlin’s clemency delivered. It was a good speech, well-reasoned, and Arthur just looked at her with a resigned sort of appreciation. “You’re very wise, Guinevere,” he whispered. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m not wise,” Gwen said, down-playing the compliment as Arthur knew she would. She closed her eyes, sitting back and putting space between them again. “I’m just speaking aloud something you already know, I think. Deep down you believe the same. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have put yourself between your father and Merlin like that. If you truly believed this was out of your hands, you would not have acted.”

Arthur hesitated at that, wondering if she was right. The image of his father striking Merlin played on repeat in his mind, having never really left him. Back at court, he’d moved without thinking to prevent a second strike, and it was in those involuntary moments that a person’s true nature was revealed. Arthur knew this. That was why he had chosen to test Merlin in that way back in the Druid cave. And now here he was, proving his own theory.

Deep down, Arthur did not want Merlin to die. He wanted for him to live, but the problem was Arthur wasn’t sure if he held the power to make that call anymore.

“If I forgive him…” Arthur said, speaking tentatively, and he saw something light up in Gwen at his words. “If I somehow found a way to grant Merlin reprieve, would that not be betraying Roldan’s widow and son? Letting his murderer walk free, whether it was a mistake or not?”

“Well, isn’t that for Hannah and James to decide?” Gwen asked, answering his question with another question, and it was not something that Arthur had considered. “They are his family, aren’t they? Not you. It is between them and Merlin if he receives forgiveness for his mistake. And haven’t you been in the same position Merlin is now? After you killed Magnus, Odin’s son? If I remember right, you didn’t want to kill him, but he put you in a bad position and it’s something you regret.”

Arthur jolted violently at the mention of Magnus. A terrible memory returned to him at the name—a young boy, strong and confident as he challenged Arthur to a duel. A duel that the boy could not win, and a duel that Arthur could not refuse. How sickening the sound of his own sword had been to his ears as it sliced into the young boy’s chest, striking him down. How terrible the cries of the boy’s father, as the king cradled his only heir’s dead body, swearing revenge on Arthur for what he’d done. Arthur had not wished to kill him, but killing him had been a mistake, and one he regretted deeply to this day.

Beside him, Gwen witnessed his distress with regret of her own, and she touched Arthur’s hand gently. “I’m sorry,” she apologised, and Arthur could hear the sincerity there. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m merely saying we all deserve a little forgiveness now and then. A chance to do better. Otherwise, we are just continuing a violent cycle of… of legacies based on murder. Let Merlin handle approaching Hannah and James for forgiveness. That’s his responsibility to take on. Not yours.”

“But it is my responsibility, Guinevere,” Arthur whispered, and the haunting, lifeless face of Magnus floated by in his mind’s eye, followed swiftly by the face of Roldan. “It is my responsibility because I… because I ordered Roldan to spy on Merlin.”

It felt terrible to admit it, and next to him, Gwen’s eyes widened. “You what?”

“I… I was testing him,” Arthur gushed, and the explanation flowed from his lips like a confession. “I knew my father wouldn’t ever give Merlin a fair trial, so I devised one of my own. Since Merlin would never dare perform magic in front of me, I sent Roldan to spy on him for me, but I suppose... I suppose Merlin thought Roldan was an enemy knight, and that’s why he attacked him. Roldan wasn’t wearing his Camelot cape because I took it from him and I… perhaps I…”

The words jumbled in Arthur’s mouth, the deceased faces of Magnus and Roldan both turned to look at him. Blaming him. Crying out soundlessly, their mouths forming the words your fault, your fault. And was it?

“Am I at fault, too?” Arthur whispered out loud, and it felt both wrong and right to say it aloud. “Is all this my mistake, just as much as it is Merlin’s?”

He looked to Gwen at this, praying that she would acquit him. Pleading with her to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, and that the blood of Roldan was not on his hands like it had been with Magnus.

But Gwen’s eyes were stony. “Perhaps it is on you a little,” she said, and Arthur shuddered at her answer.

It was a terrible thing to hear her confirm it. To hear her agree with what Merlin had been screaming at him earlier in the dungeons. When Gwen had first come in, Arthur had naively thought she would take his side of things. That she would defend Camelot’s laws in this, and assure him that he was making the right decision based on what they’d heard of Emrys, just as Morgana had.

But instead, Arthur heard the echo of Merlin in Gwen’s words. Perhaps Merlin had been right when he had brought Gwen into the conversation earlier—that she understood where Merlin was coming from despite not being a sorcerer like him. Gwen, after all, did not hold the same level of privilege Arthur and Morgana possessed. She was much more like Merlin in this regard, but unlike Merlin, one thing Arthur knew about Guinevere was that she’d be honest with him.

“I’ve made a horrible mistake, haven’t I, Guinevere?” Arthur whimpered, and he clawed at his own face in derangement. He suddenly felt like a madman, clutching at his tear-stained cheeks and willing his memories to leave him. He’d never felt so unfit to be king. “Or do I only feel like I’ve made the wrong decision? I’ve made the right decision in the eyes of the law. I’ve made the right decision in the eyes of my father, and even Morgana. But at the same time, I can feel you and Gaius and Merlin all steering me in the opposite direction. Like you are all telling me I’ve crossed a line that I can’t come back from. I don’t know what to think. I feel like I’m being pulled apart at the seams.”

“And what’s so wrong with that, Arthur?” Gwen asked, and she took his hands in hers, preventing him from hurting himself. “You’re speaking to a seamstress, after all. When you pull something apart at the seams, all that means is that you’re turning it into something new. Maybe it’s time for you to turn into someone new, Arthur, but only you can make that decision for yourself. None of the rest of us hold that power. We can only speak our minds while we wait for you to decide what you believe. You can’t let your father decide your every move for you. It’s time you started thinking for yourself, and I know you already are. You just need to decide.”

Decide, decide, decide… The word seemed to echo through Arthur’s mind like a chant, and once again, he could hear Merlin’s words mirrored in Guinevere’s. “I can’t decide that for you.” That is what Merlin had told Arthur back during Arthur’s first test, and Merlin had passed it with those very words. Somewhere deep within Arthur, he knew what his friends were telling him was nothing short of the truth. He needed to decide.

Suddenly, Gwen shifted forwards, erasing the space left between her and Arthur and cupping Arthur’s head in her hands. She looked deep into his eyes with an urgency that startled him. “What is it you want, Arthur?” she whispered, and she shook his head almost as if she were trying to shake some sense into him. “What is your heart telling you?”

“It’s telling me that I don’t want Merlin to die,” Arthur sobbed on instinct, and without even thinking through his response. Just like his limbs had reacted without thought back in the throne room, his words started to take on a life of their own, tumbling out of him from the deepest depths of his heart. “That he’s my manservant and my best friend and that you’re right, I can’t… I can’t imagine ruling without him.”

Gwen smiled lightly, and her warmth was a comfort to him just like it always was. “Then I think our hearts agree,” Gwen said quietly, touching her forehead to his just briefly, and then she let go of him. She pushed away from the bed and stood, dusting off her skirt like her job was done. “Now, if you’ve decided, we need to go. We’ll need to act quickly if you’re going to save—”

She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. The piercing sound of the castle bells enveloped Arthur’s chambers, the chimes peeling throughout the corridors and bouncing off the stone walls. Arthur had been dreading their ring, and both he and Gwen recoiled at what they represented. They could only be announcing one thing. The gallows were ready. Sunset was now upon them.

Merlin’s execution was set to begin.

Arthur’s breath grew shallow in his throat, his eyes widening. “You see?” he breathed, and his voice sounded so weak even to his own ears. “I told you, Gwen. It’s too late. It’s too far out of my hands now.”

“No, it isn’t!” Gwen snapped, and she leveled Arthur with a glare that he hadn’t thought her capable of. “You listen to me, Arthur Pendragon. Are you giving up? Because the Arthur I know doesn’t know the meaning of surrender. Is there a way you can give Merlin some sort of a signal? Is there some way you can tell him somehow to… I don’t know. To magic himself out?”

“I—how can I tell him to escape?” Arthur spluttered, and he struggled to think of any way he could talk to Merlin. Any possible way he could order Merlin to get himself out without the king knowing. “I’m supposed to be up on the balcony alongside my father! And if Gaius told him to get out and he won’t, why would he listen to m—”

“He’ll listen to you, Arthur,” Gwen said, and her brown eyes shone like steel. She sounded so sure of that fact. Like one word from Arthur was all it would take. “He will listen to you. I know he will.”

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Leon. The poor, sorry sod, back at Arthur’s doorstep to remind him of his duty once again. Arthur didn’t even bother telling him to enter, instead moving from his bed in a flurry and ripping open his chamber doors to face Leon—much to the knight’s surprise.

“I’m needed for an execution, am I?” Arthur asked him, and an anger overtook him that surprised even himself.

“I—yes,” Leon stumbled, and he glanced through the threshold, catching sight of Gwen there. He quickly looked away out of respect, wisely choosing not to comment. “The king was unsure if you planned on attending, considering you’re… er, early exit from the throne room following the trial.”

“I will be there,” Arthur informed him, and he was unable to hide a growing fury at his father. A rising rage at just what his father had created. Condemning Gwen. Condemning Merlin. Forcing these verdicts upon Arthur. He hadn’t meant to take it out on Leon—he was just the messenger, after all—but Arthur could see Leon piecing together where Arthur’s allegiances now lay. “I just need a moment."

“Of course,” Leon said, and he turned to go only to hesitate. “But I should warn you, Arthur,” he added, and his expression was one of caution. “He is not pleased with you, the king.”

“Is he ever?” Arthur muttered, and he turned away, shutting the door once more. He pressed his back to it, closing his eyes and rubbing at his face, struggling to think straight.

Hands curled around his wrists, pulling his fingers from his face. Brown eyes stared into his, and Gwen had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his height.

“Don’t give up on this, Arthur,” she whispered, and her voice was urgent in Arthur’s ears. “Look for a way. Find a way, because if you don’t get through to him, I fear this is a regret you will not come back from. You may have rescued me, but now it’s Merlin’s turn. He deserves that much from you.”

“I know,” Arthur whispered back, and then he was moving. Leaving Gwen behind him as he stalked out of his chambers, out of the castle, and out into the frigid air of the courtyard. Sunset was beginning to befall the kingdom; the sky and the clouds tinged a bloody red above Arthur’s head. Crows called out in the distance and Arthur marched to the castle balcony like a man possessed, his mind awhirl with thoughts. He struggled to formulate a plan, but as he did, his brain was once again grasped by a memory. A memory he could perhaps use. Can you give him a signal? Gwen had asked him.

Perhaps he could.

The memory was from a few years back, and Merlin had gotten himself injured once again. He’d tumbled down a shallow ravine after Arthur had very clearly signaled him to go the other way, and the details of that morning rushed back to him as vividly as if it were yesterday.

'You idiot!” Arthur yelled down at Merlin from the grassy ridge above the ravine. “I did try to warn you. Did you not see my signal?”

"Signal?” Merlin cried, and he spat out a slew of leaves from his mouth. He ungracefully pushed himself to his feet, trying to scramble back up the side of the ravine, but he couldn’t quite manage it—much to Arthur’s amusement. “I didn’t see any signal! You were just waving your fingers!”

"They’re particular motions,” Arthur explained, exasperated, and he offered Merlin a hand, managing to hoist the sorry excuse for a servant back up onto solid ground. “There are different ones for different scenarios. My knights seem to understand them.”

“Well, I’m not one of your knights, am I?” Merlin huffed, and he tended to a slight cut he had on his shoulder. “How am I supposed to know all your strange hand motions?”

“Well, what motions would you want, then?” Arthur asked, rolling his eyes. “Because apparently, I need some sort of secret motion to tell you ‘Oi, mate, maybe don’t trip and fall over there.’”

Merlin responded with an eyeroll of his own before thinking it over. “What about this?” he asked after a moment, and he took his pointer finger and brushed the tip of his nose two times.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s the signal you want to go with? Really?”

"Well, it’s not any weirder than one of yours,” Merlin complained, badly imitating Arthur sending war signals. He looked deranged.

"Alright, alright,” Arthur said, holding back a laugh. “We can do that signal. What will it mean?” He executed it in practice—a single finger brushing the tip of his nose twice.

Merlin shrugged. “I don’t know. ‘Get out of here’? ‘Run for your life’? That does seem to be our most common one."

Arthur crossed his arms. “You mean, I usually yell, ‘Merlin, get out of here,’ or “Merlin, run!’ and then you promptly ignore me?”

Merlin smiled a little. “Well, I can’t listen to you all the time,” he said cheekily. “That would get boring!”

And with that, they had continued on their journey—bickering and bantering as normal, and it was so normal it stung Arthur, even in memory. Gwen, as usual, knew him better than he knew himself. Not only could Arthur not imagine ruling Camelot without Merlin at his side, he realised now that he didn’t want to. A Camelot without Merlin didn’t feel like Camelot at all.

"Get out of here. Run for your life.” That’s what their signal meant. Two brushes of the nose with the tip of one’s pointer finger, and as Arthur reached the balcony, looking down at the gallows in the courtyard below him, he prayed that Merlin would see it. See it, and perhaps this time, actually listen to it.

But at the end of the day, it was going to be up to Merlin and his magic to determine whether he lived or died.

Chapter Text

Arthur had the balcony to himself as he arrived at Merlin’s execution, already dreading his perfect view of the gallows from up on high. Many a dreary day Arthur had stood up here, watching a sorcerer breathe his last below him, and today… today he would do the same.

Unless Merlin listened to him. Unless Arthur could get through to him.

It surprised Arthur to find that the king was not yet present. In his experience, his father was very hands-on when it came to public executions, wanting to stand in full view of the people as they filed into his courtyard. It was a display of power, standing up high and bearing down on the people, and it bothered Arthur more than he cared to admit, his father’s lateness. It was clear to him now that this was just another day for Uther—another sorcerer to hang—but for Arthur, the stress of waiting was eating him alive. He paced the balcony like a vengeful ghost, studying the packs of commoners gathering in the courtyard below him. The atmosphere wasn’t all that different than back in the throne room, but the difference here was that the crowd was not composed of nobles or servants. No, instead, these were the common people of Camelot—the people that Arthur worried about daily, and the people Arthur would eventually serve as sovereign.

And what are they all thinking about, I wonder? Arthur pondered darkly as he perched high above them, his arms spread wide on the parapet and peering down at everyone like a gargoyle. Occasionally, a peasant’s eyes would stray up at him and they’d quickly glance away again—terrified as they saw the prince staring back at them. And what do they think of me, their prince?

It was not a new fear of Arthur’s, what the population of Camelot may think of him. The kingdom was huge, a sprawling land of different lifestyles. Of course there were people that disapproved of him, but Arthur still feared their resentment. Did the people here secretly dislike him as their prince? Did they imagine he’d act the same as his father once he took the throne? Did they expect him to continue drawing them out for executions like this one in the future?

Probably. It wasn’t like Arthur had indicated he’d rule any differently, and with each peasant that met his gaze, Arthur spotted their fear of him before they looked away. It wasn’t that far off from the fear Arthur had observed in Merlin, or even briefly in Gwen—a commoner’s terror that they may be next to face the noose, or worse. It was something that Arthur would never fully experience due to his birth status, but he was beginning to understand it as he was overwhelmed with deep, dark dread at the arrival of the executioner.

Arthur had only ever exchanged a few words with castle garroter. Gogan was his name, but Arthur always got the creeps just looking at him, and mostly due to the fact that Gogan’s whole body was riddled with scars. It was a widely known fact amongst the knights that Gogan’s injuries were the result of a nasty run-in with a sorcerer. The experience had left the man jaded against sorcery in general, and that made him the perfect knight for the job of sorcerer-killer. Any vendetta against magic was useful in Uther’s eyes, and it only served to show Arthur just how much opposition people like Merlin truly faced. In more ways than one, it was not just the king that was rooted against magic. Thousands of citizens of the realm despised sorcery for any number of personal reasons, and those people may not be easily won over to Merlin’s cause… just like Arthur himself had not been easily convinced.

But my opinion is the only one that really matters, Arthur thought to himself, and he felt arrogant for even thinking it, although he now knew that Merlin shared his logic. When Arthur became king, he could attempt to change the flow of public opinion. It was a challenge he had been prepping to face, capturing the hearts of his people as their monarch. He still feared he would fail, and that any citizen that disapproved of him would be beyond his influence… but then again, Merlin had probably thought the same thing about him and yet here Arthur was, trying to save the magical bastard. If anything had become clear to Arthur over these past few days, it was that no one, no matter how entrenched in their ways, was beyond the capability of change.

But Arthur couldn’t focus on that now. That was the bigger picture, and at this moment, Arthur needed to concentrate on a far more immediate political issue: rescuing Merlin from the long coil of rope clutched in Gogan’s gloved hands. The executioner was busy stringing the rope up over the crossbar of the gallows, and the image of the noose seemed to quiet the crowds, a mist rolling in from the forest and drenching them all in a dreary fog. A chill ran through Arthur, and he had a bad feeling that for every horrible moment Merlin’s trial had brought upon him, this execution would be even worse.

Unfortunately, he was correct. Watching Merlin being dragged into the throne room had been one thing, but witnessing the guards shove the gangly manservant out into the courtyard was horrifying. The prisoner arrived at the courtyard from the back of the stairs, and the lead guard forced Merlin out into the open like he was a parcel—propelling the sorcerer into the misty, foggy air.

The boos and jeers started almost immediately. The townspeople knew the drill when it came to executions and the public sentiment against sorcery was obvious. Drummed up over the past twenty or so years and now Merlin was receiving the brunt of it. It was hard to ignore the screeches calling for his friend’s murder, but Arthur tried to drown them out as best he could. He kept his eyes glued to Merlin, willing him silently to look at him despite the fog. To just glance in his direction long enough for Arthur to give him their signal. If he didn’t, there was no hope for him.

But to Arthur’s dismay, Merlin’s gaze was not focused on the balcony above him. Instead, his eyes were trained on the gallows before him, the noose swinging loosely in the wind and the worn wood creaking. He looked terrified, his pale face even more ghostly white than usual, and he stumbled a bit on the cobblestones. The crowd immediately erupted in laughter, beginning to throw food at the condemned, and the guard pushed Merlin onward, making him stumble further. The cruel laughter made Arthur’s blood curdle just like it had when Uther had struck Merlin in front of the court. It solidified within him that this was wrong. That it had always been wrong, despite what he’d been taught. It must be stopped.

“Come on, you idiot, look up…” Arthur whispered to himself, and he hoped his father hadn’t heard him as the king finally joined him up on the balcony, fashionably late with his red cape swishing in the growing breeze. The king’s black gloves came to rest next to Arthur’s on the parapet, and it was hard not to notice his right hand was still stained with Merlin’s blood.

“I was sorry to see you leave court in such a hurry, Arthur,” Uther mused, his tone dangerous, and he waved to his subjects, smiling like he was in a parade. Arthur couldn’t help but cringe. “Perhaps I’d underestimated how difficult this whole situation would be for you. I did not expect such an incident with the likes of Merlin.”

“It was very unexpected,” Arthur agreed, his voice flat and hollow. He did not turn to look at his father, keeping his gaze entirely on Merlin, but it was hard to remain stoic as the king continued to preach at him.

“It will be painful to watch him swing, but this is a necessary trial for you, Arthur,” Uther said, and Arthur’s breathing grew shallow at the terrible image. “I believe that even more after witnessing his sorcery for myself. Following your act of insolence back at court, I’d worried you may abstain from watching this execution. That you may be too emotionally weak to handle such a thing, and yet, here you stand!”

The king punched Arthur’s arm lightly at that, a congratulatory gesture, but Arthur reeled at the tap. “You’re conquering your weaknesses and you're standing here as the future king,” Uther complimented, his disappointment waning to be replaced by pride. “This is a necessary journey for you, Arthur. It’s imperative that we weed the traitors of Camelot out, and you’ve learnt that today. I forgive you for your earlier effrontery, and I hope you know I am proud of you. It will be good for the subjects to see you up on this balcony as you are now. The people of Camelot mustn’t think you fragile, or that you would ever hesitate to execute a traitor.”

“Of… of course, Father,” Arthur managed to say, tripping over his words, and he prayed his father didn’t hear any insincerity as he spoke. Below the surface of his impartial mask, his insides were screaming. It was terrible to recognise his own past thoughts in his father’s words. Thoughts that had been trained into him from the moment he was old enough to hold a sword, and just days ago, Arthur had been worried that Merlin was controlling him. He’d been terrified that Merlin may be magically implanting ideas into his mind, but now he wondered if it was the opposite. After all, who had put more thoughts in his head, Merlin or his father?

It’s imperative that we weed the traitors of Camelot out... That was what his father had said, but what marked a traitor as a traitor, exactly? Was a traitor a person that kept himself locked up on his own free will? Facing the gallows on his own accord? If it was one thing traitors didn’t often do, it was willingly perform penance, but that was what Merlin was doing today, and just as he always had done. Even during Merlin’s early days at Camelot, the manservant had always been willing to spend a day in the stocks to aid Arthur in his antics—always been willing to take the fall in the end and even when he didn’t deserve to.

That isn’t a traitor, Arthur thought, and this time when he realised it, he felt sure of his conclusion. The manservant was not disloyal to Camelot despite his magic, and he could not afford to let his father distract him from rectifying Merlin’s unfair sentence.

Please look up, Arthur willed silently at Merlin once more, and in a thought that surprised even him, he suddenly wished he had magic himself so that he could reach out and prevent this without his father knowing. In many ways, was that not what Merlin had been doing all this time? Running around and helping Arthur in secret under his father’s nose?  For the first time since learning of Merlin’s true nature, Arthur thought he might understand what that was like and why Merlin had done it despite the dangers. He also began to wonder how many times Merlin may have saved his life in secret, and all without taking any credit.

Please, please look up, Arthur willed again, and this time, Merlin actually did. Standing at the edge of the gallows as the executioner seized him, pulling him up the steps to the noose, Merlin’s gaze lifted in Arthur’s direction—

And in that moment, Arthur moved, hardly daring to breathe as he did. His eyes locked with Merlin’s from up on the balcony and he raised his pointer finger, brushing it against his nose twice. Get out. Run. The signal they had created together, several years ago now.

He hoped Merlin had seen it. Prayed he’d seen it. But from so high up and swaddled in fog, Arthur couldn’t make out Merlin’s expression enough to tell for sure. So he did it again, just in case. One finger brushed against his nose twice. But that was all he could do. The only action he could make to try and rectify his horrible mistake. He’d never felt so powerless, and all the power now lay within Merlin himself. It was up to him to get out of this using the very magic Arthur should eradicate and all Arthur could do now was watch with his knuckles white on the parapet, praying for a miracle.

Merlin was standing on the platform of the gallows now, his magical hands chained before him while the executioner grasped the swinging noose. For a moment, Merlin looked up at Arthur once again and Arthur hoped that meant he was about to do it. About to blast the executioner away like he’d done the dungeon bars, sending him flying and leaving Merlin a path for escape.

But then Gogan placed the noose over Merlin’s head and Merlin didn’t resist it.

Arthur’s nails scratched at the stone of the balcony. “Come on…” he whispered under his breath, still praying his father didn’t hear, but the king had his gaze focused entirely on the noose. His gloved hand was already itching to give the dreaded order. A simple rise and fall of his fingers would be all it took to kill Merlin.

The executioner secured the deadly loop tight to Merlin’s neck, checking the knot before stepping away, and a familiar horror settled itself in Arthur’s stomach—like a cold, dark storm drenching him. He’d witnessed so many executions before this, and whether by axe or noose, he always felt that same feeling right at this moment. A dark, cold stab to his gut when the final preparations were complete and all that was left was anticipation of the order. It was a feeling he had encountered even when there were strangers standing upon the gallows, but this time it was all the worse for it being Merlin. It was a miracle Arthur didn’t throw up as he stood on unsteady feet, unsure of what to look at—his father’s hand or Merlin’s.

But Merlin’s hand didn’t move.

His father’s did.

It was a motion Arthur had witnessed countless times before. A raise of the king’s black glove before it was brought down sharply to the parapet, clear and precise. It was a simple movement, but not a simple command, and Arthur stopped breathing as he watched the executioner pull the lever to the gallows. No, his mind screamed at him, and the whole event appeared to him in slow motion—a nightmare sprung to life.

He shut his eyes. He hadn’t meant to, but perhaps it was instinct. Self-preservation.

The gasps of horror were terrible. A familiar sound of disgust from the people of Camelot, and the reality of it hit Arthur like a blunt strike from a shield. He’d failed. Merlin hadn’t listened—or hadn’t seen—and Arthur could feel bile rising in his throat. His whole body slumped, curling into himself as he turned away, battling with the immediate wave of guilt, horror, and revulsion that overtook him. His legs wobbled and he wondered if he could sneak away back to his chambers and collapse without his father noticing. The last thing he wanted was the king shaming him for feeling grief, but he couldn’t even begin to hide it.

He didn’t open his eyes right away, keeping them squeezed shut as he regained his breath long enough to turn away from the courtyard. Only then did he manage to pry his eyes open again…

Only to see a whole row of his knights staring at him, open mouthed.

Arthur blinked, confusion overtaking him. For a moment, his mind raced to figure out what he could’ve done to have them staring at him like that.

Then he realised they weren’t staring at him.

And that’s when his father started shouting.

Arthur wasn’t even sure what words his father was saying because he was already diving back to the parapet, his hands slamming against the stone as he hardly dared to hope what his whole body was trying to will into existence.

But for once, Arthur’s hopes had come true and he had to stop himself from laughing with wonder and joy.

The platform of the gallows had swung open beneath Merlin’s feet, just as Arthur’s father had ordered—

But Merlin himself hadn’t dropped. The noose hadn’t moved in for the kill around his neck.

Instead, Merlin was standing on nothing but air.

He’s floating was all Arthur’s brain could say, as if it was having a hard time digesting what he was seeing. But sure enough, Merlin was hovering in midair, his arms still chained before him but his fingers spread out, his eyes conspicuously glowing gold. The smallest of smiles graced Merlin’s face as he looked to Arthur, and it was as if he was saying, “Well, I did actually listen this time.”

“You dare!” Uther screamed, and for a moment, Arthur had completely forgotten his father was still standing next to him. “You dare attempt to challenge my authority, sorcerer? This hanging was chosen as a mercy for you. I will have your head for this!”

The king waved his hands, signaling the knights into motion, but they were already moving into place without orders, crossbows all aimed squarely at Merlin’s head. Arthur’s whole body tensed, but Merlin didn’t seem particularly bothered.

“I do dare,” Merlin called to them, and as he did, he snapped his fingers, sending the shackles around his wrists clattering to the ground. The dark metal slipped off of his skin like water, and Merlin rubbed at the raw wrists for a moment, taking his time as the knights deployed their first round of crossbow bolts at him. Arthur flinched as they arced through the air, but Merlin deflected them all with a wave of his hand—magically redirecting all the bolts into a neat pile at the base of the gallows.

“I do dare to challenge your authority,” Merlin continued smoothly, as if the king hadn’t just tried to fire-squad him, and he moved his right arm again, his fingers grazing the noose around his throat. In a burst of golden magic, the entire length of rope exploded into a million butterflies—cascading up into the balcony and obscuring the vision of the shooters with an avalanche of blue wings. Shouts sounded from the bombarded knights, but Arthur and Uther were spared from the attack, leaving them to witness Merlin snapping his fingers again. In a burst of wind, the trapdoor of the gallows flew back up into a platform for him to stand on, his buckled boots returning to solid ground.

All the breath left Arthur’s lungs at the display. His mind was still racing to catch up—still processing the fact that Merlin was even alive—but this was all so much more than Merlin’s magic back in the forest and the dungeons, or even the throne room. It was so… effortless. Mesmerizing, in its own way. The dreaded noose was gone as if it had never existed, and the chains and crossbow bolts now lay useless on the courtyard stone. Next to Arthur, his father was foaming at the mouth. Arthur had never seen him look so furious, and that was truly saying something.

“Surrender yourself, sorcerer!” Uther thundered, struggling to make himself heard over the growing noise of the crowd as the people began to panic. The circle of townspeople had retreated from the gallows at Merlin’s demonstration, murmuring with fear and awe, but they hadn’t sprinted out of the courtyard either. Instead, they remained to watch the growing spectacle, their gazes flickering between the sorcerer and the king in anticipation of what would happen next.

Arthur was just as much on tenterhooks as they were. He was powerless to do much else without challenging his father’s authority, and thus he was left as a spectator. Merlin’s eyes were still glowing gold, visible even through the mist as he faced off with the king of Camelot from below. It was horrifying and thrilling to witness at the same time.

“My apologies, your majesty,” Merlin announced, and a bit of a growl had come into his voice—not unlike the chant he had used to summon the dragon. “I am afraid I will not be taking orders from you any longer. You’ve lost that privilege, and I am done watching the execution of my kind take place in this courtyard.”

He said it almost in declaration, and while he spoke, his arms moved once again, making both Arthur and Uther flinch. They were only now becoming accustomed to just what that motion entailed, but Arthur could never have predicted what spell Merlin would conjure. Beside him, his father’s sharp inhale was evidence enough that he hadn’t predicted it either.

In the centre of the courtyard, the gallows themselves began to rumble. The wood of the platform splintered, breaking apart, and then before Arthur’s very eyes it sprung magically to life—the timber of the beams snaking back into their twisting, forest form at Merlin’s command. Much to the crowd’s awe and horror, long branches swooped into existence from the crossbeam’s wood and powerful roots shot forth from the bottom of the gallows platform, slicing through the thick stone of the courtyard and burying themselves in the soil beneath it.

Panic immediately broke out in the courtyard’s crowd. The townspeople devolved into chaos, the spectators properly fleeing the courtyard, and to both Arthur’s right and left, the knights of Camelot recovered from the butterfly attack just long enough to be slammed by the incoming branches of a growing tree. Merlin’s fingers moved with fluid grace as he directed the tree to his will, the elegant branches acting like extensions of his own body as he lifted knights off the ground, holding them hostage with powerful boughs encircling their limbs. Before Uther could do so much as scream another useless threat, Merlin had systematically captured each of the guards within his ever-growing tree, creating an interlocking system of branches that matched the height of the castle itself.

It was both terrifying and beautiful to behold. Where once the castle balcony had offered no shade, the enchanted tree now grew its own leaves, forming a lush green canopy that drowned Arthur in its shadow. Below him, the gallows had completely disappeared, the wood of it entirely transformed back into what it had been originally—a magnificent, mossy oak tree. Most powerful sorcerer to ever be born, Arthur recalled. That is what the traveler had spoken of in court, and now all of Camelot had witnessed it.

At a loss, Arthur waited for his father to scream more orders at his disabled knights. Waited for him to draw his own sword and attack, but he didn’t, and Arthur glanced at his father only to find the king was speechless himself. The king stood frozen, his right hand still raised to give an order, but he was clearly stunned into a stupor. His own hand motions were useless in the face of Merlin’s. Together, father and son both simply stared down at Merlin in shock.

They didn’t have to look down on him for very long, however, because Merlin was rising—lifted up in the air by the largest branch the enchanted tree had to offer. In an elegant display, Merlin elevated himself to the height of the balcony, his lanky form draped over the branch with one boot dangling off the edge. He no longer appeared pale or scared, but rather confident and assured with his left hand braced against the tree’s trunk and the other directing the branch with a single finger. His eyes were still glittering with magic as his gaze met Arthur’s.

Being eye-level with Merlin was not something Arthur had been prepared for, but Merlin brought the tree branch in close, pulling himself up to the parapet almost as if he’d added an extra chair to the Pendragon dinner table. Uther immediately drew his sword, letting out a war cry, but Merlin merely blinked, sending the king’s broadsword flying out of his hands with a strike from the tree. Colourful blossoms rained down from the offending branch and decorated the stone of the balcony, curling themselves into Arthur’s hair.

“Sorry,” Merlin said dryly, although he didn’t sound very sorry. “I’m a bit tired of all this violence. And aren’t you tired of it by now, Uther? The endless cycle of killing? Or has it just become habitual for you at this point?”

“You deserve death, you demon spawn,” Uther managed to hiss, his eyes bloodshot, but the declaration carried no weight anymore. Merlin was no longer allowing him that sort of power.

“Right,” Merlin said with a sigh, and he mostly just looked tired now. As if he’d run out of energy to deal with the king and his threats, and he rubbed at his face a little. His lip was still bleeding from Uther’s slap. “I won’t bother arguing with you, Uther. I said my piece back at court, and as I told you then, I apologise for what has happened with Sir Roldan. I hope I can make it right one day. Perhaps under new management.”

He looked at Arthur at this, and Arthur had never felt so tongue-tied. There were a million things he wanted to say, but none that he could say in this moment. Not in the courtyard. Not in front of his father.

The tiniest of smiles flashed across Merlin’s lips. As if to say, I know. It’s fine.

And then Merlin threw his head back and emitted a dragon’s roar.

It was a call that Arthur was now familiar with. A chant of words in a dragon tongue, deep in Merlin’s throat, but this time, the magic in them seemed to shake the entire castle.

Silence fell across the courtyard as Merlin finished uttering the words. A terrible, pensive silence, as if they were all waiting to see what exactly Merlin had planned for them next.

And then came the true dragon’s roar.

“No,” was all Uther seemed capable of saying as he stared in horror above him, the wings of his old enemy dominating Camelot’s sky.

“Yes,” Merlin countered, and he couldn’t seem to mask his smile as the Great Dragon descended upon them. “You really shouldn’t lock us magical creatures up, Uther. We seem to have developed a bad habit of breaking out.”

A hint of sass had leaked into Merlin’s voice now, and he smiled as he summoned his branch once more, ordering it to lift him up to the dragon and deposit him on its scaly back. The tree billowed into action, leaves filling the air as Merlin plopped onto the dragon as easily as he would mount a horse.

“I don’t really wish to leave, you know,” Merlin shouted to them, speaking above the wind generated by the dragon’s wings. “I consider Camelot my home, and I know many sorcerers wish they could call it home as well. Sorcerers that could make excellent citizens or knights if you’d let them. Your worst enemies are the ones you create, Uther. So, please. Stop that cycle. Both of you. I’m only your enemy if you force me to be one, but until then…”

Merlin trailed off, letting his words switch to dragon language, and at his command, the Great Dragon rose a little higher in the air. Primed to leave.

 “...I’ll be around,” Merlin finished with one final touch of sass, and Arthur couldn’t quite hide a smile at the sound of it. “Have a pleasant evening, your majesties.”

And with that declaration, the dragon beat its massive wings and took to the open air, leaving the courtyard behind it. “Shoot it!” Uther screeched, scrambling to recover his fallen sword, but the few crossbow bolts the knights managed to deploy simply bounced off the dragon’s impenetrable scales. One bolt flew directly at Merlin and they all watched as he magically deflected it—as if the bolt was nothing more than a fly. Arthur was never going to grow accustomed to seeing him do something like that, was he?

Probably not, but this was the future Arthur had to look forward to. A sorcerer Merlin, flying free around the countryside on a dragon. It seemed crazy to imagine it, but he didn’t need to imagine it. It was reality now. Everything has changed now, hasn’t it? Arthur realised, and he could feel the truth of that deep within his bones. Just as Gwen had said, he was being pulled apart at the seams and remade in this very moment.

It was majestic, in an odd way, to see a dragon silhouetted against the backdrop of Camelot’s purple-pink sky. With a strange sense of calm, Arthur stood perfectly still, just watching as his friend disappeared into the clouds. Calm was a surprising thing to experience, as it was not the emotion Arthur should be feeling. He should be feeling outraged and fearful. Frustrated, confused, vengeful—all the things that a good, obedient prince should feel when a sorcerer escapes punishment. But all those feelings had evaporated after many days of battling with them. If anything, Arthur had just barely stopped himself from cheering when Merlin had escaped. He couldn’t imagine how that would’ve gone over with his father.

In fact, Uther was screaming battle directions at Arthur now, and Arthur was barely listening to them. His father’s mouth was moving as he shouted, a righteous fury etched in his every feature, and for the first time in his life, Arthur saw what most sorcerers must see in his father’s face. What Merlin must see. A pure, murderous hatred as the king hollered orders at Arthur to execute actions on his behalf. Kill your best friend for me, Arthur! Organise this massacre for me, Arthur! It’s fine that your knights murdered a bunch of Druid children in cold blood, Arthur! They would have grown up to be threats to Camelot anyway!

So much shouting. So much death. Hours ago, Arthur had struggled to face Merlin in the dungeon, but facing his father was so much worse. It was painful to look the king of Camelot in the eye and realise how much he loved the man while he simultaneously understood everything wrong within him. It was a tyranny he had identified within the king for some time now, if he was being honest with himself. A dark, consuming brokenness festering deep inside his last living family member and inside himself that he’d just been ignoring. He had not wished to entertain it. Even contemplating such a thing felt like treason.

But he couldn’t put off wrestling with it any longer. Guinevere was right. Merlin was right. Gaius, Morgana—they were all right. Arthur’s rule didn’t start when he was crowned king. The people of Camelot were looking up to him in the here and now and wondering what direction he’d be leading them. For better or worse, Arthur needed to decide what sort of direction that would be. Like a tidal wave, words from recent days began to flood Arthur’s mind, reverberating in his head like echoes in a cave. “You are not your father,” Gwen said, and her calm voice took over Arthur’s head, drowning out Uther’s screeching in the present. “Just because you are his son does not mean you have to be completely like him. You can take some and leave some. Take the good. Leave the bad. We’re all a mix of good and bad in the end. Not everything has to be black and white, and you can love someone and still recognise their faults…”

“You know I care for your father, but I’d hoped you may see things differently than him,” Gaius’ voice spoke, chiding Arthur just hours before at the top of the dungeon steps. “Do what you will, sire, but I’d advise thinking long and carefully about your decisions. One day, you will be king, and it’s about time you start deciding what kind of king you will be for your subjects. All of your subjects.”

“He will not be here forever, Arthur,” Morgana had said, speaking of Uther in her forever assured tone. Forever confident in her own decisions. “Perhaps in the future, things can be different…”

“I’m not unraveling everything,” Merlin whispered, his words from the night of Arthur’s discovery returning to haunt him. “I’m just trying to turn around the parts that need change. The hatred of magic. The needless bloodshed and conflict. The distrust. But that can’t be done with magic. It’s diplomacy. That’s what the other sorcerers don’t understand. Turning Camelot around is something only Arthur can do.”

Yes. Only something he could do, and for once in his life, Arthur could admit Merlin was right. This was something only he had the power to do and it was long overdue on his part, but as Arthur finally opened his mouth to address his father, he could hear the combined voices of Gwen, Merlin, Morgana, and Gaius speaking through him.

“No,” he said simply, and Arthur had never seen his father look quite so stunned.

“No?” the king repeated, and whatever orders he’d been shouting died on the vine. “No to what?”

“No to whatever you’re telling me to do,” Arthur said, and it felt foreign to him to hear disgust unleashed in his tone. “It’s useless, Father. You know it. I know it. Merlin is long gone. We can’t outpace a dragon, and even if we could, we wouldn’t stand a chance against it.”

Uther’s expression darkened, once again inconvenienced by Arthur’s insolence. “Arthur, I don’t have time for your childish games,” he growled. “I’ve forgiven you for your impertinence at court, but I will not stand for it again. You will ride out immediately, you will kill this dragon and Merlin—”

“No,” Arthur interrupted him, and he suddenly couldn’t bear to hear another word out of his father’s mouth. He turned away, beginning to retreat back to the castle. To leave the courtyard and all its chaos just as he’d done the throne room. “I won’t. Do it yourself.”

“This is not a request, Arthur!” Uther fumed, and he seized Arthur’s arm, preventing him from running away. “It is an order. As your king and your father—”

“You’ll what?” Arthur countered, and he tore his arm from his father’s grip, whirling back around to face him and surprising the king with his vitriol. “Tell me, then, in your perfect wisdom—what will you do to me if I disobey you, Father? Will you hang me in the courtyard as an example? Have Gogan sever my head from my neck with an axe? Is that the only solution you know?”

Arthur practically spit the words in Uther’s face, and shock radiated across the king’s expression. For a moment, his father’s hand twitched. He stopped himself immediately, but it was too late to disguise the motion. Uther’s right hand was somewhat raised, and Arthur quickly realised he’d almost been slapped. The king had almost struck him, just as he’d struck Merlin.

“Go on, then,” Arthur challenged, and he stared down his father just as Merlin had. “Do it. Strike me. I know you want to. Let the people see what you think of me. Let them witness the fact that even the heir to the throne isn’t safe from your temper!”

The words were coming hot and heavy from him now, flowing without thought from Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur knew this was always when he was at his most dangerous. When he was acting on instinct—emotional, and not logical. His father had trained him to reign in such emotions, and perhaps to prevent confrontations such as this. Any other person speaking this way would be detained, but Arthur held more privilege than any other person in Camelot. He would not let that privilege go to waste any longer.

Uther slowly let his arm fall back to his side. “I will not strike you, Arthur,” he declared, but there was a nervousness to him now that Arthur couldn’t help but notice. The king was eyeing him now like he was some sort of demon only just now crawling its way into the light. “You are my son. A future king. I should not be required to discipline you at this age, and especially not in public.”

“How merciful of you to pull back,” Arthur taunted, and there would be no preventing his anger now. It had been unleashed from him, pouring out of the deepest deaths of his heart. “And here I thought you detested clemency. I guess you’re just as much of a hypocrite as I feared you were.”

Uther’s eyes widened, surprised to find his own advice thrown back at his face. “What has gotten into you?” the king cried, and there was a brokenness to his tone now. He was hurt, Arthur realised. Offended that his son would attack him in this way. “What has happened to root you against me in this way?”

“What has gotten into me?” Arthur echoed, bristling, and it was not lost on him how much he was beginning to sound like Merlin—shouting at his father just as Merlin had shouted at him in the dungeons. “What has gotten into you, father? Do you enjoy standing up here, watching your own people staring up at you in fear? Is that the type of ruler you’ve worked to become? I used to think you performed these executions out of necessity—that you took no pleasure in them. But now I see you revel in it. You exhibit your twisted idea of strength on the people so that you don’t appear soft, inspiring their fear instead of their love, and—”

“Soft?” Uther bellowed, cutting Arthur off, and any remnant of hurt was quickly replaced by a flash of anger. “Is that your issue, here, Arthur? Is that your grievance with me as your king? You think I am simply hiding my weaknesses? Gilding them with varnish, instead of fixing them? That I am making this kingdom weak instead of strong?”

“No, Father, I think you are doing the very opposite!" Arthur hollered, and he was unsurprised to see the king enraged at the mere suggestion of weakness on his part. “And that is the issue! Do you not see that? You have no trust in the people! In the madness of your crusade against sorcery, your own citizens have grown to fear you instead of love you, and that’s not even including any sorcerers! You’ve created nothing but mistrust, and is it so bad that I want to be loved by my people? All my people? I want to be a ruler that they can rely on, one they can look up to—”

“And that’s a softness that’ll get you killed one day, Arthur!” Uther exploded, and he moved to cup Arthur’s face with both hands—just as Guinevere had. It was a tender motion, one of love, but it didn’t have the same calming effect. Arthur reeled at the king’s touch, worried he’d been going in for a strike, not a caress. “That is my greatest fear for you, Arthur. It is my greatest fear that one day, you will look an enemy in the eye and hesitate due to your misplaced trust. And it will be the end of you.”

“Then let it be!” Arthur barked, and he ripped himself from his father’s grasp, pushing away from him and watching as horror grew on his father’s face. He vaguely wondered if this was how Merlin had felt, trying to get through to Arthur in the dungeon. Arguing with a brick wall too dense to hear any echo but its own. “Then let it be the end of me, Father! At least I’ll die knowing I ruled as a king who chose reconciliation and mercy. A ruler that sought out peace when it could be found and cared for my subjects—all my subjects. And that’s a legacy I’d be very happy to leave behind. I hope one day you can come to that same conclusion, but perhaps that is a foolish hope to hold.”

Arthur paused to catch his breath then, a speech he had never written for himself now delivered. He felt alive all of a sudden, his every muscle twitching, and in a rush, Arthur realised this was what righteous fury felt like. He hadn’t had the strength of will to kill Merlin, and he also hadn’t been able to execute Gaius or the Druid boy. He had proven himself weak in that category multiple times, and then there were the countless other sorcerers he had passively watched die at his father’s hands. The king had always regarded mercy as a sign of weakness, and so had Arthur, but he was done pretending that mercy and compassion were qualities he had to cut out like a disease. It was tearing him up inside to do so and he couldn’t fight his own nature anymore.

“What has he done to you?” Uther whispered in horror, and it took Arthur a moment to realise that his father was referencing Merlin. “Emrys, that wicked warlock—what mystic poison has he put in your mind?”

“No poison, Father,” Arthur said, but he was unsurprised that his father would place the blame anywhere but himself. After all, hadn’t Arthur done the same? Blamed Merlin, blamed the Druids, blamed Gaius—anything but his own heart and actions, even though he had known all along that the blame rested with him the most. “The only thing he has given me is the truth, and when I’m king, I’ll be deciding just what to do with that. This kingdom does not belong to us. It belongs to the people, no matter who or what they are, and we have lost sight of that. We have lost sight of it from the very beginning, and I aim to change that!”

Arthur practically screamed his last few words, breathless, and before he knew it, his feet were moving. He was aiming for the stairs, desperate to abandon the conversation and leave the balcony. If he didn’t, he knew this would end in drawn swords. The fog around the courtyard had turned to rain, pellets of water beginning to cascade down on them, causing the stone to grow slippery beneath Arthur’s boots. It forced him to slow down.

That was unfortunate, as with his slowed pace, Arthur saw the motion clearly out of the corner of his eye. A deadly movement of the king’s arm, and Arthur reacted as he was trained, drawing his sword and swirling around, his body dropping into a fighting stance.

He’d expected to be met with his father’s sword. Anticipated the glint of a blade in the glittering rain, but he was pleasantly surprised to find no weapon drawn. The king’s hands were merely resting on the hilt. He’d chosen not to unsheathe his sword.

But he’d considered it.

“Going to kill me, were you?” Arthur whispered, his eyes entirely on his father’s hands. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Speaking this way, or drawing a weapon on his father. But it felt right somehow. Inevitable. “Or were you going to simply arrest me? Send me to the dungeons for a few nights to cool off? You’d just be proving Merlin right. You keep turning friends into enemies. One day, you won’t have any friends left to turn to, and perhaps we have already reached that bleak day.”

Arthur’s words were like venom, and Uther had never looked so caught off guard. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing, Arthur,” the king snapped, and he pulled his hands away from his sword, moving them up almost in surrender. He’d chosen not to attack, but Arthur did not relax. “I cannot believe that I have my own son standing here, threatening me and agreeing with a sorcerer. A sorcerer that killed a good knight, murdered Roldan—”

“—on accident!” Arthur snarled, and for once, he was prepared to admit his own fault in the situation. “He was defending himself in battle, as any warrior would do. He was unable to tell if the knight was an enemy or not, and it was a misstep I may have been able to prevent. Instead, I played his game and went behind his back. Testing him. Keeping secrets. All things that you have done to me to see if I am fit for the throne, but I’m finished dealing in secrets and lies. I’ve learnt my lesson now. Secrets bring about nothing but pain and death.”

“You are defending him!” Uther cried, and it was clear that all of Arthur’s words had flown right over his head. “Him! A proven sorcerer! And one that has attacked our kingdom! Do you not hear yourself, Arthur? Has madness overtaken your better senses?”

“Attacked?” Arthur echoed, and he emitted a bitter laugh, waving his sword at the oak tree now stretching over the whole of the castle. “You call this an attack, father? Merlin has hardly left a scratch on anyone! He mobbed us with butterflies! He could have killed us all in an instant if he’d wanted, but he chose not to. Unlike you, it seems he doesn’t need to prove his points to the people of Camelot through sensationalist murder!”

Arthur’s voice cracked as he shouted, and Uther’s expression darkened. “You’re beginning to sound like Morgana,” Uther realised, and he said it like it was a bad thing. “Has she put you up to this? Did she write up this little speech of yours? I know she has always disapproved of execution, but I’ve always thought it was her more womanly nature come to the surface. It’s understandable that she would find such unpleasant things upsetting, but you—”

“What would mother think of this?”

Uther blinked at him. Rain was streaking down his face now, drenching them both as Arthur brought up something he knew he was forbidden to speak of. An indicator that this was not at all a speech Morgana had written up for him. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Arthur ground out, and he wasn’t about to back down now. His sword felt correct in his hands. Pointed at an enemy. “My mother. Ygraine. Remember her? What would she think of all this? I wouldn’t know, as I never knew her. But you would know. How would she feel if she could see us now? If she saw what you’ve done? What would she think of your carefully crafted crusade against magic?”

“Don’t you dare bring her name into this!” Uther thundered, and Arthur could hear himself in his father once again. Reacting the same as Arthur had when Merlin had drawn Guinevere’s name into their argument.

“I do dare!” Arthur yelled back, and this time, he heard Merlin’s voice alive within him—screaming the same three words the sorcerer had spoken from the gallows. It was long overdue, but he did dare. “You never talk of her, Father! I know nothing about her, and do I not have a right to know? Back at court, you spoke of her for the first time in nearly a year. You told me that my inclination towards mercy was her nature inside of me. Her soul within me. So is it? Were you saying that she’d disapprove of your methods? Are you saying that she was weak, as you say that I am weak?”

“You know nothing of which you speak, Arthur,” Uther seethed, and a darkness overcame his features like a shadow. His fingers had found the hilt of his sword again. “Your mother was everything to me. Everything, and her death was a blow I will never recover from. Her death at the hands of sorcery!”

The king’s voice was shrill now, and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. This was new information, or at least from his father’s mouth. “Whose hands?” Arthur demanded. “What sorcery?”

Terror flickered across Uther’s face. He hadn’t meant to say that. “What?”

“Whose hands, Father?” Arthur roared, stepping forward. His sword hovered ever closer to the king, and that was enough for Uther to finally pull his weapon as well. Two knights, father and son, just inches from battle. “How did she die, in truth? What sorcery? You never told me sorcery was involved. You denied sorcery was involved. Is this why you banned it? What is the truth?”  

“I-I misspoke, Arthur!” Uther stuttered, and he was backpedaling now. Trying to rectify his slip up, the dots of his story no longer connecting. “Don’t make me relive this again. It’s too painful to remember. Sorcerers were attacking Camelot nearly constantly back then. That is what I meant. There were sorcerers threatening your mother, and then she died giving birth to you—”

“You’re lying,” Arthur accused, and he couldn’t bear to hear more flimsy falsehoods leak out his father’s mouth. He wanted to know if the vision of his mother Morgause had shown him had been real. If that had been the truth, despite Merlin having convinced him it wasn’t. Perhaps Merlin had simply been wrong. “I can see that you’re lying. You’re lying to me.”

“I am not lying,” Uther defended, but Arthur could still spot the fear swimming behind the king’s rage. Fear and uncertainty—two things Arthur was not accustomed to seeing within his father, and that made them all the more easy to identify. “Was it Merlin that convinced you that I am lying? Has he enchanted you, turning you against me? Your mother died giving birth to you and that is the truth of it. A sorceress cursed her, telling me that would be her fate. I did not believe it, and it was my mistake that I did not kill that witch where she stood. I have since rectified that mistake, and the sorceress is dead. Anything else you may have heard is nothing more than a trap to mislead you and turn you against me. You must believe that, Arthur.”

The king spoke with desperation, pleading, but Arthur wasn’t buying it. When he’d confronted Merlin back in the dungeons, Merlin had opened up the minute his secret was revealed. The truth had tumbled from him like a flood, but it was not so with Uther. The king was still bottling it up. Still hiding. Still avoiding.

“I wish I believed you, Father,” Arthur whispered, and that was true. “I wish I believed that you’ve told me the whole story. But you’re withholding something from me, aren’t you? It seems everyone’s solution to dealing with me these days is to simply lie to my face. I’m sick of it. Speak to me in truth and truth alone, or I won’t be trusting any word out of your mouth ever again. I promise you that.”

Curling his fingers even tighter around his sword, Arthur leveled it to his father’s face to demonstrate his seriousness. The rain continued to slash down on them, growing in intensity, but neither of them moved for shelter. Their blades were practically touching, with both king and prince fearing that they’d come to blows. Neither of them wanted this, but neither of them would back down if it were to happen.

The king opened his mouth to reply, perhaps to defend himself, or try to defuse the situation. But no sounds came out. Uther seemed at a loss for words—or, at least, at a loss for the truth, and Arthur grimaced, speaking in his father’s stead.

“As your only heir, I may be safe from execution at your hands,” Arthur said, and adrenaline shot through his veins as he spoke. His arms were shaking, but he felt he was finally doing what Merlin had hoped for. Stepping up and playing with political fire in a way only he, as prince, could do. “However, you are not necessarily safe from execution at mine. This is your trial, Uther Pendragon, king of Camelot. Not that you ever gave anyone else a fair one. This is your final chance. Tell me. What actually happened? Why would a sorceress have cursed my mother? Did you give her a reason to? Because as someone informed me recently, no sorcerer acts without a reason.”

Uther’s expression was like shattered glass. Broken, and unsure of how to pick up the pieces now that his façade had been fractured. “Arthur—” he began, but before he could get out another word, they were interrupted by a new arrival to the balcony.

“Arthur!” Gaius’ voice howled, and Arthur watched the physician approach them out of the corner of his eye. He still kept his sword level with his father’s face, but he could see that the rain had already drenched Gaius’ grey hair. The physician looked distressed at the sight of their drawn weapons, and that was something Arthur hadn’t anticipated. If anything, he’d expected Gaius to be happy by it, and it occurred to him then that whoever remained in the courtyard could probably see them. The prince and the king, swords drawn and at each other’s throats. Not exactly a great look, but then again, Uther had just gotten his arse served to him in public by a sorcerer. That hadn’t been a great look for the kingdom, either. For better or for worse, the future of Camelot would change on this balcony tonight...

Merlin had put the sand in motion and there was no turning back time now.

“Arthur, think about what you’re doing!” Gaius implored, and his hands were grasped together in beseechment—something that angered Arthur. To see Gaius defending the king, when they both knew there was nothing to defend. Hell, it had been Gaius himself that had told Arthur to turn away from the king, and that was exactly what Arthur was doing. Shouldn’t he be pleased?

But Gaius merely continued his plea for clemency. “Arthur, marking yourself as patricidal and a kingslayer is no way for you to start off your reign,” he argued, and Arthur didn’t like how much sense he was making. “Don’t you see? I understand your anger, but the alliances the kingdom has forged will not hold if you were to usurp the throne in this way. It will throw Camelot into chaos and war!”

“It’s already in chaos and war, Gaius!” Arthur reminded him, his voice strangely even. He could see fear growing ever stronger in his father’s eyes. It was the same brand of fear that the king had infused into so many others. A taste of his own dreadful medicine. Once before, Arthur had confronted him at swordpoint for his hypocrisy. It had only been a matter of time before they came to blows again. “He’s made sure of that!”

“I know,” Gaius said, and Arthur could hear Gaius’ own internal war as he spoke. “But you must think politically, Arthur. We are technically at peace with the other kingdoms at this moment. Essetir teeters on the brink of destroying that peace, and Cenred may attack at any hour. If he does, you will need the other kings to rally to your side. If you kill Uther now, they may not come to your aid!”

“Gaius is right, Arthur,” Uther said, and Arthur flinched to hear him speak again. The freezing rain had thoroughly drenched them all, leaving Arthur and Uther both shaking a little. “I have spent years forging the alliances Camelot holds. We are in political agreement with all but one of the five kingdoms, but they hold that peace with me, not you. You know this. You are not yet ready to handle the void of power that will come with my death. Our enemies will converge on you, led by Cenred and testing you to see if you are weak and expendable. If you are proven weak, they will take this kingdom for themselves. You want me to speak to you the truth? That is the truth in this, Arthur. You are not ready for the throne, and if you were to take it now, you would lose it and this entire kingdom within weeks. Of that alone I am sure.”

He was avoiding Arthur’s trial, and that made Arthur’s blood boil—witnessing him steer deftly away from the topic of Ygraine’s death. He was using Gaius’ logic as a weapon, utilizing the looming threat of Cenred as an excuse, but Arthur wavered at the sliver of truth he did hear within his father’s words. A dark declaration of Camelot’s future under his eventual rule and exhaustion tugged at him at the implications. It was an exhaustion born from too much stress. Too much killing, and too much worry about kingdom politics. Was Arthur ready to be king? No. Could he survive an attack by Cenred? Likely no. Could he handle it with Merlin and a dragon as his army? Maybe. But Arthur would need to consult with Merlin on that one, and unfortunately, that meant both Gaius and his father were right.

He couldn’t take power. Not yet. Not now, and not alone. If he did, he’d throw Camelot into an unrest he might not be able to recover from. It was a chilling thing to understand, but he did understand it. Killing his father, right here and in full view of the public, would be a mistake he could not come back from. A mistake that might result in hundreds of deaths if he wasn’t careful.

“There you go, my son,” Uther said slowly, and Arthur realised he’d subconsciously lowered his sword. Uther did the same, ending their standoff. “I knew you’d make the right decision in the end. I am not your enemy.”

“Are you sure about that, Father?” Arthur asked, a dangerous edge to his tone, but he did sheath his sword. His shoulders slumped, just letting the rain swallow him. “Because I’m not, and it looks like I’m just as soft as you feared me to be. I’ve chosen mercy. For now. You have Gaius to thank for that. Have fun chasing down that dragon and Merlin. I hope you never find him.”

“Arthur—” Uther started, but Arthur had already turned his back on the king, and for good this time. He began to make his way out of the rain, only stopping briefly to look Gaius in the eye.

“Tell me honestly,” he asked the physician, and he’d never stared down Gaius quite like this. It wasn’t all that different from how Gaius had stared him down on the dungeon steps, granting the physician no wiggle room to lie. “Is he responsible? Whatever truly happened with my mother and my birth. Is he to blame?”

He pointed to his father at this, and Gaius faltered. “I—” he blubbered, grappling for a reply. “He—”

“That’s all the answer I need,” Arthur said definitively, not letting the physician gather his thoughts, and then he was back in the castle—descending the stairs and leaving his father behind him. “Arthur!” Uther screamed after him, but Arthur simply ignored him, knowing that if he turned back again, he’d see red. They would fight, and Arthur would win. Deep down, Uther must know that his son would win, and Arthur hoped that scared him. That would have to be enough for now. Eventually, inevitably, they would clash again…

And when that fateful day occurred, Arthur didn’t plan on holding back.

A figure met Arthur half way down the stairs, having been part of the way up when Arthur had taken his leave. “What was all that?” Morgana asked, her eyes wide with surprise at seeing the prince’s fury still emanating off him in waves.

“Inevitable,” Arthur muttered in answer, and he didn’t offer any further insight, merely pushing past Morgana and continuing his way to his chambers. This time when he slammed his door shut, he didn’t plan on allowing anyone in to speak to him. Three days of little to no sleep weighed on his every limb, and it was accompanied by overwhelming grief as something Arthur had denied for some time finally came crashing down upon him in full force.

The vision that Morgause had shown him had been true. It had been the truth, hadn’t it? It had felt like the truth to Arthur’s instincts, unlike the excuses that had poured from his father’s mouth. The magically-summoned vestige had felt like his mother come to speak to him from beyond the grave, telling him that his father was keeping secrets from him. Lying to his face, just like everyone else seemed to do, but this was even worse than Merlin’s secret. Even worse because it meant that his father had meddled with circumstances beyond his control, causing the accidental death of another—just as Arthur had. Ygraine’s death was burning on his father’s conscience just as Roldan’s death was burning on Arthur’s, wasn’t it?

He knew deep down that was the truth in all this. History repeated itself if you weren’t careful, and what was worse was that Arthur wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. He’d pushed it down once before, trying to ignore it. To convince himself that his father was innocent in his mother’s death and that the laws of Camelot were just. But he couldn’t maintain that convenient charade anymore. The very fabric of his daily life had been ripped apart and he wasn’t sure how to sew it into something new. The relationship between him and the king felt irreparably damaged, with any last shred of reconciliation between them now abandoned out in the pouring rain. It was a terrible thing to realise, but at least one good thing had come out of this horrible day.

Merlin was alive. He was still breathing, and probably celebrating his victory over Uther up in the sky on his bloody dragon. That was a win for them both, and Arthur had to give himself that. Had to rest in the knowledge that his friend would live to see another sunrise, and one day soon, they would speak again. Speak as equals, and not as enemies or even burdened by their class differences any longer. They could talk. They could plan. They could figure out a battle map for the future, together, and with no secrets between them anymore.

It was a nice thought, albeit a strange one, and Arthur collapsed onto his bed, worn out after several nights of being unable to rest. Lying there, curled up in his blankets, he wondered if tonight he might actually be able to catch some sleep. He needed it, following everything that had just transpired. His heart was still in turmoil with the sun only just now fading from Camelot’s sky, fighting against the dark rainclouds and painting Arthur’s chambers in its golden glow. With a sigh, he let his face sink into the embrace of his silk pillows, basking in the last tendrils of the sun and letting his half-lidded eyes linger on his window—just gazing out at Merlin’s oak tree. Its beautiful boughs swung in the wind and Arthur couldn’t help but smile a little at their peaceful image.

It was calming, the presence of the tree in light of Merlin’s absence, and a glimmer of hope flickered inside Arthur as he studied it. It was surprising to him, how quickly that little spark of hope replaced his anguish at abandoning his father. There was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Merlin had summoned that tree as a symbol of peace for Camelot. An extended olive branch that he was not an enemy, but rather an ally, and it served as a beacon for the future despite the uncertainty ahead. Part of Arthur wondered if something great could be on the horizon, just out of their reach. His reign had almost come into fruition on that balcony, and Arthur deeply feared that he might not make the right calls when his eventual crowning did come…

But somehow, deep down in his heart, Arthur knew he’d made the right call today. He’d chosen to believe in Merlin’s dream, trusting his instincts and putting his faith in the possibility of magic as a force for good. He’d turned against the will of his father, publicly and irreversibly. It was a small step, a scary step, but a decision nonetheless, and Arthur had never felt so assured by his own choices. In more ways than one, it felt like his first step as king, and perhaps his father was right. Perhaps Arthur would get himself killed one day, placing his political trust in the wrong places and consorting with sorcerers…

Or perhaps Uther was wrong. Perhaps today had been the first step of creating a Camelot that only existed in Arthur’s dreams. Perhaps placing his trust in the likes of Merlin—with all his unknowable power and unfathomable loyalty—could be the beginning of something Uther could never hope to build. There was no way to know for sure, but for some inexplicable reason, Arthur held more hope in this dream than anything he’d ever encountered before.

And resting in that sweet feeling, Arthur finally drifted off into some much-needed sleep.

Chapter Text

Arthur awoke to an intruder in his bedchambers.

It was not the first time he had awoken to an intruder, but usually those intruders were human. This intruder was a bird, and it was perched on the back of Arthur’s desk chair, busy cleaning its grey wings. It stopped as soon as Arthur awoke, but it merely looked at the prince in defiance, as if declaring, “Yeah, I live here now. What’re you gonna do about it?”

For a moment, Arthur and the bird stared at each other, as if neither one quite knew what move to make next.

Then the bird squawked and Arthur bolted upright.

“Merlin!” Arthur screeched without thought, scrunching up his pillow and chucking it at the bird. He missed, and the bird didn’t seem fazed, remaining on the back of Arthur’s chair and probably ruining the artisan wood with its claws. “Merlin, did you forget to close the bloody window? What’s this bird doing in here?”

Arthur’s cry reverberated around the room, but it went unanswered. That annoyed Arthur even more, thinking Merlin was running late, but then, with a jolt, he remembered.

Ah, Arthur realised with a pang of guilt, and the events of the previous day slowly returned to him in a terrible rush. That’s right. I almost had him executed.

Emphasis on almost. Through the view of his open window, the branches of Merlin’s magical oak tree stretched out to the morning sky in the courtyard. The lush leaves were already harbouring songbirds. Arthur himself must have forgotten to close the window the previous night, having been too tired after returning to his chambers following all the excitement.

So it hadn’t all been a dream. Merlin had escaped after all. He was alive and out there somewhere—perhaps having a nice, relaxing morning breakfast with his pet dragon in some deep, dark cave. How quaint.

It was a little hard for Arthur to imagine that, but it was probably true and it also pained him more than he would ever admit. Falling back against his pillows, Arthur rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a deep sigh. No more Merlin coming in to spread his curtains and force-feed him breakfast. No more playful arguing or simply messing about. While Merlin still had his ungrateful head attached to his shoulders, there would be no returning to servant duties with the whole of Camelot on alert for him. If anything, Arthur was mostly surprised his father hadn’t already ordered him a replacement manservan—

“My liege!” cried a voice, and Arthur nearly choked on his own spit.

“Gah!” he yelped, tumbling out of bed to the floor only to be met with the form of a man in a blue shirt and red scarf standing over him.

For a moment, Arthur thought it was Merlin, and his heart jumped into his throat in horror at how stupid the man could be, coming back here after the night of his almost execution—

But upon further inspection, this wasn’t Merlin at all. While they shared a similar unfortunate taste in fashion, this man was far shorter than Merlin and somehow sported an even worse haircut.

“My liege!” the man repeated loudly, and his voice was laced with a very non-Merlin-like reverence as he attempted to pull Arthur back up. “Are you alright, sire? I apologise profusely, sir, I did not mean to startle you! I did knock thrice, but I heard commotion. I feared you were under attack!”

This must be the new one, Arthur thought with a groan. Could his father find him a manservant that was not obnoxious for once?

“I am not under attack,” Arthur grumbled as he shirked the servant’s attempt at help and pulled himself back to feet. He also doubted a wisp of a man like this one would be much use even if he were under attack. “It’s just a bloody bird. And who the hell are you?”

The man’s posture somehow stiffened even further. “I am George , sire!” he announced with a robust vibrato, sticking his chin high in the air. “And I am your new manservant! I assure you I will perform much better than that traitor who came before me. I pride myself on being at the top of my game within all areas of the craft of serving, sire.”

He said it as if it were a practiced speech and all with an air of contempt regarding Merlin—which made Arthur scowl. While it was true it didn’t take much to be a better servant than Merlin, that wound was still a little fresh. A new servant was going to be an adjustment.

“Right,” Arthur said dully, purposely not giving George the praise he clearly craved. “Well, you can start by sorting out this wretched thing.” He pointed to the bird at this, which squawked like it was offended. “I don’t expect to wake up to something like that ever again.”

“Of course, sire!” George answered, his voice more shrill than the bird to Arthur’s ears, and he thankfully turned his full attention to the animal. The new manservant leveled the little bird with a glare, and the bird seemed to take that as a challenge as it immediately attacked, squawking and swooping at George’s face.

George’s scream was ear-piercing. Arthur wasn’t sure what was funnier—the bird or George, and he didn’t bother holding back a grin as he watched the new manservant badly dodge the animal’s attacks.

But Arthur’s grin quickly faded when the bird landed on his bed and promptly defecated upon his sheets.

“Oi!” exclaimed George, and he tried to catch the bird, but with his uncoordinated arms, he completely missed. The falcon slipped through his fingers and George’s hands sailed directly into the shite, spreading excrement all over the silk sheets. Arthur immediately face-palmed. “Come back here, you little devil! I will not have these royal bedchambers desecrated by a filthy merlin!”

George practically screamed the name, and Arthur—who had been about two seconds away from giving the new servant the tongue-lashing of the century—stopped in his tracks. He stared at the servant, temporarily stunned into silence. “What did you just say?”

“I-I said I will not have these chambers desecrated by a filthy merlin!” George repeated, gesturing to the bird with his soiled palm. “They may be wonderful hunting falcons, but they can be very undomesticated! I am terribly sorry, sire. I will find whoever let this falcon out of the aviary and make sure they get a stern talking-to. There should be better security on the—”

“Are you saying this type of falcon is called a merlin?” Arthur interrupted, and George looked surprised by the question.

“Why, yes, it is. I do believe the name comes from the Frankish word esmerillon, meaning falcon, and they are primarily used as hunting falcons. That said, they are rather small and...”

George continued to ramble, but Arthur was no longer listening. His mind was whirling, and it was then that he spotted it.

A small scroll of paper sitting on his chair, right where the falcon had landed.

Arthur’s breathing hitched at the sight and he quickly backed up to his desk, palming the scroll so George wouldn’t see it. Then he put on his best angry royal face. “Enough of that!” he ordered, cutting George’s falcon speech short. The new servant rocketed to attention once more and Arthur grabbed a hunting jacket from his unwashed clothes, throwing it on with angry motions. “I don’t need the full history of the bloody bird! Just get it out of here! I’m going out until you do, and I expect this disaster to be cleaned up with new sheets on that bed, or I’ll have your head!”

He leveled a stern finger at the new manservant at this, pleased to see George wilt, nodding vigorously, and with that sorted, Arthur stormed out of his chambers. He kept the little piece of paper held tightly in his closed fist, his mind already reeling with guesses as to what it might say.

To his relief, the castle corridors were practically empty as he sailed through them like a man possessed, glancing out into the courtyard only to see the knights all occupied with chopping up Merlin’s tree. They were having a hard time of it—mostly because of the sheer size of the thing—and Arthur smirked a little as he tucked himself into an alcove of the corridor. Only then did he finally dare to unravel the small scroll, nearly dropping an object that was pressed inside the parchment’s coil. With fumbling fingers, Arthur managed to catch the little present, bringing the object up to the light to inspect it properly.

It appeared to be a whistle. Made of clay and rather crudely molded, but there was a large stamp of the Pendragon dragon on the back of it, and Arthur’s eyes widened as he recognised the royal seal itself. His father kept that seal on his hand at all times, except perhaps while he slept, and Arthur could only imagine the nerve it would take to sneak into the king’s chambers to steal it.

But then again, Merlin had always been a brave sort of stupid, and the former manservant’s handwriting on the note only served to confirm it.

Since I was always at your beck and call anyway, I thought this would be fitting, read the little scroll, and Arthur couldn’t help but grin as he read the words in Merlin’s annoying voice. I gave it the royal stamp of approval for good measure. Give it a go in the clearing tonight. I think you know the one I mean. - M

The clearing… yes, Arthur did know the one. It was in that very spot that everything had changed between them, and Arthur would not soon forget the dragon swooping down upon them from the sky. He had a feeling he would face that again if he listened to the letter and blew the whistle tonight.

The thought oddly excited him. Him, Arthur Pendragon, looking forward to meeting a sorcerer and a dragon under the cover of darkness. How strange his life had become, and now Arthur found himself even a little nervous.

He had never been nervous to speak to Merlin before. He’d never needed to be, but this time, Arthur knew it would be different. Merlin was no longer his manservant, and no longer a sorcerer locked away in the dungeon. He was a free man, and a powerful one at that. The dynamics between them had changed so drastically, and what was the right thing to say to someone you’d almost executed? Perhaps there wasn’t anything Arthur could say to make that right.

But he must try. He had to try, because that’s what a king would do. A good king, and with new conviction, Arthur pulled the whistle over his head using the cord it had arrived on, tucking it under his shirt alongside his red talon necklace. He patted it once, assuring himself that it was there before he went about his day, impatiently waiting for night to fall so he could call upon the sorry likes of Merlin one final time.

~O~

The rest of the day went perfectly terrible for Arthur, and unfortunately, he knew exactly why.

There was no other way to sugarcoat it. A day in Camelot without Merlin was hell for Arthur. He’d anticipated this, but in many ways, he had forgotten just how unstable his life had been before Merlin had joined the royal household. It was not something he could ever admit to anyone, but he’d been so lonely and isolated back then. Feeling the pressure of his duties mount, and noticing that everyone around him was treating him as nothing more than a delicate vase. With each passing year, Arthur had begun to feel more like a walking, talking sword—an object of protection and admiration, but nothing more. At the time, he hadn’t realised how much he’d needed someone to talk to him not as a prince.

And then Merlin had entered the picture. He had been the person Arthur needed, right on time. For all of his infuriating ways, that sorcerer had been the first person who’d ever had the audacity to look Arthur in the eye and talk back to him. He’d likely done that probably because of his sorcery, and Arthur realised that now, but at the time, Merlin was the first servant Arthur had ever encountered that gave it to him straight. He’d certainly been the first friend to ever peel back Arthur’s armour, discovering his struggles and fears, and over time, he’d become the one Arthur knew he could turn to when he needed it most. A confidant that was always available, and always there to help him sort out his thoughts.

And oh, how badly Arthur needed a confidant today.

The chaos of the past few days had caused unrest throughout the whole of Camelot. Between Merlin’s escape and also possible war with Essetir, the civil order was shaky at best, leaving everyone in the citadel on edge.

That was never a good thing. Gossip ripped through the ranks of the knights and servants like a disease, and that did not bode well for the health of Arthur’s public image. He did not have a good track record over the past week, considering his very public fight with his father, Merlin’s long-undetected sorcery, the dramatic escape, the breach of Essetir’s borders, the death of Roldan, and now the return of a dragon that Arthur claimed to have killed…

Well. Long story short, it didn’t take long for Arthur to realise he wasn’t particularly popular at the moment. He could practically feel the trust of the people in him fading. The faith of the public in their monarch was a fickle thing, and Uther had spent the better part of the morning downplaying the public’s concerns. He hadn’t wasted any time spreading a rumour that Arthur had been enchanted, waving off his son’s treasonous actions, but it was useless. The people now feared war, and there were whispers of Cenred being supported by the powers of sorcery. Could the king of Essetir be in league with Merlin and his dragon? And could Emrys be planning to return and attack?

It was troublesome to say the least, and it bothered Arthur how quickly the grains of truth had been swept away and mixed up by the tidal wave of gossip. Townspeople and knights that knew Merlin personally, even talked to him regularly, were suddenly characterising him as a monster. Tales of Emrys as the son of a demon had spread by mid-afternoon, capturing the public’s imagination, and that made Arthur deeply angry. Had they not all stood in the same courtyard yesterday? Had they not heard Merlin’s call for peace?

But the truth didn’t matter, really. It never did, not once fear had managed to secure a chokehold on the collective conscience. Arthur had seen it happen before. Scandal would always be more gripping than reality, and it would not be easily dispelled. So how could he ever hope to dispel it? How could he ever hope to win the love and trust of the public?

Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he had no hope at all of ever becoming the king he wished to be, but he couldn’t worry about that now. After suffering through the stress of the day, Arthur’s anxiety was eating him alive, so the daylight fading was a welcome sight. Sitting in his chambers, Arthur brought his hand to his chest, checking to make sure Merlin’s whistle was still there. The last time he had snuck out of the castle, it had been to seek Merlin’s advice, and tonight, Arthur was preparing to do so again.

But this time, he was a little better prepared for what awaited him in the forest.

The castle was still on high alert when Arthur made his silent exit from the citadel. The cold air greeted him in the courtyard, and it wasn’t all that hard for him to slip out into the upper town. He’d been the one to design the guard schedules, and he knew their weak points. With a dark cloak thrown over his shoulders, Arthur snaked his way through the upper town’s back roads, moving into the lower town with little resistance. The coolness of the evening calmed him, rejuvenating his lungs, and he didn’t encounter another living soul until he was nearly at the edge of the Darkling Woods.

And it was there that Arthur encountered two people he had not expected to see.

There was no mistaking Guinevere’s hair. Tied up in small braids with flowers tucked into them, and the man with the awkward gate next to her couldn’t be anyone but Gaius. Arthur spotted them up ahead, but they didn’t spot him, and with a grin, Arthur took the opportunity to sneak up behind them in the shadows, only daring to speak when he was close.

“Roaming about at such a late hour, are we?” he called as soon as he was near enough, causing both the serving girl and the physician to nearly jump out of their skin.

“Arthur!” Gwen cried, whirling around and nearly burning Arthur with her swinging torch. Arthur dodged the flames, laughing a little as he removed his hood. “Don’t do that! I thought you were a guard!”

“Sorry,” Arthur apologised, and he meant it, especially as he watched real terror leave Guinevere’s face. He’d momentarily forgotten how being caught sneaking about could mean real danger for her. Yet another instance of his nobility making him careless. “I apologise, I didn’t mean to truly frighten you. I was just surprised to see you. What is it that brings you both out here at this hour? And with an oh-so-dangerous sorcerer on the loose, at that.”

He said that last part in jest, trying to lighten the mood, and a tiny smile wormed its way onto Guinevere’s face. It was a look of relief, but something else, too. Almost delight, and to Arthur’s surprise, she pointed to his chest. “I think the same reason as you,” she said, and Arthur looked down to see that Merlin’s whistle had dislodged itself from underneath his shirt, hanging from his neck and glinting in the light of the moon.

Arthur grabbed it, clutching it in his fist protectively, but to his surprise, Guinevere and Gaius both pulled identical whistles out of their clothing, showing them off to him.

Arthur’s eyes widened. “You both received one?”

“It seems Merlin’s schemes never cease, despite exile,” Gaius said dryly, speaking for the first time since Arthur’s arrival. It occurred to Arthur then that he hadn’t talked to Gaius since the man had narrowly stopped him from dueling his father, and Arthur didn’t even know how to begin to ask for his forgiveness for all he’d put him through.

“Gaius—” Arthur began, his face no doubt betraying his anguish, but Gaius waved him off.

“Don’t,” he said simply, and the expression of kindness was enough to melt Arthur where he stood. There was forgiveness there—forgiveness Arthur did not deserve. “You don’t need to say anything to the likes of me. You’ve made a decision your father would never dare make. Perhaps this all will be a step in the right direction for Camelot. And perhaps you can be the change this kingdom desperately needs.”

He said it with such hope, such faith, and Arthur swallowed, unsure if he could ever live up to that dream. The pressure was already beginning to mount. “I’d like to be,” Arthur said in answer, but he could hear his own fear in his voice as he started to walk, overwhelmed by emotion and wanting to hide that. They also needed to get moving before the guards completed their loop of the lower town.

Luckily, Gaius and Gwen both followed his lead without question, falling into step behind him as the trio took the main hunting trail to the forest. The full moon lit their way, shining like a beacon and beckoning them towards the trees. The trail itself remained empty, but if anyone dared cross them, Arthur hoped Gaius and Gwen knew he’d protect them.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the woods. The thicket swallowed them within minutes, growing more dense the more they walked, and the wind whistled ominously in the silence. Shivering, Arthur was reminded of how he’d followed Merlin here just days ago. He recalled the way well—the strange route to the clearing that didn’t follow any of the hunting paths. At the time, Arthur hadn’t been able to fathom how Merlin knew where to go, but now he did. He could see the faint flattened trail that Merlin had worn into the brush over time.

“I find it interesting that you know where to go, Arthur,” Gaius said as they walked, breaking the silence and clearly noting Arthur’s direction. “Did Merlin tell you of his meeting place?”

It was a guarded question, as if Gaius was trying hard not to sound accusatory, and Arthur’s warm feelings of being a team faded a little. He had hoped that Gaius felt safe with him now, and that he knew he could speak openly. But maybe it was unfair for Arthur to expect that so quickly. It would take time. He needed to earn that trust.

“He didn’t tell me, no,” Arthur admitted as he continued to push through the trees, the edges of the clearing now becoming visible up ahead. In fact, they were now only a few paces from the tree Arthur had sheltered behind when he’d first discovered Merlin’s secret. How long ago that felt now. “I followed Merlin here. Three nights ago. Bit of a shock, really, watching your manservant summon a dragon.”

There was silence from Gaius as he processed that—probably realising that Arthur had been present when Gaius himself had met Merlin in the woods. The silence stretched on for a moment before the physician came into Arthur’s view, catching up to his pace. The old man didn’t stare at the trees, however, but rather at the sky, no doubt thinking of his ward.

“I imagine this has been a strange few days for you, Arthur,” Gaius observed as they reached the clearing’s edge. The three of them stopped there to admire the view of Camelot’s turrets in the distance. “There are many things about magic I have known for some time, but they are just now coming to light for you. You’ve encountered it before, but never quite like this.”

“No, not like this,” Arthur agreed, and he had a bad feeling that there was much more he was unaware of. He wasn’t sure if he was altogether ready to learn. “I won’t lie to you, Gaius. I do find all this difficult to understand. But I do wish to understand it. I wish to work to be the prince and the king that you imagine me to be. So… here I am. Summoning a dragon myself. How things change, eh?”

And then with a small laugh of wonderment, Arthur took up his little dragon whistle, brought it up to his mouth, and gave it a mighty blow—

Only for no sound to come out.

Arthur blinked in surprise, looking down at the whistle. He’d expected a shrill call to break through the trees. Perhaps a bird-like ring. But there was nothing, and Arthur tried blowing it again.

Still. No sound.

“It… it’s not broken, is it?” Arthur said in worry, looking over to his companions. He expected to see them trying out their own whistles, but he only found Gaius with his hands covering his ears, a look of twisted pain on his face.

“Will you stop blowing that?” the physician griped, and he slowly removed his hands from his face. “No need to destroy our eardrums. I imagine just once will suffice.”

He said it so nonchalantly, as if nothing was wrong, and Arthur merely blinked at him. “You mean to say you heard it?” he said, glancing to Gwen, but the serving girl shrugged.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she reported, and Gaius frowned.

“Oh,” he muttered, and Arthur watched as a slight panic crossed Gaius’ face. It quickly disappeared, but it was replaced with a sort of resignation. “Well, perhaps it can only be heard by those with magic. It’s very shrill, I assure you.”

Arthur stared, his skin crawling a little as he digested the physician’s words. “What’re you saying, Gaius?” he asked, and he stepped back from the physician a bit, his confusion slowly turning to dread. “You don’t mean… Gaius, you don’t mean to say that you have ma—”

But Arthur didn’t get to finish his sentence because it was then that the familiar sound of flapping wings overtook the clearing. This was followed by a low roar, ripping through the trees, and in a rush of motion, Camelot’s sky was overtaken by a familiar sight. The silhouette of the massive dragon dominated the pale white of the moon, its bat-like wings spread wide, and it was an image that drew the breath out of Arthur’s lungs immediately. Any words he’d been about to say withered and died.

He was never going to grow used to that, was he? Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever not freeze at the sight of a dragon in the sky, and this time around, there was clearly the silhouette of a person perched on the dragon’s back.

“Ah,” Gaius murmured with a slight smile, and Arthur wondered if he was holding back a laugh. He supposed that this would all be very funny to Gaius—watching Arthur and Gwen react to things that he was used to. It was a moment Gaius had probably even hoped for, and Arthur felt a stroke of horror radiate through him as Gaius raised his right hand. In answer to Arthur’s half-spoken question, the physician’s eyes sparkled gold, a little bit of fire appearing in his palm. The smoke of the fire curled upward into the air, forming into the shape of a dragon before disappearing in a blink of an eye.

Gaius met his gaze, the magic he’d just performed still lingering in his irises as he trusted Arthur with this secret. The knowledge that Merlin wasn’t the only one in Camelot with magic.

“Welcome to the inner circle, Arthur,” Gaius said, and his tone was serious now. Laying down the ground rules. “I hope you realise how important this moment is for Merlin, but also for me. You aren’t accustomed to magic, but I am, and even I struggle to understand Merlin’s abilities at times. I don’t believe you realise just how powerful he is. Coming from this old sorcerer, believe me when I tell you Merlin is no average warlock. He is nothing short of extraordinary.”

Nothing short of extraordinary. Yes, Arthur was starting to understand that, and his tired brain reeled from one too many instances of magic at once. Merlin’s magic, the dragon above him, and now mystical fire in Gaius’ palm. Three magical beings putting their trust in him, and why? Arthur still wasn’t totally sure what about him made them trust him, and the reverence in Gaius’ voice for Merlin was not lost on him. It was similar to how the Archdruid had spoken of Merlin…  two sorcerers now talking about Merlin almost as if he were a prince among sorcerer kind.

And perhaps that was what he was.

The impact of the dragon’s clawed feet on the clearing shook the ground itself. The trees whirled from the wind of the beast’s wings, and Arthur was ashamed to find himself recoiling, barely able to keep himself from turning tail. He’d been mentally preparing himself all day for this meeting, but he still wasn’t ready. His whole body screamed at him to run, his years of training telling him to either draw his sword or escape—

But Arthur fought against those instincts, keeping himself rooted in place. He was determined to not appear shaken and he kept his gaze focused ahead as the towering dragon settled before him. The wind of its wings subsided, the beast folding them neatly on his back. Its glowing yellow eyes found Arthur’s, looking almost amused, and after a second, a face popped up from behind the dragon’s head.

For someone who’d almost gotten himself executed the day before, Merlin looked weirdly cheerful. He had a dumb smile on his stupid face, waving at his friends from up on the dragon like he was in a parade, and then he promptly fell over as he crawled off the dragon’s back.

Arthur couldn’t help but snort, some of the tension he’d been feeling leaving him. All this talk of Merlin’s power and prestige, and he still couldn’t perfect a dismount, could he?

At least some things would never change.

“Hello!” Merlin called to them, breathless as he approached, and it occurred to Arthur that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Merlin so happy. The sorcerer was smiling from ear to ear, a skip to his step now. Free, Arthur’s mind supplied, and he realised that was what it was. He was finally witnessing a Merlin without any secrets, and the first thing Merlin did was run to Gaius.

The sorcerer practically fell into the physician's arms, and it gave Arthur a small pinch of envy to watch the love of a father and his son, even if that’s not technically what they were. Gaius hugged Merlin back so tightly he was going to give the boy bruises.

“It’s okay, Gaius,” Arthur heard Merlin whisper, and he could see tears forming in Gaius’ eyes. “Really. I’m fine.”

“You’re an idiot,” Gaius whispered back, and Arthur had never heard the word used so affectionately. Arthur smiled somewhat despite himself, and when Merlin broke away from Gaius, Arthur was sure Merlin had seen that. The former servant opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Guinevere sprinted past Arthur, tackling Merlin in a hug of her own.

“Oof, alright,” Merlin said, and he hugged her back, laughing. “S’okay, Gwen, I’m okay.”

“No, you aren’t,” Gwen said, and she squeezed him tighter before finally releasing him. She smiled, drawing a flower from her hair and tucking it behind Merlin’s ear. “I don’t think any of us are alright. I thought… I thought you and Gaius were perhaps messing with magic. Cooking up potions, or something like that! I suppose this goes a little bit beyond that, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, a bit,” Merlin said sheepishly, and he touched Gwen’s flower affectionately before taking it out of his hair. He held it before Gwen, and Arthur watched as he transformed the single flower into a full flower crown, levitating it and placing it on the serving girl’s head. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I did wonder if you’d suspected me.”

Gwen laughed in wonderment, and she took off the crown, studying Merlin’s handiwork. “I didn’t suspect something quite like this,” she admitted, and she placed the crown back on her head with a grin. “But I’m warming up to it.”

Merlin’s smile was radiant. There was relief there. Relief that Gwen didn’t hate him, and it hurt Arthur to see that he’d ever think she would. “I’m glad,” Merlin said softly, and then his gaze turned back to Arthur.

For some reason, Arthur froze. All day, he had been planning what he would say to Merlin. The right words. The right apologies, the right questions. But in the moment, with Merlin finally standing before him and no longer separated by bars—

The words didn’t come. Instead, Arthur just cleared his throat awkwardly, struggling to force any words to leave his lips.

“Still alive, are you?” he said without thinking, and he immediately cringed. That was probably not the most sensitive thing to say, but Merlin, luckily, didn’t seem offended. A sparkle had returned to his eyes that Arthur hadn’t realised was missing.

“Still alive,” Merlin confirmed, and he gestured to the whistle in Arthur’s hand. “Glad to see you received my gift. And glad to hear it works.”

“Works!” scoffed the dragon from beside them, causing the ground beneath them to rumble, and Arthur recoiled, his heart in his throat. He’d nearly forgotten the dragon could talk. “I say. That is an understatement. A detestable sound.”

“But effective,” Merlin pointed out, looking at the dragon before back at Arthur. “I specifically enchanted the whistles so they would summon the both of us, no matter where we are. Could you even hear it?”

“No, I couldn’t,” Arthur answered slowly, and he lifted the little whistle up, studying it in the moonlight. “Although Gaius appeared to. Two sorcerers operating under my nose, and now I have you sneaking about my father’s chambers and stealing his seal out from under him. Reckless and harebrained even for you, Merlin.”

He shook the whistle at this, chiding the servant as he usually would, and the smirk that graced Merlin’s face was both annoying and expected. He moved towards Arthur, erasing most of the space left between them, and for a moment Arthur thought Merlin might hug him. He would have allowed it, but Merlin didn’t, respectfully keeping some space between them.

“I guess I’ve always been a bit harebrained, haven’t I?” Merlin said, and his eyes shone. In Arthur’s hand, the whistle began to glow—revealing the hidden enchantment in the seal’s stamp. “I’ve tempted fate enough these past few days. Might as well tempt it a bit further. The seal actually strengthens the enchantment. A personal tie to you. It amplifies the sound and makes it easier to hear its call from long distances. This way you can… you know. Call me when you need me.”

“I see,” Arthur said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He could feel the magic in the whistle now, pulsating underneath his fingertips. “Well, the bird that delivered it shat on my bed, so thank you for that.”

Merlin laughed, a genuine laugh, and it was so usual, their banter. So normal that Arthur could almost forget all that had happened. “Well, I might have told the bird to do whatever necessary to get your attention,” Merlin confessed, although he didn’t look very sorry. “Including making a bit of a mess. Got yourself a new servant to deal with it yet?”

“Got a new one this morning,” Arthur answered, and he smiled too. “He’s dreadful, really. Somehow even more incompetent than you.”

Merlin winced. “Poor chap,” he said with sympathy, and for a moment, everything was alright between them.

But then Merlin fell silent. He stopped leading their conversation, and an awkward silence befell the two of them. Merlin was staring, waiting, and with a jolt Arthur realised what he was doing. He was giving Arthur the space to have his say—to acknowledge all that had happened—and Arthur knew now was the time to open his mouth. That now was the time he should say he was sorry. Sorry for everything, and to pledge his commitment to change when he became sovereign.

But his mouth just sort of flapped uselessly.

A slight bit of hurt crossed Merlin’s face at that. A tiny visible sadness, but also understanding. Sympathy for Arthur’s discomfort with the situation, no doubt, and that made Arthur squirm even more. He didn’t deserve any sympathy, and least of all from Merlin.

“It’s alright, Arthur,” Merlin said after a pause, taking charge when Arthur failed to speak. “You don’t need to pretend everything is normal. It’s not, and it will probably always feel strange. I’m just… I’m glad. More than I can explain. I’m glad you’re giving me a chance. That you chose to give me a chance. I do appreciate it.”

He said it with such sincerity, such heartfelt goodwill, and for some reason, that made Arthur feel worse. It was so easy for him, wasn’t it? For Merlin to just… forgive. To wave away all the past’s sins, and to forget that Arthur had nearly killed him. But that didn’t alleviate Arthur’s guilt. He wasn’t the one giving Merlin a second chance. Merlin was giving him another chance, and Arthur wanted to communicate that, but the words wouldn’t come, leaving Gaius to save him from the ensuing silence.

“Perhaps you should introduce Kilgharrah to Guinevere and Arthur, Merlin,” the physician suggested gently, and Merlin rocketed to attention.

“Right, yes!” he exclaimed, turning to the dragon. “Kilgharrah, I believe you know Gaius already, but I don’t think you’ve met Arthur or Gwen properly. Gwen, Arthur—meet Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon.”

He gestured to Arthur and Gwen at this, introducing the giant creature to them, and Guinevere drew close to Arthur’s side, eyeing it warily. “Hello,” she said tentatively.

“Hello,” the dragon said back softly, lowering its great head at them. The creature’s voice was suddenly gentle when speaking to Guinevere, and Arthur supposed she had that effect on everyone, even dragons. “It is certainly a pleasure to meet the young Pendragon and his future queen, and under better circumstances than last we met.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open at that, sputtering, and next to him, Gwen made a similar noise.

“Kilgarrah, please keep it light on the prophecy snippets,” Merlin hissed, eyeing the dragon critically before shooting Arthur and Gwen an apology smile . “I did tell him I didn’t want to overwhelm you both with prophecies. He rarely elaborates.”

“I elaborate when necessary,” the dragon defended himself. “When the time is right, and only then.”

Merlin gave Arthur an eyeroll that seemed to say see what I mean?, but Arthur didn’t really know what to do with that. The concept of asking dragons for prophetic advice was fairly new to him, so he just smiled weakly.

“Do you… do you regularly ride around on dragons?” Gwen asked Merlin, curious, and when Arthur glanced at her, the serving girl’s eyes were wide as saucers. She was studying the dragon, but with fascination, not fear. “And are there more? Dragons, I mean.”

Merlin looked somewhat sad at the question. “I’m a Dragonlord,” he explained. “So, yes, I can speak the dragon tongue and they must listen to me when I ask something of them. It’s an ability I inherited from my father. Unfortunately, due to Uther, there aren’t really many dragons around anymore except for Kilgarrah.”

“Yes, because I was a trophy to him,” Kilgarrah rumbled, and Arthur felt another rush of guilt course through him at the mention of his father. “A symbol of his victory against magic. For years he kept me shackled underneath that castle, torturing me when it suited him. I suppose people as young as you did not even know I was there, did you?”

“I didn’t,” Gwen admitted with sadness of her own, and Arthur realised he hadn’t either. He’d heard mention of a captured dragon at court, but he’d mostly thought it was something that happened long ago. Is that what had led the dragon to attacking Camelot? It was not something he’d considered before.

Merlin must have noticed his expression, because he grimaced. “He’s very sorry about the fires and all that,” he assured Arthur, although Arthur wasn’t entirely sure if that was true. The dragon shifted beside Merlin, but didn’t truly protest. Perhaps it couldn’t, since it had to obey Merlin’s every word?

“It’s… fine,” Arthur managed to say, unsticking his mouth once again and addressing the dragon. It felt weird, speaking to the creature directly, but he forced himself to look it in the eye. He had to start making progress somewhere. “I’m sure my father and his actions made you very angry, Kilgarrah. I’m sorry for what he did to you. I didn’t know of it, and I wish I could have done something to prevent it. But that said, I don’t think attacking Camelot and hurting innocents along the way was the answer.”

He tried to speak as diplomatically as possible, and as he did, the dragon shifted again, a growl sounding deep in its throat. Arthur tried very hard not to show fear, but to his surprise, the dragon nodded in agreement.

“No, perhaps it was not the most productive choice,” the creature admitted, and Arthur really couldn’t believe that a dragon was agreeing with him. “And what a strange day this is. One I have foreseen for some time. A Pendragon, standing before me, talking of peace over violence. I did not imagine this hour would ever come.”

“I did,” Merlin said, smiling, and he spoke with such conviction that another bolt of guilt struck Arthur. “I knew he’d come around. Your prophecies always come true eventually, Kilgarrah. Even if it’s not in the way we expect.”

Once again, Merlin was looking at him, and Arthur found himself at a loss for words. He didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? What could he say when faced with the fact that his manservant and a dragon have been taking bets on his moral choices?

It was a lot to take in. A little too much, and Arthur could see Merlin recognising that. There was sad understanding in Merlin’s expression again, and this time, it was Gwen that saved Arthur from another awkward silence.

“Can I…” Gwen began, and she was still staring at the dragon with wonder. “Can we… that is to say, Mr. Great Dragon, sir, could I…”

She couldn’t seem to form the words, but Merlin smirked, catching her meaning. “Can you ride him? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Yes,” Gwen confirmed, and the dragon snorted.

“I am not a horse, Merlin,” it complained, but Merlin rolled his eyes.

“She toils all day working in the castle, can you blame her for wanting to try something as exciting as flying?” he shot back, before turning back to Gwen. “Of course you can have a go, Gwen. There’s nothing quite like it, trust me.”

Arthur had never seen Gwen’s face light up with such excitement, and she turned to Arthur, grabbing his arm. “Will you come with me?” she asked, and Arthur’s heartrate immediately spiked.

“Er—” Arthur struggled, eyeing the dragon warily. He wasn’t sure how to politely express that the idea of mounting a dragon that had once tried to kill him was the last thing he wanted to do. “I think my feet do better on the ground, thanks. But you’re welcome to it.”

Gwen deflated a bit, looking disappointed. “I’m not sure I want to go alone,” she admitted, and the dragon chuckled.

“Perhaps the physician would like to join you,” the creature suggested with a hint of malice. “If I remember right, you never did conquer your fear of heights, did you, Gaius?”

Beside Arthur, Gaius went white as a sheet and Merlin’s eyes widened, turning to him. “Are you scared of heights, Gaius? I didn’t know that. We live in a tower, I thought you’d be alright with it.”

“A tower and a dragon are two different things,” Gaius murmured, looking a little green, but he swallowed. “However, I imagine I must get used to it if dragon riding is in our collective futures. It has been many years since I last braved the skies. I suppose now is as good a time as any to get back into it.”

“Back into it?” Merlin repeated, aghast, but Gaius did not elaborate, already walking towards the dragon with Guinevere bouncing at his heels. The physician locked eyes with Arthur as he walked, his expression unmistakable. Facing my fears, Arthur, he seemed to say, his fatherly gaze boring into Arthur’s. Time for you to face yours.

Arthur swallowed, another stab of guilt hitting him as he realised just what Gaius was doing. He was forcing Arthur to talk to Merlin properly, and he wondered if the physician recognised that this was more than just a hard conversation between friends. That this was one of Arthur’s first steps towards becoming king—apologising to a sorcerer, and attempting to make amends.

It was hard for him, watching Guinevere climb up onto the back of a dragon. It wasn’t easy to dispel the fear that rose up in him the moment he saw her clutching onto the horns on its back, and even harder to not imagine her falling from some great height to her death. He did feel a bit better knowing Gaius was going with her, especially now that Arthur knew the physician possessed magic as an aid. It was odd for Arthur, thinking of magic as a comfort, but it was somewhat comforting and Merlin must have guessed his thoughts.

“She’ll be fine,” Merlin assured as he too watched Gwen getting used to sitting atop the dragon. “Kilgharrah and Gaius would never let anything happen to her. I promise you that.”

“I know,” Arthur said, and he meant it. He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d begun to trust Merlin’s word in that way, but he knew he had for some time. Even after learning of all Merlin’s lies, it was hard not to trust the sincerity in his voice, and even as the sorcerer switched to dragon language, addressing Kilgharrah. The dragon nodded, accepting whatever it was that Merlin had said to it, and then its wings were spread wide again, taking to the air.

The wind whipped up again, both Merlin and Arthur bracing against it, but this time around, it was accompanied by an excited squeak from Gwen. Arthur had never seen her look so exhilarated as they took off, soaring up into the sky with her flowers falling out of her hair in the breeze. Gaius looked like he was holding on for dear life, trying not to throw up, and then they were gone, disappearing on the horizon for the time being. Having a magical adventure.

Meanwhile, Arthur was left with Merlin. Just the two of them, alone in the clearing, and Arthur could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. Merlin had already forgiven him, after all, but perhaps that was exactly the issue.

He could feel Merlin’s gaze on him. It was burning holes into him, but Arthur kept his eyes on the dragon until it was out of sight in the dark sky and there was no stalling anymore. Only then did he look to his former servant, and the concern on the sorcerer’s face caused fresh guilt to slice through him.

“Are you alright, Arthur?” Merlin asked him, and Arthur realised he had tears forming in his eyes. Visible tears.

“No,” Arthur answered honestly, and finally, he’d found the words. The dam broke, and the truth tumbled out of him. “No, I’m not alright, Merlin. I nearly killed you.”

Merlin’s smile was a small one. “Well, yes, I know, but… you didn’t. That’s all that really mat—”

He didn’t finish his sentence because Arthur was hugging him. He hadn’t even realised he’d moved, his feet acting without thought, but his arms were around Merlin, drawing him and his stupid red scarf in close. Making sure Merlin was there and saying more with this than he could possibly hope to articulate.

He’d never hugged Merlin before. He knew this, and Merlin was so stunned that it took a moment for him to hug Arthur back. But he did, of course, clutching Arthur just as tightly. An answer to the unspoken words they were both struggling to communicate, and soundlessly letting all the animosity from back in the dungeon to melt away. Retiring it to the past, where it belonged, and Arthur wasn’t sure how long they stood there, just quietly mending something he’d feared couldn’t be mended. No sane man would forgive him for what he’d done, but when the two of them finally broke away from each other, there were happy tears welling in Merlin’s eyes. His mouth opened to speak, but for once, Merlin was the one without the right words to say.

Arthur took the opportunity to say two words he desperately needed to speak. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he wished he could convey truly how sorry with just those words. “I’m so sorry, Merlin. I don’t… I don’t know what else to say.”

“It’s okay, Arthur, really,” Merlin said, and he laughed a little. “But thank you for saying it,” he added, and his eyes glowed a little as he spoke, summoning a flower petal out of Arthur’s hair and bringing it into the air. It took Arthur a moment to recognise it as a petal from the tree Merlin had created yesterday. Had it been stuck in his hair all day?

Probably, and Merlin’s smile widened as he took the petal and transformed it into a flower crown just like Gwen’s. He levitated it onto Arthur’s head and now Arthur was both crying and laughing. “Crowning me a bit early, are you?”

“The way I see it, I’ve always been in the service of King Arthur,” Merlin said cheekily, and he crossed his arms. “I was never really a servant to King Uther, not that I ever really listened to either of you.”

It was Arthur’s turn to laugh now. “You listen when it matters. You did see it, didn’t you? My signal. From the balcony.”

“Yes, I saw it,” Merlin acknowledged, and he imitated it. Two brushes of his nose with his pointer finger. “I’m glad you remembered it. And I appreciated it.”

He said it rather offhandedly, like his decision to escape had not hinged on it, and a realisation ran through Arthur. “You were planning on getting out anyway, weren’t you?”

A coy smile graced Merlin’s face, and that was answer enough. “I always had a bad feeling I’d end up with a rope around my neck, one way or another,” he confessed. “I’ve had nightmares about it for years. But that’s also given me plenty of time to plan how I wanted it to go. I decided if I was going to do a big escape, I might as well do it publicly. Make a statement. Show the people and your father that magic can be a force for peace, if you let it. But… it did mean a lot to me to see your signal. To see you made a decision in the end.”

“Made a decision to not let my father brutally murder you?” Arthur clarified bitterly, and Merlin squirmed a little.

“Yes. That.”

“I’m only sorry I didn’t come to the conclusion earlier,” Arthur said, deflating, and he looked to the sky. Shame still gnawed at him, and maybe that would never go away. “I’m sorry that you felt the need to be subjected to a trial and a public execution just to make a point.”

Merlin’s smile was a sad one now, and he looked to his boots. “I’m sorry, too,” he said, and he sighed. “I’m sorry about Roldan. I had a lot of time to think about that in the dungeon, and about how I didn’t even look at him before I killed him. How my magic is often like your sword, as you pointed out.”

Merlin raised his palm, summoning a bit of fire into existence not unlike how Gaius had. Arthur stared at it, mesmerised by the little flame. Something beautiful, but also dangerous. “It is not always a weapon, but when it is, I have a responsibility for how I use it,” Merlin continued. “I’ve grown careless with that over the years. Grown to see enemies as faceless. As simply obstacles. Not as people with… families. Children. I didn’t used to be that way. I’d… I’d never killed anyone before I moved to Camelot.”

Arthur grimaced, and he watched as Merlin extinguished the flame as easily as he’d conjured it. If there was one thing Arthur didn’t pretend to know anything about, it was magic, but he did know a thing or two about battle and the guilt it could cause. “Warfare changes you,” Arthur reminded him, trying to ease Merlin’s guilt somewhat. “I am certainly not without my own sins in that category. I suppose I’d never considered you a warrior before, Merlin, but you are, aren’t you? And it’s easy to become desensitized to the killing. To only see the end, and not the means, and how often you find yourself in a situation where no answer seems like the right one.”

“Right, exactly,” Merlin mumbled, looking more and more exhausted with each passing second. Arthur could relate. “It’s hard to imagine a time when I wasn’t caught in such a situation. And is that what your whole spectacle was in the Druid cave? Giving me the choice on what to do?”

Arthur bit his lip, having sort of hoped Merlin wouldn’t ask any further questions about his trials. But he supposed it was only fair that he explained. “A little,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to threaten the Druids, but it was part of what my father asked of me. I already knew that you were Emrys, and he put me in a bad position by sending me out to interrogate them. I suppose I… I just wanted to see what you would do if you were in that situation. If you were me.”

“I assure you, I have no interest in being you, Arthur,” Merlin promised, and Arthur laughed a little.

“I know,” he said, and his tone slid into bitterness. “Just checking. And why would you, anyway? I don’t know why anyone would want to be Prince of Camelot. You handled that situation better than I could have ever hoped to do. My kingdom is on the brink of war with Essetir, and we are still warring with sorcery. The people of Camelot don’t trust me. My father sees me as a failure. None of that exactly bodes well for my kingship.”

Arthur made no attempt to shield the brokenness in his voice anymore, and Merlin’s brow furrowed—almost like he was disappointed in Arthur’s attitude. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” he scolded, and the irony was not lost on Arthur. A sorcerer who’d almost died at Arthur’s hand, telling him he was being too hard on himself. “Perhaps it looks that way at the moment, but you have the potential to bring this kingdom in a new direction. A direction your father would never dream of. The Druids have foreseen that potential in you. Even Cian told you as much.”

Arthur snorted in disbelief, looking to the sky and checking to see if he could spot the dragon returning yet, but the sky remained empty. Gwen and Gaius were still out there, having their fun before they’d have to return back to Camelot. Back to reality and a war-torn land. “I admire your optimism, Merlin,” Arthur said quietly. “It’s a wonder to me that you can be optimistic at all. But it’s one thing to see potential, and another entirely to see it through. My father is not fit to rule, but I am not ready to replace him. Perhaps I will never be ready. I don’t have a plan for how Camelot can move forwards, and I don’t have any idea how I can go about reintroducing magic to the people after years of it being vilified. What sort of king will I be, if I can’t face all of that?”

His voice cracked, the words coming rushing out of him like a flood. Confessions and fears that he’d been bottling up for some time. Troubles and concerns he hadn’t admitted to anyone else, but here he was, admitting them all to Merlin. Despite everything, the sorcerer was still Arthur’s confidant, and it was amazing to him how much Merlin’s faith in Arthur shone in his every feature. Even now, after everything Arthur had put him through, the sorcerer stood and faced him with an unwavering loyalty. A steadfastness that was as unshakeable as the stone foundation Camelot was built on.

“You will achieve it, Arthur,” Merlin said, and he spoke of it with more conviction than Arthur could ever hope to possess. Willing the kingdom he dreamt of into existence. “It is your destiny to become the greatest king this kingdom has ever known. That’s something only you can do, and it is my destiny to help you get there. Mine, Gwen, Gaius. You don’t need to do any of this alone, alright? So don’t let the future overwhelm you.”

Arthur’s chest felt suddenly tight. He found it hard to breathe. “Easier said than done, Merlin.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Merlin said with a wry laugh. “But you’re not your father, and that alone is enough to put you on a different path. I saw you, you know. When Gogan pulled the lever on the gallows, I saw your expression. You couldn’t hide your grief. You once told me no man is worth your tears, but I…”

Merlin trailed for a moment, swallowing as he found the words again. Both him and Arthur recalled that horrible moment, and it hadn’t occurred to Arthur that Merlin had seen his reaction. “I was glad to see you not take your own advice,” Merlin went on after a second. “That’s not nothing, Arthur. Your father has become desensitized to death. He has no problem murdering loyal friends. You aren’t like him in that way, and you can change things. You have that power. We both do, and we can find a new direction, together, assuming you’re willing to actually take advice for me.”

His tone lilted a bit at the end there, poking fun at Arthur, and Arthur sniffed. “Me, take advice from a sorcerer?” he joked, accepting the bait. “A scary thought.”  

Merlin shrugged, and he looked up at the sky too, smiling at the moon. “Stranger things have happened. You’ll need a royal advisor when you’re king, won’t you? Perhaps I’ll apply.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, unable to tell if he was joking or not. “Is that your plan? When I’m crowned king, you come waltzing back in and apply for a promotion?”

“Is it really a promotion if I got sacked from the previous job?” Merlin pointed out, and he was grinning from ear to ear now. “Perhaps it’s more of a rehiring situation.”

“You didn’t get sacked, Merlin.”

“No, I got arrested. Bit different, I suppose.”

They fell silent for a moment then, both of them just grinning and looking up at the moon. It was odd, in a way, what they had become. Still bantering as they usually did, but talking of bigger things. For some reason, Arthur had feared those times had passed, never to be regained, but it wasn’t like Merlin was a different person. He was still the same, just as Arthur was the same, and yet they’d both changed these past few days. They’d taken a step in a new direction, and Arthur wasn’t sure how long they both stood there, comfortable in the silence until Merlin spoke again, his smile having somewhat faded.

“You aren’t…” Merlin began, struggling with the words for a moment before he got them out. “You aren’t scared of me, are you, Arthur?”

It was an honest question, and Arthur could hear fear of his own in Merlin’s voice. As if Merlin had been meaning to ask, but didn’t quite want to know the answer.

Arthur paused for a moment, working on a response, but he felt bad for pausing. That was an answer in itself, and he forced himself to speak. “Not scared, per se,” he said, and that was true. “I don’t think you’d ever intentionally hurt me. But I will say it’s hard not to feel like you’ve drawn a sword on me every time you use it.”

Merlin nodded slowly, and he looked to his hands, shifting awkwardly. “The last thing I want is for you to fear me, Arthur,” he expressed, and Arthur couldn’t help but marvel at hearing a sorcerer say that. “Or anyone to fear me. I don’t think that’s the purpose of it, instilling fear, but I hope the more you learn of it the less threatening it will seem. You’ve only ever seen magic used as a weapon, but there’s so much more to it than that.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Arthur acknowledged with a nod. “And if I can begin to see that, maybe the people of Camelot can grow to see it, too. Perhaps that can be the next step in preparing me for the throne. Growing to learn that which I do not understand.”

A smile returned to Merlin’s face a little. “I hope so,” he said, and just as he did, he squinted a little at the sky. “They’re back,” he announced.

Arthur frowned, squinting too, but the sky remained black and empty for him. “How can you tell? I don’t see anything.”

“I can see farther than you,” Merlin revealed, a little smugly. “Perks of magic, I guess.”

Arthur stared at him, trying to digest that. The fact that Merlin probably had magically heightened senses that Arthur could never hope to compete with. Another new thing to get used to, especially as the dragon did become visible to Arthur seconds later, the creature arching in the sky and returning to the clearing.

It was strange, how he suddenly found himself disappointed that their conversation was at an end. Arthur had been preparing to confront Merlin all day, but the return of the dragon meant Arthur’s return to Camelot. A place where Merlin could no longer exist for him to confide in.

But just for now, that is, Arthur thought, and he took comfort in that. When he was king, things would be different. He couldn’t allow himself to forget that.

In a rush of wings, the dragon landed back in the clearing, and this time Arthur didn’t flinch in fear. That was progress, and it was Gwen’s face that popped up from beyond the dragon’s head this time around, smiling wide.

“Have fun, did you?” Merlin called out to her, and Gwen was practically glowing with happiness as she dismounted the dragon. Unlike Merlin, she didn’t fall over, returning to solid ground gracefully despite her skirts.

“That was amazing,” Gwen gushed, her curls windswept as she ran to them, giving Merlin another big hug in thanks. “You’re right, there is nothing like it! I can’t even describe it. You really must try it, Arthur.”

“I’m sure I will have to eventually,” Arthur said with a small chuckle, although the idea still made his skin crawl. He had a bad feeling his reaction to dragon riding would be less like Gwen’s and more like Gaius’. The poor physician was just now dismounting, moving away from them all so he could throw up into the bushes. “Did Gaius survive?”

“He… struggled a bit,” Gwen admitted, and Merlin looked like he was trying really hard not to laugh. “He’ll be okay, I think. And how about you two? Have a nice chat?”

Gwen touched Arthur’s hair at this with amusement, and Arthur had completely forgotten about the flower crown Merlin had made for him. He took it off, smiling a little as he twirled the crown on his finger. “Yes, something like that,” he said, and he biffed Merlin a bit with his elbow. “Things are a little different now, but not altogether different.”

"Ow, hey, speak for yourself!” Merlin complained, rubbing at his ribs. “I’m not your servant anymore. You can’t treat me like your personal training dummy. Those days are over.”

“Are you quite sure?” Arthur asked, and he went to shove Merlin playfully, but to his surprise, he found himself unable to move. Merlin’s eyes shone gold, a bit of mirth on his face as he held Arthur back with magic.

Arthur leveled him with a glare—mostly because that was all he was capable of doing. “Feels good, does it?”

“A bit,” Merlin said with a hint of smugness, and he released Arthur, mobility returning to Arthur’s limbs. “Not the first time I’ve done it to you, if I’m being honest. Do you remember when we first met? In the market?”

“Oh, I do,” Gwen said, and her eyes were glittering. Happy to see them back to normal. A new normal, that was. “If I remember correctly, Arthur nearly took your head off with a mace, didn’t he?”

“He did indeed,” Merlin confirmed, and he looked back to Arthur with a touch of pride. “But I stopped him. Using magic.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide at the confession, a sudden wave of indignation flowing through him. Recalling how Merlin had fared better in that fight than he’d had any right to. “You cheated!”

“Didn’t cheat,” Merlin defended himself, and with a wave of his arm, he created a breeze that knocked Arthur off his feet in one fell swoop. All the breath left Arthur’s lungs as he crashed to the grass, winded, and Merlin loomed above him triumphantly.

“Just used my resources to bring you down a notch, is all,” Merlin continued, and he possessed the smuggest smile Arthur had ever witnessed on another human being. “That fight feels like a long time ago now, doesn’t it? You certainly were a prat before I came around to humble you, you know.”

He looked right pleased with himself, knocking Arthur off his feet, and Arthur huffed. “Think you’ve cured me, is that it?” he shot back, but he accepted Merlin’s outstretched arm, letting the sorcerer hoist him back up. He would normally hate such embarrassment, but he figured he deserved it, and it was fascinating to see Merlin utilise his magic. To witness how his friend was able to completely best him in combat, all this time, and yet he’d kept it a secret.

“Cured you from what, being a prat?” Merlin clarified, and he raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, I don’t know. Jury’s still out on that one. Perhaps I should test you on it, Arthur. Create a trial of my own design to see if you’re worthy of being king?”

His tone was light, teasing, and Arthur sighed, brushing grass off his back. He really was getting humbled today. “Alright, I suppose I deserve that one.”

“I’ll stop,” Merlin promised, and he held up his hands in surrender. “Truce? No more teasing? All forgiven?”

“All forgiven,” Arthur agreed with relief, and then he pulled both Gwen and Merlin into a hug. Holding them close, relishing the moment, and from over Guinevere’s shoulder, Arthur locked eyes with Gaius from across the way. The physician smiled at him, approval in his old face for the first time in weeks. A fatherly pride for the steps Arthur had taken, and that filled him with more happiness than Uther could ever hope to achieve.

He never wanted to let go. He was cherishing a moment of bliss that he knew wouldn’t last, but Arthur did let go, and Merlin sighed, clearly feeling the same. The former servant looked to Arthur once more, granting him one more smile before he turned to his dragon.

“I’m coming, okay?” he said to the creature, sounding annoyed. “You don’t need to chide me in my head anymore. You can talk freely in front of everyone now.”

“In your…?” Arthur began to ask, but he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know, and Gaius chuckled.

“There is much to fill you in on, Arthur,” the physician said. “Perhaps I can do so over breakfast.”

“That would be good,” Merlin agreed, and he crossed his arms, looking to the sky. Arthur did too, and he was surprised to see the beginnings of daylight blooming on the horizon. Had they really been out all night? “I can come back tomorrow evening, if you’d like, but I’d best be going for now. It’s not smart for me to be near Camelot in the daylight, and besides. I have a meeting to attend.”

“Meeting?” Arthur echoed, his mind struggling to think of who Merlin could possibly be seeing. “A meeting with who?”

A mischievous sparkle entered Merlin’s eyes, and Arthur wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign. “An old friend of yours, actually,” Merlin answered, and Arthur’s mind whirled to decipher who that would be. “I thought he might be interested in learning what has transpired these past few days. That, and if your reign is near, how you may consider letting some non-nobles join your knights. A repealing of the First Code of Camelot, perhaps?”

His hints were obvious, and Arthur couldn’t help but grin. “Lancelot,” he inferred, and Merlin nodded.

“I sent him a letter, too,” he explained, and Arthur could see excitement written in Merlin’s every feature at the thought of being reunited with their friend. “We’re due to meet in a tavern, so I’m hoping we might see another friendly face. I’ve heard reports of bar fights there. Odds are high.”

Gwaine. Arthur shook his head, marveling at Merlin’s scheming. “What exactly are you playing at, Merlin? Raising me a little secret army? Rounding up all the men my father has exiled?”

“Something like that,” Merlin said, and he backed up to the dragon, placing a hand on its scaly side. Preparing to leave. “There are people out there that want you as king, Arthur,” he reminded, and Arthur squirmed a little at the implications of that. “People who have chosen you as their sovereign, and not just because of your birth status. Don’t you ever forget that. There’s power there that your father can’t begin to imagine.”

“And I suppose you know a thing or two about power beyond imagination?” Arthur teased, and Merlin laughed, hoisting himself up onto Kilgarrah’s back with the help of a gust of magical wind.

“Me? Powerful? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and then he was off, the dragon taking to the air with its mighty wings once again. Merlin rose towards the dawn sky, beginning to disappear in the clouds, and as he did, Arthur’s flower crown sailed from his hands back to his head, glittering with Merlin’s magic. A temporary goodbye from Merlin, and standing together, Arthur, Gwen, and Gaius all watched the sorcerer ascend into the clouds, off to join Lancelot and Gwaine in exile. An exile that will not last forever, Arthur reminded himself. An exile that would end the day a real crown rested upon his head.

The three of them stayed until Merlin and the dragon had disappeared completely. Waiting in silence until the two magical beings were truly gone, the morning tendrils of the sun starting to stretch their way to the castle towers. A new day arriving in Camelot, and as Arthur turned to lead the way back home, for the first time in a long while his mind was alight with positive thoughts. Useful thoughts. Plans. Hopes. Dreams. Decisions. It was all still a bit much to wrap his mind around—a future that felt like something a bard would laud. A fleeting, fictional dream of glory.

But perhaps it didn’t have to be. A vision of a Camelot where sorcerers, nobility, and townspeople lived peacefully alongside one another. A righteous kingdom where the past was not forgotten, but rather dutifully reconciled. A land built up on the trust of the people in their leader, and a king built up by his trust in his friends. Perhaps such a future was possible, and perhaps such a future lay ahead of them all. A golden sunrise in the name of King Arthur.

And wouldn’t that be something beautiful to behold?

Chapter Text

Merlin could hear talking at the top of the dungeon stairs. Hushed, garbled words filtering down to him through the darkness, sounding vaguely like arguing. But who was speaking? Arthur? And if so, who was he talking to?

The king?

Hopefully not, Merlin thought, shivering at the thought of Uther, and his whole body was jittery, alight with nervous energy. His magic was restless within him, screaming to be released, and he could feel it building behind his eyes. It was as if his sorcery was begging him to defend himself, and perhaps that was a natural instinct for a sorcerer. Perhaps it was natural to use it in self-defense, but instead, Merlin returned to his pacing. Before long, he’d covered every inch of his cell, desperately trying to expel his energy and banish the panic flooding his brain.

He could still feel the remnants of his spell lingering on the dungeon bars. It had been an instinctual spell, expelled from him without incantation, and in that moment, Merlin had not regretted performing it. He’d relished it, finally revealing his true self to Arthur in a way of his own volition. To finally let himself be free.

But it had been a fleeting indulgence. A stupid, selfish action and now, imprisoned again and consumed by panic, Merlin couldn’t help but regret his momentary lapse of judgment. Arthur was clearly not ready to meet the real him, and the look of fear that had entered the prince’s eyes was far worse than his anger or scorn. Merlin had never wanted Arthur to fear him. The spell he’d performed had been to prove a point, nothing more, but now he had unwittingly killed a knight and sent a spell hurling directly at Arthur’s face—

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Merlin scolded himself, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands and pushing back oncoming tears. Stupid, stupid, sorcerer. That conversation might have been his last chance to get through to Arthur. One final attempt to prove to the prince that he was an ally and not a threat, but he’d fumbled it. That much was painfully clear. There was no denying that he had let his own hurt and betrayal get the best of him, and now—

Now, Merlin had a terrible, sinking feeling that Arthur may no longer be able to see him as anything other than a threat. He’d placed the bars back, hoping to clarify his intent, but it was all too little, too late. There would be no sneaking him out of the castle together as they had the Druid boy. No grand reconciliation between them or a change in Arthur’s stance on magic. Nothing had changed at all except for the ringing of Merlin’s death knell. Arthur was gone, returned to his place at his father’s side, and all that was left to complete was Merlin’s proper trial. The one before Uther, and not Arthur.

Merlin was pretty sure he knew how that one was going to go.

He had to get out. Should get out, and Merlin let himself approach the bars again, his fingertips grazing the metal as he considered blasting them away once again. He contemplated letting his fear take over and to let his magic loose, setting out on a dangerous mission to escape the dungeons and battle his way through the knights to freedom.

He could do it. Part of Merlin knew he was capable of it. After several years of studying magic and roaming Camelot’s corridors, Merlin knew which spells to chant and which routes to take. He could avoid his trial before Uther. He could seek shelter with the Druids or perhaps even hole up in his father’s cave. It was the logical thing to do. Arthur was gone, solidifying Merlin’s failure here, and running for his life was the obvious fallback.

But something stopped him from doing that. Something deep inside him told him not to go, and it was an instinct Merlin could not explain to himself. Perhaps it was the intrepid embers of hope still glowing inside his chest. Some small sliver of hope that he still had a chance to get through to Arthur, undertaking one last-ditch attempt to break down the barriers the prince still had up between them—

But only if he faced what he’d feared from day one. Only if Merlin allowed himself to face a trial at Uther’s feet, and only if he allowed himself to risk an execution like so many sorcerers before him.

He could do it. He could endure Uther’s trial. But an execution? A risky escape in the public square? Merlin wasn’t entirely sure if he was prepared to face that, and he was even less sure if he could survive it.

But no matter what happened next, everything was about to change.

Merlin let his hand drop from the bars. Despite his magic dancing beneath his skin, he returned to the bench of his cell, sinking down upon it and resigning himself to whatever came next.

Movement sounded from the stairs minutes later. Hushed words had turned to silence and soon there were heavy footfalls echoing off the walls.

Merlin immediately tensed, his breathing shallow. He stood up again, trying to stay steady while he awaited the reveal of who it was. He dearly hoped it wasn’t Uther. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face the wrath of the king yet.

But thankfully, it was not Uther Pendragon that rounded the dungeon corner and relief flooded Merlin as Gaius came into view. The physician’s white hair and brown robes bobbed in the half-light of the torches and for a brief few seconds, Merlin felt like everything was going to be all right.

“Gaius,” Merlin breathed, trying to compose himself a little as his mentor drew near. Gaius being there didn’t exactly fix anything, but Merlin was beyond relieved to see him despite Gaius’ rather morbid expression.

“Merlin,” Gaius said gravely as reached the bars, and he came to an unsteady stop. The old man looked a bit mournful as he stared at Merlin, and Merlin shifted uncomfortably, not accustomed to seeing that look directed at him. He’d seen it many times, but Gaius usually directed his morbid bedside manner to the dead and dying.

Merlin supposed that was what he was, in some ways.

“Was that—was that Arthur up there just now?” Merlin managed to ask, a little nervous to know the answer. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, and if things went badly, this was likely his and Gaius’ final conversation together. He didn’t want to think about that too deeply. “I heard talking. Arguing?”

“Yes, I was speaking with Arthur up there,” Gaius confirmed, and Merlin’s heart sank at the physician’s frosty tone. “He was warning me. He told me that he’s decided not to ‘arrest me for conspiring with your sorcery.’”

Gaius imitated Arthur’s voice a bit there, and Merlin winced at that wording, closing his eyes. “Conspiring?” he repeated in despair, and he whimpered, collapsing on the bench again and burying his face in his hands. On the bright side, he was glad to hear Arthur had decided to spare Gaius from his downfall. But it was sobering to hear he’d considered it. Merlin didn’t like the direction this was headed.

“I’m not going to pretend, Gaius,” Merlin murmured after Gaius offered no further comment. He scrubbed at his face, finding his eyes to be puffy and raw from crying. He wasn’t even sure what to say. There wasn’t much to pretend about anymore. “I don’t think there’s any digging myself out of this hole. Not this time. Not after all that’s just happened.”

“Merlin, please tell me you didn’t kill him,” Gaius said, and the desperation in his voice made Merlin cringe, coiling in on himself. “Please, please tell me you didn’t kill Roldan as Arthur believes you did. The knight had a fractured spine, struck by blunt force—”

“It was an accident,” Merlin said softly, crestfallen. He’d dreaded this confession, and he heard Gaius exhale through his teeth.

“You did do it?” he whispered, and Merlin felt another rush of guilt slash through him. “With magic? And Arthur saw?”

“Yes. No. Sort of.” Merlin groaned, not even sure how to begin to explain. Gaius didn’t know the half of how dire his situation had become. “Gaius, there’s more to this than Roldan. Arthur knew already. He’s known. For days.”

Gaius blinked at him, horror growing in his eyes. His expression mirrored Merlin’s own panic. “Days?”

“Three,” Merlin clarified, and he stood back up, returning to his pacing. “Three days. Three days he’s known I have magic, Gaius. And he hasn’t told anyone. Still hasn’t. He’s been testing me—hesitant to arrest me. He’s been trying to see if I was an enemy, and then I… and then he…”

His words faltered, unable to truly explain what he’d just done. How much he’d messed up this time.

Unfortunately, Gaius seemed to already know, putting two and two together like the world’s most depressing puzzle. “Arthur told me that you attacked him. With magic?”

Merlin’s lip quivered, the memory of Arthur’s brokenness and fear swimming through his mind again. It was a look he would not soon forget. “We were arguing,” he explained, the words coming out in a defensive rush. “He accused me of being out of control. I got angry. Blasted the bars off—”

“Merlin!”

“I put them back!” Merlin cried, but he knew it was a useless justification. “I just wanted to show him what I’m capable of. To make him see the control I possess, but I fear I’ve made a mistake I can’t come back from. I saw it in his eyes, Gaius. He’s scared of me.” Merlin swallowed thickly, only just now fully processing that reality. “Arthur is scared of my magic.”

“Well, I’m hardly surprised,” Gaius chastised, and he was admonishing his ward as he usually did, but there was nothing usual about this situation. “All Arthur has seen you do with it is murder a knight and then promptly threaten him—”

“It wasn’t a threat!”

“—as he is bound to see any spell like that as a danger to him! Neither one was a useful demonstration of magical control! What were you thinking, Merlin!”

“I was thinking we were ambushed!” Merlin defended himself, but again, it felt like a stupid excuse when he said it aloud. “I was evening out the odds. It wasn’t anything unusual, but Roldan—Arthur sent Roldan to spy on me, Gaius.”

Gaius’ expression shifted. “Sent him?”

Merlin nodded, and he wrung his hands like a worried nursemaid. “He admitted that much to me. He ordered Roldan to study my magic and he came up behind me. The knight wasn’t wearing a Camelot cape, I didn’t look at his face—”

“So you hit him,” Gaius inferred, and Merlin nodded again, feeling the crushing weight of his mistake. The gravity of the loss it had caused.

Gaius’ eyes were calculating, his face grim. “Merlin, you have no defense,” he whispered, growing closer to the bars and concluding what Merlin already knew, deep down. “Not in the eyes of the court. If Arthur already suspected you of magic—if he indeed had already known—what he has now is proof that you’re a threat to Camelot. Even without magic, you’d be hanged for the death of a knight.”

Merlin bit his lip. “I know.”

“Then you need to escape.” Gaius’ eyes were narrowed, dark and serious and commanding Merlin from beyond the bars. “Before the trial. The time to get out is now, Merlin.”

Merlin knew he was right. Logically, now was the time to get out. He’d thought that himself just minutes ago, but he also had another thought and he had a bad feeling Gaius was not going to like where he was going with it.

“Gaius, we both know Uther would accuse you of helping me,” Merlin said, and he held Gaius gaze, forcing him to confront that reality. “He has turned on you in the past and he will again. You know he will.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Gaius said, passively waving his hand, but Merlin shook his head, not about to let the physician write this off like it was nothing.

“No,” Merlin said, his voice steely, and with this one thing, he would not shrink away. He would not allow Gaius to put himself in the line of fire for him. He could already see Gaius planning it. “I’m not letting you take that fall for me. Not this time. I am not breaking out.”

“Merlin—”

“No, please, just—just listen to me,” Merlin insisted, waving his hands, and he came as close to the bars as he could, staring down Gaius with a seriousness that seemed to startle him. “What really would be the point of it, Gaius? Breaking out? Running away? How would that look to everyone? I’ll just be another sorcerer fleeing in fear. Reinforcing the system as it is, and throwing away any last chance to get through to Arthur. I’ll be admitting my guilt, and not just for Roldan, but for my sorcery too. And I am not sorry about my magic, Gaius. I will not apologise for something I was born with.”

Merlin spoke that last part with venom, practically spitting out the word “apologise” and feeling his magic surge up within him at the mention. He would not say sorry for his abilities. Sorcery was not inherently evil, and he had dedicated his life to bringing that fact to light. They both had, and Merlin couldn’t allow himself to run away from a chance to prove it, however dangerous that may be.

“Merlin, you cannot worry about Arthur anymore,” Gaius pleaded with him, and his expression was broken now, begging. “He is a lost cause. You must realise that. Perhaps not forever, but you need to worry about yourself now, focus on saving your own neck while—”

“Was he conflicted about it at all?” Merlin interjected, a little forceful as he cut Gaius off. His breathing was laboured, and he didn’t like Gaius considering Arthur a lost cause. Merlin couldn’t allow himself to think like that. “Arthur, when you talked to him just now. Do you think he was conflicted about my sentencing?”

Gaius blinked at him for a moment, his lips a thin line of frustration at Merlin’s stubbornness. “Yes, I do believe he was conflicted about it,” he relented, and he crossed his arms, looking to the floor. “I doubt he wants to see you dead, Merlin. It’s not in his nature.”

“Exactly,” Merlin said, and he clasped his hands—breathless a little as a plan began to fully form in his head. A stupid plan. A reckless plan. But when had his plans ever been anything less? “Don’t you see what I’m getting at, Gaius? I know Arthur better than I know myself at this point. He didn’t run to Uther when he first found out about my magic. He knows he should have. He should have reported me immediately, but he didn’t because he knew I stood no chance. That’s why he tried to test me on his own. That’s why I was passing until what happened with Roldan. If I face this sentence—”

Merlin paused for a moment, catching his breath as he processed just what he was saying. What he was planning to do. “If I face this sentence properly,” he repeated, speaking with more gravity now. “I can try to show Arthur that I don’t mean any harm. I can show him that I accept my responsibility for what happened, and that this doesn’t need to be the end. Perhaps I can open his eyes and remind him that this isn’t the Camelot he wants. That this isn’t the king he wants to be, and is that not exactly what you’ve been trying to do with Uther all this time, Gaius? Trying to turn the king’s mind around on magic?”

Merlin said this all with a hint of hope, but Gaius clearly didn’t share it. “Tried, Merlin,” the physician clarified, and Merlin could see the years of unjust executions weighing on the lines in his face. “For many years, I have tried to gain Uther’s trust and curtail his views on magic. There were days I thought I could get through to him. Many hours I believed I was friend enough to him that he would take my counsel and I could help change Camelot for the better from the inside. But those moments are few and far between. Often too little, and often too late.”

The physician sighed heavily, his eyes unfocused and stuck in the distant past. He was burdened by decades of regrets, and Merlin was beginning to accumulate a few of his own. “I’d like to think I have done some good in the little moments,” Gaius continued, and Merlin was struck by how beaten down he sounded. How tired. “Perhaps I have not done enough, but I do hope I’ve made some sort of difference in this place. At the end of the day, everyone is a potential enemy in Uther’s mind. None of us are safe. While you may know Arthur better than you know yourself, Merlin, I know Uther better than I know myself. So, please. Promise me. Do not do this. You will not survive it and I do not think I can bear to lose you.”

Gaius wrapped his hands around the bars at this, pleading with him, and Merlin copied the motion, cupping Gaius’ hands with his. He looked into his mentor’s eyes with an apologetic smile, and he could see Gaius processing what that meant.

“I can do it, Gaius,” Merlin said, conviction hanging in his every word, and his mind was made up. There would be no swaying him from this course now—much as it pained Gaius and as much as it bred fear within his own heart. Running away would be easier, but the easier course of action was not always the right one. “Arthur isn’t Uther. He does not see enemies in everyone. I can get through to him, and I can escape. I know I can do it. After the trial, just before the execution—”

“Merlin, listen to yourself,” Gaius snapped, and where platitudes didn’t work, he returned to fatherly admonishment. “Do you honestly think you are capable of escaping your own execution, in full view of the king and all his knights? And even if you could, what would it prove? You’d just be showing yourself to be more of a threat, injuring more knights—”

“But what if I didn’t hurt the knights?” Merlin countered, and he squeezed Gaius’ hands, trying to get the physician to see the importance of what he was trying to do. “What if I escaped from the courtyard without hurting anyone? Proving that magic doesn’t need to be a weapon? That it can be gentle and useful and—and kind.” He stuttered at the end of his sentence, his own hope and fear catching in his voice. “I can do it. I think.”

“You think.”

Gaius clearly held no belief in him. That much was obvious, and Merlin didn’t blame him. What he was proposing was crazy, and yet, for some reason, he knew it was what he must do. The only thing he could do. “I have to face this, Gaius,” Merlin said with a confidence that surprised even himself, and he let his hands slip away from the bars. Something in Gaius’ expression shattered in that moment, but Merlin was not going to back down from this. “I won’t let you take the fall for me, or anyone else. This is my mess, and mine alone. I won’t turn my back on it.”

“Merlin—” Gaius started, no doubt heading for another attempt to talk him out of this, but the soft voice of Sir Madoc interrupted before he could.

“Time to go, Gaius,” the knight said gently, lingering a ways down the passage in the shadows. Merlin could only partially see the knight’s face, but the prison guard was eyeing him warily. Instinctively, Merlin pulled further away from the bars, trying to appear less threatening. He supposed Madoc had heard most of their conversation and was likely on edge, perhaps wondering if Merlin did intend to escape. Merlin wasn’t sure how to appear friendly to the knight, so he just sort of stood there awkwardly, wringing his hands.

Gaius took one step back, as if signaling to Madoc he was willing to leave, but his gaze did not leave his ward. “Merlin, your cause is a noble one,” the physician said lowly, attempting one last ditch appeal to Merlin’s sanity. “It has always been noble, and I believe in it wholeheartedly. But this is madness, not chivalry. If you care for me at all, please don’t attempt this. I cannot bear to watch you sacrifice yourself.”

Gaius’ voice cracked at the end of his words, tears welling in his eyes, and Merlin could feel tears pricking at his own eyes too. He wished he could lie. He wished he could tell Gaius that he agreed and that he would prioritise his own safety this time. He wished he could tell the man he considered his father figure that he wouldn’t go running head first into danger. That he’d do the smart thing and turn tail. Run away from it all.

But he knew Gaius would see right through such a lie. So he didn’t bother. “I won’t fail,” he declared instead, moving back to the bars as Sir Madoc gently guided the physician away from the cell. “I won’t. I can’t. But just in case I do… thank you. For everything.”

He called the last words, as Gaius was already disappearing down the corridor, led by Madoc. Merlin thought he might have heard a murmur of a response from Gaius, but he wasn’t sure as the knight and the physician disappeared around the corner, leaving Merlin alone once more.

With a pang of deep, dark grief, Merlin fell back down on the bench, hoping against hope that this wasn’t the last time he and Gaius would speak to one another. If everything went well, they’d see each other again.

But for now, Merlin needed to focus on his escape, and with that in mind, he laid back on the cold wood of the bench and began to recite his spells.

~O~

It was some time before the guards came to fetch him. They opened the cell door rather violently—rough hands pulling Merlin up from the bench and restraining him. Shackles found their way around his wrists, the sound of chains echoing loud in Merlin’s ears. The bite of cold metal was not welcome, and Merlin could feel his magic tingling beneath his skin, coiling like a snake about to strike. That always happened when anyone restrained him in this way. Perhaps it was instinctual for all sorcerers, but he didn’t know for sure.

He didn’t resist. With not so much as a word, Merlin allowed himself to be dragged out of the cell and led out of the dungeons, one knight positioned on either side of him. Their grip was painful on his arms, and Merlin considered asking them to loosen up as they walked. He could ask, after all. He did know their names: Sir Howel and Sir Ivor. He even suspected they knew his name too, perhaps from years of innocuous moments seeing each other in passing.

But there was no point in it, really. Even if they’d been friends, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Ivor and Howel were nobles and they had done this with many other prisoners before him. Countless commoners and servants labeled as traitors, dragged to court, and then executed at Uther’s whim. Merlin was just another sorry sod on a long list of sorry sods, and in some ways, his magic wasn’t even relevant. He doubted Howel and Ivor knew the charges against him. It wasn’t their job to know, just to serve and obey.

Technically, that was Merlin’s job too, although he’d never been very good at it. His arrest meant his release from Arthur’s service, and if everything went wrong and he didn’t survive the day, he secretly hoped he went down as Camelot’s worst servant in recorded history. That, at least, was a legacy worth leaving behind. Part of him wanted to be some obscure note in Geoffrey’s texts. Some stupid footnote: The secret wizard Merlin, manservant to Prince Arthur for some odd four years. Deemed the worst servant Camelot had ever seen before his magic was uncovered.

Yes, Merlin thought wistfully. He’d be happy with that stamp on history. It was better than simply “another sorcerer vanquished by Uther Pendragon” and then another tick on whatever list of dead sorcerers Geoffrey had running. Better than a destiny he’d failed to bring into being.

The death march to the throne room went by all too fast. Merlin’s fear grew with every step, beginning to doubt if he could pull this off. All too soon, the bowels of the castle gave way to sunlight, and stares met Merlin from other servants bustling by. People he knew—casual friends, even—glancing at him with veiled discomfort before averting their gazes. After a few instances of such eye contact, Merlin opted to keep his head lowered, not looking at anything other than the floor. It was too painful to see the community he’d come to know and love writing him off as a traitor and a dead man. Someone to be pitied, if not hated and despised. He’d seen it happen before. Everyone would go about their normal day, unbothered while he faced his doom.

The name Merlin would go down in their memories as just another traitor.

They kept moving. The guards pulled him along with more urgency now, and even with his head down, Merlin could tell where in the castle he was. He knew the floors of the citadel better than most, having scrubbed them clean many times. The corridor transitioned from stark white stone to dark stained wood the closer they grew to the throne room, and within minutes, they were braced outside the hall’s oak double doors.

Merlin could feel his hands shaking in his shackles. It made the chain links of the cuffs rattle, and he did not raise his head as the doors were drawn open. Merlin didn’t need to look up to know everyone’s eyes were on him as he was ushered inside, stumbling over his own uncoordinated feet. He walked forward, struggling to summon the courage to look up, but he managed it, just a bit, and his eyes immediately found Arthur’s. The prince was standing right where Merlin knew he’d be—at the king’s right-hand side, near the throne.

Arthur’s gaze was already on him. Merlin’s heart skipped a beat as they locked eyes for the first time in hours, trying his best to read the prince’s expression. Arthur had never been hard to read, really. His feelings often shone plainly despite his best efforts, and he was an open book to anyone that knew him. Merlin arguably knew him best, and he was pleased to see anguish barely hidden in Arthur’s expressive features. Any remnants of his previous anger and fear had melted away, and he seemed deeply conflicted. Arthur held Merlin’s gaze, which surprised Merlin, and as he watched, the prince crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive way. He was uncomfortable, and it had been a long while since Merlin had seen him look quite so on edge. So torn.

That look gave Merlin a surge of hope. It stocked the embers still alive in his chest, daring to hope their shared destiny was not yet doomed. He took heart in that dream, holding it close like a lifeline as the guards roughly shoved him to his knees in front of Uther, breaking his and Arthur’s eye contact.

All Merlin could see now was Uther’s boots. He had shined them often enough to recognise them, dreading the day he’d be staring at them like this, and then the king was speaking his name. Bringing to life a nightmare Merlin had suffered from since his first days in Camelot.

“Merlin,” Uther said in his distinct, low growl, officially beginning his trial, and Merlin couldn’t stop himself from flinching at his tone. The king often pronounced his name with a hint of contempt, but this was different. This time there was hatred in his voice. “Or should I be calling you Emrys now? I have, after all, been informed that is your true name.”

True name. Merlin didn’t like how Uther worded that. It felt like an accusation, and Merlin could feel his magic tingling in his fingertips now, springing up within him. He held it back. He’d never considered “Emrys” to be his true name. It was more of a moniker, and one that belonged in the mouths of other sorcerers.

Not in the mouth of Uther.

He looked up. Just a little. Just the tiniest hint of bravery as he met the king’s dark gaze and said, “I prefer Merlin.”

Uther glowered down at him, and in that moment, Merlin wondered if the king even remembered how many times Merlin had served him well. How many times he, Merlin, a warlock, had defended the king, the very person that hunted and despised his kind.

But if Uther did realise that, he didn’t show it. Gaius had been right. There was no mercy to be found in the eyes of Uther Pendragon. Merlin could understand why despite his efforts Gaius had given up hope in him over the years. Perhaps the mind of Uther Pendragon was beyond saving, but Merlin would not let himself give up on Arthur.

“Well then, Merlin,” Uther sniffed, continuing, and Merlin shifted on his knees, trying his best to prepare himself for what he knew came next. “You stand here accused of sorcery, first and foremost. Am I correct in saying this?”

Merlin swallowed. “Yes,” he answered, and it was a confession he’d long feared. Arthur may have witnessed his magic, but no one else had.

That would soon change.

“And you admit to that?” Uther pressed on, and there was a challenge in those words. Merlin vaguely wondered if the king even believed he had magic. If Uther even actually believed he was Emrys.

“Yes,” Merlin replied, admitting to it. Publicly and irrevocably admitting his magic, his nature, but this time, he raised his chin in the tiniest hint of defiance. His whole body sparkled with spite. “Although I do not apologise for it.”

He’d anticipated the slight murmur that filtered through the crowd at that. Uther’s expression hardened at it, but it was Morgana’s reaction that Merlin was actually watching for. The sorceress was studying him carefully from her chair, just feet from him. Her face unreadable as they locked eyes. In contrast to Arthur, Morgana was difficult to read, but part of Merlin hoped he could get through to her just as Arthur. He hadn’t confessed his magic to her years ago, when he’d wanted to. But he was confessing it now.

“Naturally you do not,” Uther huffed, drawing Merlin’s attention back to the king. He resigned himself to the degradation he knew was coming as Uther threw a dismissive wave of his hand, quieting his court. “Is there ever remorse to be had in the voice of a sorcerer? And to think I allowed you into my royal household. To think I trusted you as a member of this castle court. I suppose this is a lesson to us that no one can ever be truly trusted, and that no man ever truly knows who is their enemy. Am I right, Arthur?”

Uther turned to his son, looking for his approval, and Merlin followed his gaze, watching as Arthur fidgeted underneath the sudden attention. “Yes, Father,” the prince mumbled, but he looked down, not meeting Merlin’s eyes. That was painful, but it was also a comfort, as Arthur didn’t seem to be adding any further accusations to the trial. Merlin had been half worried their conversation in the dungeon might leak into the court, but it didn’t seem like Arthur had told anything to his father.

That was a good sign.

“You also stand accused of murdering a Camelot knight, Merlin,” Uther arraigned, and he was walking now. His dark boots passed slowly around Merlin like a predator and his cape trailed behind him. Merlin watched as the crimson folds snaked around him, his shoulders taught and his magic buzzing when the king’s boots drew in too close. “Am I correct in that?”

“Yes,” Merlin croaked.

“And you admit to that, too?”

“I do,” he said, but his eyes welled with tears as he pictured Roldan’s lifeless face. He was sorry for that. So very sorry. “But for that I do apologise. It was an accide—”

"Silence!” Uther roared, and Merlin recoiled. The king’s arm had swung out and he’d cowered, thinking the king might hit him, but Uther simply pointed at him accusingly, continuing his tirade. “I will not entertain false banalities from your wicked mouth. I’ve heard enough of them from your kind over the years. You can claim morality all you’d like, but I know the truth of the matter. There are no redeeming qualities in magic. Only death and destruction, and you have proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt today.”

“Proven?” Merlin repeated, bristling, and he hadn’t meant to fight back like this. He’d only planned to stand up for his magic, nothing more, but Uther’s accusation triggered an anger within him stronger than he’d anticipated. A furious defense spilled from his mouth after years of holding back, and he did not recoil anymore. “Proven what, exactly, Uther? That after all the death and destruction you have caused, somehow I am the only one guilty of it? That I am the only one to blame? There is blood on both sides of this story and you know it, Uther Pendragon. So let’s not pretend.”

A bit of darkness came into Merlin’s voice as he spoke—a hint of his true power as he squared his shoulders against Uther, defiant despite being on his knees.

And this time when the king moved forward, he did strike.

The crack was audible. Uther’s gloved hand struck fast and hard, a sharp pain exploding across Merlin’s jaw, his head snapping back. Stars burst in his vision in a red galaxy as he reeled from the blow, not having expected it, but that had been stupid of him. He should have expected it. He should have anticipated that Uther would not let such defiance of his authority stand.

He tasted blood. Instinctively, Merlin brought his fingers to his face, forgetting they were chained. The shackles rattled when he wiped the blood from his swelling lip, glaring up at the king. For a moment, Merlin almost let his magic burn, a few choice spells coming to his mind.

But he didn’t use them. This wasn’t about him. This was about proving a point to Arthur. A point about control, and about peace, and a demonstration about who the real enemy was here. How it was not him.

How it was Uther.

Murmurs wafted amongst the court at the king’s attack. It had surprised them, and Merlin allowed himself to look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Once again, he was pleased to see the prince was upset, having shifted out of his position. Had Arthur guessed his father would hit him? Had he considered preventing it?

Merlin hoped so. He recalled how it had been back in the Druid cave, when he’d watched Arthur move to attack the Archdruid. Merlin now knew that Arthur had been testing him, curious to see how Merlin would handle that situation.

Now it was Merlin’s turn to do the testing.

“Don’t you dare speak to me in that way, you vermin!” Uther was thundering at him, screeching at him with a level that bordered on derangement. Merlin brought his full attention back up to the tyrant at this, watching as the king’s face went red, a bit of spittle foaming at the corner of his mouth. His arm was still raised in threat of another strike. “How dare you pretend that you are the victim here, and in my court of all places. A knight is dead by your murderous hand. A good man, and with a family now left uncared for, so do not pretend you are anything but an assassin and a traitor. You are guilty of all you are accused of, and you deserve to die for it!”

“And so the answer to violence is more violence, is it?” Merlin shot back, and it felt good, the fighting. It came easily to him. He would not take his sentence lying down and saying words he’d repressed for years was all too easy to let slip. His fear from earlier had evaporated, replaced by a righteous fury. The embers of hope had grown to a flame he would not let go out. “An eye for an eye? A tooth for a tooth? Is that your grand plan in this, Uther? We will get nowhere with that mindset and you know it!”

Merlin’s voice rose now, anger coursing through him, and he could see the king’s own fury growing. A vein was popping on Uther’s temple, an unhinged quality to his green gaze as he moved, his shoulder twisting.

This time, Merlin expected the strike. He braced for it, squeezing his eyes shut just as Uther’s arm came driving towards him—

But no strike came.

Confusion filtered through Merlin’s mind for a moment. He waited a second, still expecting the blow, but when it didn’t come, he let out a shuddering breath, opening his eyes just a fraction—

Only to see not Uther standing in front of him, but Arthur.

“Stop,” the prince hissed at his father, and Merlin couldn’t help but blink in wonderment. His brain suddenly seemed to be moving in slow motion, struggling to catch up as he stared at Arthur poised between him and Uther. With a jolt, Merlin realised that Arthur had stopped the king using his left arm, his right hand grazing the hilt of his sword. It was a warrior’s instinct, Merlin was sure. An instinctual protectiveness, and not at all unlike how Merlin himself had thrown his body in front of the Archdruid back in the Druid cave.

But unlike that moment, this act of protection held far larger implications. Merlin was struggling to process it, but Arthur had just made a clear movement against his father in front of the entire court. Acted on impulse and protected Merlin, stopping his punishment like Merlin had dreamed he would—

But he hadn’t believed Arthur would actually do it.

Uther clearly hadn’t anticipated this at all. “What are you doing, Arthur?” the king hissed at his son, horrified, and Merlin stared at the back of Arthur’s head, waiting for his answer. He was on tenterhooks, holding his breath as he waited to hear what Arthur was going to say. If he’d speak up in Merlin’s defense.

But Arthur didn’t get a chance to say anything. The deafening noise of the double doors being thrown open sounded behind them, echoing around the hall with a bang, and Merlin swiveled around, bile rising in his throat as his eyes locked with Gaius’ across the room. The physician’s expression was wild, crazed, and Merlin really thought this trial couldn’t get any worse.

Apparently he was wrong.

“Uther!” Gaius roared with the anger of a dragon, his arms spread wide and his brown robes billowing around him. Merlin had never seen the man look so angry, so desperate, and he immediately sprang into action, rocketing to his feet despite his chains.

“Gaius, don’t!” Merlin screamed, and he considered throwing Gaius back with his magic. He even started to recite the spell, but before he could, Gaius reached him and grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging Merlin behind him. He did it with enough force to throw Merlin back, leaving him to fall on his arse and break his spell.

It took him a second too long to process what was happening. Gaius and Arthur poised between him and the king. Their acts of selflessness left Merlin stunned, fighting between fear and gratitude, and he recalled the sadness he’d seen in Gaius’ face back in the dungeons. The lack of hope after years of failing to change Uther’s mind on issues of magic.

And suddenly, Merlin had a very bad feeling he knew what Gaius was attempting to do.

“It was me who killed him, sire,” Gaius announced to the court, his voice solid and sure as he spoke up for all to hear. “I am the one to blame for Roldan’s death. I am the sorcerer who has killed him once he was brought to my chambers. Merlin has been entirely under my control, I confess it—”

"No!” Merlin screamed, and he tried to launch himself at Gaius, but the guards predicted his movements this time. They seized him with their rough, strong hands, pinning his arms back. Merlin whimpered as they drew him away, but he kept yelling, desperate to be heard. “No, that isn’t true. It’s not true! It was me, Uther. I killed him. It was entirely my fault. I am the sorcerer here, he isn’t—”

“No,” Gaius cut him off with force, and Merlin tugged uselessly at the guards’ grip.  “No, it was me, sire, you must see that—”

“It was me!” Merlin howled, and this time when his magic surged within him, he did not hold it back.

He felt it. He felt himself let go. A shock wave emanated from him, billowing out in a circle, and his fingers flared with warmth. His eyes burned with energy, the ground shaking beneath his knees, and his emotions seeped into the wood and stone of the castle itself, weaving in with the magic hidden there, taking hold. Camelot had been built by sorcery and when Merlin truly tuned into the world, he could feel that, lying just underneath the surface. It didn’t take much to make the castle itself shake.

Fear rippled through the crowd of nobles and servants alike. The guards drew their swords and Merlin felt a sharp edge of blade prick his neck, forcing him to draw his chin back to prevent being sliced open. He let his shackled hands fall back to his lap, his magic fading back into dormancy. The shaking stopped, but a magical threat hung in the air. A small, but powerful demonstration of sorcery.

For years, Merlin had hidden his magic from the court. Now he was hiding no longer.

“It was me,” Merlin said again, softer now that everyone had gone quiet. All eyes were on him, and he stood very still so as not to provoke the sword at his throat. He hadn’t planned on using his magic like this, but it was necessary now. He needed to prevent Gaius from taking the blame, and if Uther wanted a scary sorcerer to condemn—

Well. Then he could have one.

“As you can see, Uther, I’m the sorcerer here,” Merlin said, raising a chained hand ever so slightly. He met the king’s gaze despite the sword at his throat, and he noticed Uther’s expression had gone from vengeful to fearful in the span of seconds. Merlin selfishly relished that fear. “It has always been me. I have been a spy in your castle for years now, and Gaius has been completely under my mind control. I am the man they called Emrys. I am the sorcerer that you have been told to fear, and you should fear me. You should dread the likes of me, Uther Pendragon, because I alone represent magic returning to this kingdom one day and there is nothing you can do to stop me!”

And as he screamed those final words, Merlin let his magic burst out of him. It didn’t take much to let it flare up into a powerful fire. It was always there, just waiting for him to use it, and in one fluid motion, Merlin grabbed the sword at his throat by the blade and tore it away from his face.

It was a reckless move. One that could have gone very badly if the spell he’d chanted in his head didn’t take hold, but it did, and the spell “Ahatian” sailed down Merlin’s arms and into his fingers, burning the metal in his grasp. Melted globs of metal pooled in his palms like sap, dripping down to the wood floor.

The guard holding him screamed, high-pitched and pained. Some of the globs must have landed on him, and Merlin felt a bit bad about it, but only a tad as he took his advantage. He elbowed the guard, weaseling himself out his grip and standing tall, his magic swirling around him. It was invisible, of course, but it was a presence he was sure everyone could feel now as he let it loose, bringing a mystical wind into existence.

Panic immediately overtook the court. People screamed, Uther drew his sword, guards jumped into action—but Merlin only had eyes for one person as Arthur drew his sword along with them, the blade glinting in the light coming in through the stained glass. The prince locked eyes with him across the hall, and Merlin magic encased him protectively. He could feel his eyes glowing as he stared at Arthur, and he was not apologetic about it. He was no longer trying to appear weak or meek for the sake of alleviating Arthur’s fear, and he waited for the prince’s reaction. To see if Arthur would attack him, just as Uther and the knights were doing.

But Arthur didn’t advance. He didn’t move it all, just frozen in place with his arms shaking a bit. His expression was broken, shattered—not scared, but at a loss. Completely unsure of what to do in this situation.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. Merlin would take it.

"Restrain him!” Uther was screaming at his knights, giving an order that was obvious to everyone, but to Merlin’s surprise, the guards around him all wavered. It took him a second to realise why, but then he recalled the sword he’d melted. The blade was still hissing slightly at his feet, glowing molten red, and it was a clear act of magical aggression on Merlin’s part. The fear in the room was palpable.

It felt strange to him, but Merlin allowed himself to grin at their terror. He normally wouldn’t. He hadn’t wanted to use his magic—hadn’t wanted to instill fear like this—but it was required now to protect Gaius. To secure himself as the only target of Uther’s wrath.

“Scared are you, Uther?” Merlin asked the tyrant king, taunting Uther now, and he purposely changed the tone of his voice. He was slightly imitating Morgana he realised, even glancing over at the sorceress, and he enjoyed her shocked expression as he allowed the malice to creep into his words. He would be lying to himself if he thought Uther’s fear wasn’t delicious. It was so very satisfying to see the king only just now realising how much of a threat Merlin truly posed.

"Restrain him!” Uther ordered again, more desperate now, and his voice cracked as he gave the command. He couldn’t hide the chinks in his armour anymore as the knights finally reacted, dropping into a circular formation and surrounding Merlin on all sides. They advanced slowly, but deliberately, and Merlin let them. He kept his expression cold, calculating, and he stood very still, just watching the knights close in while he considered blasting them all away. A single throw of his arm would do the trick, sending them all soaring, and after that, he could just… leave. Break his way out of the castle. Disappear.

But what would be the point of that? Merlin thought, and he had to remind himself of that fact. He had to remember why he’d chosen to face this trial in the first place. He hadn’t come here to play at being an evil sorcerer, attacking Camelot’s throne. He was here to announce his magic but refuse to renounce it. He was here to prove to Arthur—and  to everyone else—that while he was capable of being a threat, he chose not to be.

And so, when the knights closed in on Merlin, he didn’t attack. Instead, with a slow exhale, he let his magic settle, the wind he’d been creating without thought dying down. His hands—still chained—fell limp in his lap, and before long he had a sword to his throat once more.

It was strange, letting his guard down, and yet all too easy after years of pretending he wasn’t powerful. His time in Camelot had trained him to be benign, and it had helped him grow accustomed to servitude and humility over power and pride.

He let those lessons guide him now.

“Take him away!” Uther demanded, and the king’s motions were wild now—delirious as he gave the order with a mad swing of his sword. “I will not entertain this madness any further! I will not entertain the sin of sorcery within these sacred walls!”

His voice squawked, wavering, and Merlin realised Uther was having a hard time regaining face after the magic he’d just seen. The king pointed his sword at Merlin’s chest, and Merlin had had a nightmare about this moment. He had always feared that once Uther learnt of his magic that the king would just stab him and be done with.

“I would slay you here where you stand myself, sorcerer,” the king seethed, threatening that. Merlin could see Uther considering the idea of striding forward and burying his sword deep in Merlin’s gut, ending this—

But he hesitated. He wavered, and Merlin wondered if Uther realised he could lose that fight. That if Merlin fought back with all his power the king didn’t stand a chance.

He must have realised it, because he didn’t attack. He didn’t advance, cowering just a little, and Merlin grinned a tiny bit to see it. “However, I want the public to see you die properly,” Uther decided, and it was a weak excuse for letting Merlin live another hour. “I want you and your ilk to witness what becomes of anyone who dares enter my court as they watch the life drain from your wicked eyes!”

“Then do it,” Merlin replied, and there was a challenge there. A challenge, but also a profound exhaustion. He was tired of this. Tired of hiding, tired of fighting. All of it. “Do what you want with me, Uther, but know this—there are so many more people like me. So many more sorcerers who are just people looking for a home and a family. Camelot could be so much greater than it is if you’d let those sorcerers find their way here. I have served you for a long time, and I could have served you all the better with my magic if you’d just let me.”

"Get him out!” Uther howled, ignoring Merlin’s heartfelt words, and he betrayed his desperation as he whirled to face his son. He was delegating, putting the burden onto Arthur just as Merlin had suspected he would. “Arthur, see to it that the gallows are raised this instant,” the king commanded, and he waved his sword in Arthur’s direction, making Arthur flinch. “I want this evil sorcerer dead and gone before sundown! Do you hear me?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Arthur stuttered, and Merlin had never seen the prince look so shaken up. Good, he thought, and he hoped that meant that this had worked. That he’d gotten through to Arthur on some instinctual level, and he wasn’t done yet. The guards seized him from behind, trapping his hands at his sides and dragging him out of the throne room, but Merlin didn’t resist it. He looked at Arthur, willing the prince to look at him too.

To his relief, Arthur did, their eyes locking once more, and Merlin could see Arthur’s anguish overtaking him before the throne room doors snapped shut, separating them once again.

For now.

~O~

Merlin’s dungeon cell welcomed him back with its dank, damp darkness as the guard’s shoved him back inside. The smell of his prison washed over him, and the weight of all that had just happened sunk into his limbs. He collapsed onto the cell bench with a shuddering breath. He was shaking somewhat, the shock setting in, and he lay there on his back, hands folded over his chest, just feeling his thumping heart. His breathing was short and he tried to lengthen his inhales and exhales, attempting to calm himself down from everything that had just occurred.

He had done it. It didn’t feel real just yet, but Merlin had done it. He’d succeeded. Faced his trial in front of the king, and endured a real-life nightmare—a nightmare he’d suffered from nearly every night since coming to Camelot. The court, the king, everyone knew he was a sorcerer now. Merlin had been accused of magic publicly before, but never before had he used it so outright. There would be no coming back from it, even if he wanted to. It was official now.

His time as a secret sorcerer in Camelot was over.

It was a relief to Merlin, in some ways, to know that. To no longer need to hide. The freedom it offered was a strange sort of solace, but also a newfound fear. In many ways, Merlin did not know who he was outside of Arthur’s manservant. He didn’t know who he was outside of a farm boy hiding his growing powers, either, and this was a new version of him… this new freedom… he felt ghostly. Unformed. His body was adrift, floating in doldrums, and in many ways he felt like he’d pushed out to sea without knowing how to sail.

Perhaps it was time he learnt how.

Focus, Merlin, focus now, Merlin scolded himself, and he pressed his palms to his eyes until they swirled with stars. He’d achieved the first part of his plan, which had been survive the trial without getting brutally slaughtered. The second part would prove trickier. Earlier, Merlin had heard the king’s plans for him: the gallows, and that was good. A noose would be simpler to combat than a pyre or a beheading, and during his first stint in the dungeon, Merlin had composed a skeleton plan for facing all three. Part of him had been terrified he wouldn’t learn which one he’d face, but now, thankfully, he could just focus in on the gallows.

With a deep breath, Merlin kept his eyes closed. He squeezed them tightly, forcing himself to conjure up a detailed image of the gallows. A wooden platform. A lever. A crossbeam. A noose. That was what he had to work with as far as magic, and he had a few spells he thought might work.

The first one was the most important one. When Gogan the executioner pulled the lever to make him drop, Merlin had to make sure he didn’t drop. The platform below him would swing wide open, and he had to either stop it, or do something else to prevent the noose from tightening around his neck. That was the biggest and most immediate obstacle to not dying.

Merlin had one way to address it. It was the most obvious answer—he could magically prevent the platform from opening at the lever’s command. There was a spell for that. Bracinga locum. That would jamb the lever, but it wasn’t much of a demonstration, and Merlin imagined himself standing there, the rope around his neck as Gogan furiously jerked the lever only to find it wasn’t working. What would the executioner do then?

Draw his sword and stab me, probably, Merlin thought bitterly. No. He needed a better spell. Something a little more… flashy. Something less predictable and less easily denied.

Cbeft flotere. Now that was more extravagant. A floating spell. When Gogan pulled the lever and the platform opened beneath Merlin’s feet, the noose drawing tight—what if he started floating in thin air?

That would definitely get everyone’s attention, Merlin thought with a small smile, but could he actually do it? He had never tried to make anything heavier than a pitcher float, let alone his entire body. He’d never attempted this spell at that level, but he did have some time on his hands while they constructed the gallows outside.

Might as well try it. Exhaling slowly, Merlin stood up to give it a go. He settled in the centre of the cell,  holding his chained hands out in front of him and spreading his fingers wide. The shackles made an awful lot of noise at the movement, and he hoped Sir Madoc wouldn’t come running over to discover him practicing magic.

Then again, it wasn’t like Merlin had to keep his magic a secret any longer. He might as well practice without fear.

Cbeft flotere, Merlin chanted in his head, releasing his magic at full power and letting the spell flow through his arms. He put his whole soul behind it, a small wind kicking up beneath his feet and pushing him upward—

But with unexpected force and propulsion. Merlin yelped as he was thrown forwards, careening face-first towards the floor from the force of the spell. His body followed, leaving him crumpling like a newborn foul on the straw.

Great. The words of the enchantment worked, but Merlin now realised he needed to be gentler. He needed to maneuver his body and hold himself upright instead of launching himself headfirst. Perhaps if he changed how he held his hands—kept one hand out for the wind, and one pointed in on himself, holding him steady?

That might work. Getting back to his feet with a grunt, Merlin brought his chained hands to stomach, facing his right hand outward and leaving his left hand pressed against his navel. That way, his right arm was poised to control the air and his left arm positioned to control him.

Round two, Merlin thought to himself with newfound conviction, and then he tried again. Cbeft flotere, he chanted in his mind, and his magic billowed out from him, the wind kicking up, his feet lifting into the air—

And this time, Merlin did not fall. This time, he could feel his left hand steadying his core, the spell flowing into his body and not just the air while his right hand controlled the winds, keeping him afloat. He was doing it. He was flying!

Well, not flying. Floating. Floating barely a foot off the dungeon floor. Hardly amazing spell work, but it would do. With a smile, Merlin let his magic fade, dropping his feet neatly back to the ground. That was his first spell sorted. Now for the second. If he could maintain the floating, then the next task would be getting his shackles off.

That shouldn’t be too difficult. For a moment, Merlin studied his shackles in the little patch of light his cell provided. They weren’t particularly complicated cuffs, and if he focused his magic on the lock—

Onirne, Merlin chanted in his mind, snapping his fingers, and the shackles blew open with a small crack, falling off his wrists and clanging to the ground. Merlin grinned at the sight, rubbing at his raw wrists. That was a simple enough task and a wind spell, byre, would bring the trapdoor back up into position for him to stand on. Perfect.

Next step. Crossbows. Crossbows were the next step. Merlin had attended enough executions to know that the knights would be stationed around the courtyard, ready to deploy bolts at him if he tried anything. That was a normal protocol for sorcerer prisoners, so what to do if they started shooting at him?

“Flotere,” Merlin murmured again, waving his hand to bring a blade of straw into the air. He’d pretend this was a crossbow bolt, coming at him—

And then he deflected the attack with a strong burst of magic, sending it away from him and neatly placing the blade back on the bed of straw. He didn’t need a spell for that one, really. Directing objects was fairly instinctual magic for him—always had been. He should be able to deflect the bolts without too much trouble, granted he saw them in time.

Right. Next step. The noose. That was probably the most important and dangerous bit, and Merlin brought his hands to his neck, taking off his red neckerchief only to wind it into rope, He tied it semi-tight around his throat, imitating a noose. With a small intake of breath, Merlin grazed a single finger over the knot of the scarf, testing out his spell with slight worry. This one was going to be slightly more complicated, but if he could pull it off—

“Bæst gewyrc an lif,” Merlin murmured, dragging his fingertip across the scarf and pushing his magic into the threads like he planned to do with the rope’s bristling coils. His scarf responded, the fabric twisting and transforming before bursting into blue wings. A flurry of magically-conjured butterflies jumped into existence, billowing out from his neck and temporarily blinding him.

Merlin couldn’t help but laugh in wonderment at the sight. He stood very still, just enjoying as the butterflies fluttered around him—as content as little magical insects could be. Yes, Merlin thought happily, this will do. It would work all too well, and especially if he directed them properly. He tested that out, using his instinctual magic to guide the pack of butterflies from one end of his cell to the other. The glittering insects responded to his unspoken command, following his guidance, and Merlin wondered if he could send them up into the balcony. It would fluster Uther and perhaps demonstrate to Arthur just how much he didn’t need to use battle magic to escape…

How magic could be used for beauty, too.

With that decided, Merlin banished the butterflies for now, bringing his scarf back into existence with a reverse spell, edhwierft. He wrapped that around his neck again, moving on to his next and arguably most difficult spell.

The gallows were made of wood. Oak, probably, as that was the most common tree in the Darkling Forest. But could he do it? Was Merlin really about to try one of the hardest spells he’d ever attempted in full view of the king, of Arthur, and of the knights?

Could he really turn the gallows back into the tree it once was?

Maybe. Hopefully. It would certainly be a magical demonstration to remember if he pulled it off, but there was no spell for this. Not one Merlin knew of, anyway. He had gotten the idea off a bit of instinctual magic he’d performed once on accident—back in Ealdor before he’d had any official training from Gaius.

Merlin remembered that day quite vividly. Old Man Simmons had crafted a chair out of a tree he and Will used to climb on. A towering oak, but it had grown sickly over the years and needed to be cut down. This had saddened both Merlin and Will, and he remembered trying to save the tree with his magic. He'd pushed his magic into its trunk and managed to revive some of its dying limbs, but Old Man Simmons had gone and cut it down before he’d been able to revive it all.

In the end, Merlin hadn’t been that upset about it. It was a pretty chair. Simmons was an excellent carpenter, and he’d even let Merlin and Will carve their own designs into the legs of it. Merlin wondered if that chair was still around somewhere, propped up in the back of someone’s hut in Ealdor. He smiled at the thought, but what he remembered most was what had happened when he’d touched the chair. It was as if he could feel the soul of the tree within the wood, simmering just beneath the surface of the varnish, and when he’d touched it—when he’d let his magic run wild for a moment—that part of the chair had jumped back into its old form. Limbs had sprouted from the legs of the chair, sprouting tiny green leaves, and Will had seen.

“Gods, Merlin,” Will had said, and Merlin could remember exactly how he’d said it. It was such a Will way of saying things—like he was chiding Merlin, but not really. “Can you stop being a magical forest sprite for two seconds? Simmons might see!”

“Sorry,” Merlin had said, and he’d pulled his magic back. The next time he’d touched the chair, the wood didn’t react, but part of him knew he could do the spell again if he tried.

Now was the time to try again. Sucking in a preparatory breath, Merlin focused on the bench in his cell. It was an old thing, barely upright. Merlin wasn’t sure how many condemned sorcerers had slept on it before him, but now that bench would serve a new purpose. He approached it, getting down on one knee and resting his palms on the top of the wood. Gently, he stroked the grain with the pads of his fingers, just letting a few tendrils of his magic snake out and into the depths of the bench. He tested the waters, probing to see if he felt what he’d felt back then. The soul of the tree.

It took a moment, but he did feel it. A little tug of life from deep within the bench and Merlin latched onto that, gripping it like he would someone’s hand. He pulled mentally, like dragging a drowning person out of deep water, and the wood responded. The bench shook a little beneath his hands, and then with a noise like a strong wind, branches burst out from edges of the wood, sprawling up toward the top of the cell. Merlin drew back from the bench with a grin of success, stopping the spell by letting go.

But then the tree continued to grow despite his lack of touch.

“Okay, er, that’s enough,” Merlin murmured, a little frantic as the bench nearly disappeared, the wood of it replaced entirely by a quickly-enlarging oak tree. The cell was starting to shake, the oak’s branches pushing against the ceiling and curling from the lack of space, trying to push their way to the sun.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop,” Merlin whispered, worried he was going to accidentally break out of his cell again. He darted forward, slapping the tree with a burst of instinctual magic, and to his relief, the tree paused at his touch, ceasing its growth. The cell stopped shaking.

Merlin exhaled, slumping. Well. At least he knew that worked, and he’d managed it all without alerting the guard.

Or not. Something shifted behind Merlin. A noise echoing in the darkness, footsteps, and Merlin jolted, whirling around with his hands raised—

Only to find Sir Madoc on the other side of the bars, staring at him, wide-eyed.

Merlin immediately lowered his hands. He’d been worried about this. “Ah,” he said dumbly, not having much defense. “Er, hi, there, Madoc. I… S-sorry about this, I just… er.”

Merlin didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to seem threatening, but there wasn’t much he could do to hide an enchanted tree. He was pretty sure they didn’t cover this in knight training. “Just practicing!” he settled on lamely. “Not trying to break out or anything. I suppose I could, well—”

With a quick spell, Merlin summoned his shackles into the air, plopping them back on his wrists. He locked them magically. “There!” he said with an awkward laugh. “Very sorry about the tree. Not sure how to get rid of it.”

He elbowed the tree trunk at this, his chains clanging, but then he felt stupid for treating a plant like a person. He wasn’t very good at this whole being-open-about-his-magic thing.

Madoc just continued to stare. He hadn’t moved, and he didn’t appear aggressive at all. His arm wasn’t near his sword, but he was studying Merlin with a wary curiosity and that left Merlin shifting under the knight’s scrutiny, feeling like a bug under a glass.

“The king has ordered me to bring you to the courtyard,” the knight informed him after a moment’s silence. He sounded deeply uncomfortable, and it occurred to Merlin then that the two of them weren’t far off in age. Madoc was perhaps a bit younger. “For your immediate execution.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. “Right.”

“The question is…” Madoc continued, and he cocked his head at Merlin. His long, shaggy blond hair hung like curtains, framing his face and making him look a bit like a curious dog. “Are you going to allow me to do that?”

Merlin started. He hadn’t expected that question, but perhaps he should have. The knights knowing of his magic was new to him, and he wasn’t used to being treated like he had a choice in the matter. “Oh,” he said again, and he really needed to start coming up with more intelligent answers. “Yes. I mean, yes, I’ll let you. You don’t need to fear anything from me, Madoc. I promise you that.”

“Why?”

It was a genuine question, not nefarious. Madoc seemed to actually want to know, and Merlin wasn’t sure how to handle this odd standoff. He and Madoc hadn’t exchanged anything more than a few passing words before all this. They weren’t friends, and yet the knight looked like he deeply wanted to understand why Merlin was choosing to do this.

Merlin wished he had a good response for him. It was all a bit much to explain, and it would probably sound crazy to anyone but him. It did sound crazy to him, but his plans were usually crazy and stupid, so this wasn’t anything new.

There was no good way for him to illustrate his intentions. No simple way to prove he didn’t mean any harm, and so instead, Merlin unlocked his cell with magic. The door swung open on its own accord and Madoc recoiled from it. His gloved hands curled around the hilt of his sword, but Merlin held up his arms in surrender.

“I’m not attacking!” he reassured the knight, his voice gentle, although he knew that “hands up” from a sorcerer was less than innocent. “I promise I have no intention of hurting you. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I do fight for Camelot—same as you. I merely wish to serve it with all the means I have at my disposal.”

He stepped a bit closer to Madoc, lowering his chained wrists and offering himself up as a prisoner. “Magic just happens to be what I have to give,” he explained further, speaking quietly and resolutely, despite knowing Madoc could never understand. “It can be a resource, when used wisely.”

“Wisely?” Madoc repeated flatly, and his hand was still on the pommel of his sword. The knight’s body was tense, watching Merlin’s every move, but he hadn’t drawn his weapon yet. That was something. “You killed a knight.”

Merlin grimaced at that, his mind flashing back to Roldan unwillingly. He supposed that would be a sore point. “Yes,” he admitted hollowly, not about to shy away from what had happened. “It was an accident. Friendly fire, I promise you, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t answer for it.”

Madoc’s eyes narrowed, but he also looked like he was trying to puzzle Merlin out. Trying to understand the sorcerer before him before Merlin was strangled out in the square. “Is that why you’re still here?” he asked after consideration, curiosity winning out over any sort of fear he had of Merlin’s magic. “I overheard your conversation with the prince. I listened to what you told Gaius. You decided to stay. You decided not to fight back. And what for? Penance?”

Penance? Merlin bit at his lip at the word, shifting a bit and rattling his chains. “Yes,” he answered, and he tried to figure out how best to explain. “Well. Sort of. I made a mistake in battle. Someone paid the price for that mistake. I suppose I want to show the people of Camelot that I recognise that. That I plan to do better in the future, and to show them how not all sorcerers have turned against the kingdom.”

“So you don’t plan on dying?”

It was a more of an accusation than a question, and Merlin hesitated. “No, I don’t plan on dying,” he admitted, although he wasn’t sure if he should admit to that. “I have work I still want to do. Things to achieve to help Camelot, but I don’t plan on hurting any of the knights when I get out. Really, I don’t, but it’s fine if you don’t believe me, because—”

He paused, swaying. “Well, I don’t expect you to,” he finished with a heavy sigh.

“But I do believe you,” Madoc said, and he said that so suddenly, so softly, that Merlin didn’t hear him at first. Merlin’s head snapped back up, eyes wide, and Madoc met his gaze. “You don’t remember me well, do you?”

“Remember… ?” Merlin asked, his mind racing to grasp what Madoc was talking about. Madoc smiled, and suddenly, his gloved hand was no longer on his sword. The knight stepped back, his tension uncoiling, and Merlin began to wonder if he’d read the knight all wrong.

“You don’t remember my first day in Camelot,” Madoc elaborated, and Merlin was struck by the knight’s sudden change in demeanour. “I met you on my first day here. I was injured while training. Never been good with a mace. Messed up my leg a little, but Gaius was out, so you stepped in for him.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed, trying to wrack his brain to remember this, but none of it was ringing a bell. Worry suddenly gnawed at his stomach. “Was—was I rubbish?” he asked, trying to picture himself standing in for Gaius. “I’m not a great physician.”

“I thought you were wonderful,” Madoc said, his voice sincere, and Merlin stuttered, not sure how to take the compliment. “You fixed me right up. Perhaps you used magic, I don’t know. But what I do know is I hadn’t even been in Camelot a full day and you were the first person to say a kind word to me. I told you I was no good at fighting and you said not to worry, you were worse and you still had your head. So I’d be alright.”

Madoc beamed at Merlin, his smile ear-to-ear now, and Merlin blinked rapidly, finding tears pricking his eyes. He didn’t recall any of that. “Did I say all that?”

“You did,” Madoc said, and he crossed his arms, tilting his head at Merlin like a delighted puppy. He was staring at Merlin with slight admiration now, and Merlin really didn’t know how to handle that. “You really don’t remember, do you? Of course, I had no idea I was talking to a sorcerer that day. But you seemed alright then, and you seem alright now, Merlin. I suppose that counts for something. To me it does, anyway. Not that my voice matters, and you can understand why I cannot afford to show it publicly. But I do believe you.”

Merlin opened his mouth to say something in reply. To express his wonder—his gratitude at this show of support, even if only secretly. But he found he had no words to say. He hadn’t known Madoc had given him more than a passing thought, let alone that he had meant something to him, but it meant a lot to hear it—and especially from a knight. Especially with what he was about to face.

Madoc’s smile faded a little at Merlin’s silence, but it was still there, and then he went a step further, offering Merlin his arm. It was a gesture usually meant for fellow knights, and Merlin stared at his arm with wide eyes. “I think we need to go,” Madoc reminded him, and he sounded genuinely upset about it. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s… alright,” Merlin said, and he tentatively took Madoc’s arm as best he could with his shackles. He clutched the knight’s forearm at the elbow, leaving Madoc to do the same to him. Two warriors, sharing a knight’s bond. What a strange pair of servants to Camelot they made.

It was a nice moment. A calm Merlin hadn’t expected before the storm, and then Madoc was moving, escorting Merlin up the stairs and towards the courtyard in a respectful silence. The knight gripped Merlin like the prisoner he was, but he did so with a lighter touch than any of the other guards before him. It was a kind gesture, especially as Ivor and Howel awaited Merlin at the edge of the castle courtyard, poised to take over for the final stretch.

“This is where I must leave you,” Madoc warned as they approached the two knights, speaking softly in Merlin’s ear. “But I wish you luck in your future, Merlin, assuming you do make that escape of yours. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Yes, perhaps we will,” Merlin said, and he found himself a little choked up. “And thank you, Madoc. Truly. For your kindness.”

He didn’t need to look at Madoc to see his smile. “Just repaying the favour,” Madoc whispered, and then he was gone and Merlin was back in the clutches of Ivor and Howel, marching towards his execution.

The final stretch wasn’t that different from when they’d marched him to the throne room just hours before. It was just as terrible of an experience as Merlin had imagined it to be, but this time as he walked, he held onto a newfound hope growing within his chest.

A hope for peace between knights and sorcerers after all.

~O~

The first thing Merlin saw as he entered the courtyard was the noose.

It swung in the wind. Centred in the square, long and ominous and waiting for him. The crowd of commoners had come in droves, filling nearly every open space in the small square, but their jeers and yells hardly reached Merlin’s ears. The noise seemed to come at him like they were all underwater, gurgling and fuzzy and leaving his head spinning. All Merlin’s bleary eyes could see was the rope straight ahead of him, swaying in the breeze, and the panic that struck him was so much stronger than he’d anticipated.

Merlin had faced death before. He’d looked it straight in the eye many times, but this was different, and it took Merlin a moment to realise why. Before when he’d faced death, he’d always felt like he was making a difference. He’d always felt that his murder would mean something, whether anyone knew of it or not. He could die happy knowing he made a difference, however small, and that had served Camelot and Arthur well.

But this death… Death by noose. Death by executioner. Death as a traitor—

This wasn’t a secret death. This wasn’t an honourable death. This wasn’t a murder that meant anything. Merlin would end up just another sorcerer body on a growing pile, and his mind and magic rejected that so strongly that it became hard to walk. The guards didn’t give him the option of halting, however, pushing him onward, and Merlin tripped on the cobblestones, continuing his way out into the thick mist.

The jeers from the crowd grew louder as he stumbled. Merlin found himself processing their words now, truly hearing the insults hurled at him for the first time. Allowing himself to know and understand what people thought of him now that his secret was out.

They weren’t anything he hadn’t expected to hear. Murderer. Demon. Deceiver. Charlatan. Devil spawn. Merlin had first heard those words upon his arrival in Camelot, when he’d first entered this very courtyard and witnessed an execution. He still remembered the name of the man who had been executed: Tom Collins. Merlin recalled feeling unsurprised as he’d watched on, but also sick to his stomach. Witnessing as a sorcerer lose his head within minutes of his arrival.

Merlin had anticipated this, the executions. He’d heard the horror stories. It was something he’d been willing to risk if it meant seeking Gaius’ tutelage, but Merlin also remembered promising himself he’d never let that be him. He’d sworn that to himself that day, and to Gaius and to his mother too, but here he was—walking in Tom’s footsteps and being pushed to the gallows through the jeering masses. Was there another young sorcerer standing in the crowd today, having just arrived in Camelot? Watching Merlin now, and thinking the same thing he had thought to himself four years ago?

Merlin dearly hoped not. I’ll be fine, he’d told his mother. He’d promised her he’d be careful, downplaying her worries about Camelot and her doubts about Gaius. He had even promised it to Will, and he’d promised it to himself most of all as he’d watched Tom’s severed head tumble into a little basket. I won’t let that be me. I’m going to use my magic for good. I’m going to make a difference.

Four years ago he’d promised himself that. Use his magic for good. Make a difference. Don’t die.

Time to put that promise to the test.

Recite your spells, recite your spells, Merlin ordered himself mentally in a frantic cycle, attempting to focus and banish the fear clouding his brain. He needed to keep his mind clear if he had any hope of pulling this off. Cbeft flotere, onirne, byre, bæst gewyrc an lif. Cbeft flotere, onirne, byre, bæst gewyrc an lif. Cbeftflotereonirnebyrebæstgewyrcanlif—

Merlin’s feet reached the edge of the gallow’s steps, the welts of his boots hitting the side of the lowest step. He froze, paralyzed by fear, and the guards hoisted him, forcing him up the few short blocks to the platform. Gogan, dressed in his executioner’s black robes, seized Merlin by the arms, dragging him the rest of the way to the platform’s centre. In that moment, Merlin allowed himself to look away from it all, away from Gogan, away from the noose, away from the crowd—

And up into the balcony, where he knew Arthur would be.

It was almost trance-like, how their eyes locked almost immediately. Through the mist, through the crowd, and through the chaos, the crown prince stood at the balcony with his arms on the parapet, peering down at Merlin with a deep fear that was somehow a comfort to Merlin.

And then Arthur did something Merlin hadn’t expected he’d do.

He brushed his nose.

Surprise coursed through Merlin’s body like a stroke of lightning. Two brushes of Arthur’s nose with his pointer finger, his eyes locked unblinkingly with Merlin as he did it, and suddenly Merlin remembered. He remembered coming up with that signal, how many years ago now. He’d meant it as a joke, really. A little signal between the two of them that meant “hey, idiot, get out of here and don’t get killed, will you?” They’d never actually used it. Arthur stuck to his actual signals, known to him and his knights, and Merlin had slowly grown to learn those, too.

But this signal. This signal was meant for him and him alone, and as Merlin stared up in awe, Arthur did it once more. Get out of here, the prince’s eyes seemed to scream at him. Get out! Run!

It wasn’t acceptance. It wasn’t absolution. It wasn’t even a promise that everything would be alright after this, but Merlin was so shocked and so happy to see it that he almost laughed in wonderment. That wouldn’t have been a very appropriate reaction to having a noose brought over his head or the knot tightly pulled to his neck. The feeling of a coarse coil tightening across his Adam’s apple was enough to send every tendril of magic within Merlin into activity, swirling into a tempest, and this time, he didn’t plan on holding it back. He didn’t plan on becoming another helpless Tom Collins on a long list of Tom Collins’, nor a failure for the Druids to mumble about in their secret caves. That was not Merlin’s future. That was not his destiny.

He would not fail.

Gogan’s hand was on the lever now. The crowd had gone quiet, hushed. They anticipated the king’s order—anticipated the hollow snap of Merlin’s neck and the gurgling of a hanged man, but Merlin wasn’t about to let them have it. With a resolute confidence, he kept his gaze on Arthur, letting his magic swell up within him in preparation. Focus, he told himself, not allowing his fear get the best of him, and then he saw Uther’s hand drop. He heard the lever grind forwards, felt the platform give out beneath his feet—

Cbeft flotere! Merlin screamed in his head, his left hand pressed so hard against his stomach it hurt and his right-hand facing outward, his power bursting out of him like a flame blown to life—

And the noose did not grow tight. His body did not drop. His magic enveloped him in a soft bubble of wind, keeping him afloat, and the gasps of shock and horror filtering through the gathered crowd was music to Merlin’s ears. He smiled, just a little, and he enjoyed watching terror strike the face of Uther Pendragon. Beside the king, Merlin saw Arthur duck away from the balcony edge, sick to his stomach. But had he seen? Had he looked away?

Focus, Merlin, Merlin reminded himself, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. He was still alive. Still breathing, and he couldn’t take any time to revel in that success. First spell done, several spells to go.

“You dare!” Uther was screeching at him from above, leaning over the rail with his face red and boiling with rage. Merlin had anticipated this, and he couldn’t help enjoying it. “You dare attempt to challenge my authority, sorcerer? This hanging was chosen as a mercy for you. I will have your head for this!”

The king waved his arm, signaling his knights into action, and at the commotion, Arthur returned. The prince practically flew back to the parapet, his hair askew in the wind and eyes wide, and that left Merlin searching Arthur’s face for the relief and acceptance he hoped to find there.

He found it. Relief was written into Arthur’s every feature, replacing his anguish at Merlin’s plight, and Merlin no longer hid his smile as he moved his attention to Uther—emboldened as he stared down the king from below.

“I do dare,” he said loudly, assuredly, and Merlin snapped his fingers, mutely performing his second spell: onirne. With a small click, his shackles fell off him with fluid grace, and Merlin rubbed at his sore wrists, relishing his freedom. Predictably, the crossbows fired at him within seconds. Bolts whizzed for Merlin’s head, and he raised a newly-freed hand—stopping the bolts just inches from his face and directing them away from him with a practiced ease. It didn’t take much to bring them all to rest in a neat pile on the courtyard cobblestones.

It felt amazing. Merlin found himself more energised and alive than he had ever been in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used his magic so openly, and let alone this level of magic. Even the floating spell was becoming easier for him the longer he held onto it, and Merlin could feel his magic growing stronger the more he stopped holding back.

“I do dare to challenge your authority,” Merlin continued smoothly, still squaring off with Uther, and he hoped if there was a secret sorcerer standing somewhere in the crowd, that they heard this. That they witnessed what Merlin did next as he brought his hand up to his neck, drawing his finger across the rope of the noose and performing his next spell: bæst gewyrc an lif.

The butterflies that flew from his neck obscured his vision for a moment. A rush of wings tickled Merlin’s nose affectionately, and then they were gone, soaring into the balcony and obscuring the vision of the Camelot knights instead. Merlin heard panicked shouts from above and his smile widened while he snapped his fingers, performing byre to bring the gallow’s platform back up to solid ground for him to stand on. He finally let go of his floating spell, dropping back to his feet.

“Surrender yourself, sorcerer!” Uther was screaming at him, but it was almost comical now, Uther’s rage. His fear-mongering held no sway anymore, and the terror Merlin had seen growing within the king back at his trial had fully developed now. He was trying to mask it, but Uther was very clearly scared of Merlin.

Merlin, in a weird way, was quite proud of that.

The crowd of common people, however, seemed to hold a similar sentiment. Merlin heard murmurs of terror spreading through the courtyard—fear at his powerful display of magic. He’d expected everyone to run, but to Merlin’s shock, most people seemed to have stalled, still standing by to watch. Curious as to what would happen next.

Their interest outweighed their fear.

“My apologies, your majesty,” Merlin called up to Uther, and he couldn’t resist the selfish hint of smugness as he spoke. “I am afraid I will not be taking orders from you any longer. You’ve lost that privilege, and I am done watching the execution of my kind take place in this courtyard.”

It felt good to say those words. No, it felt better than good. It felt right, and Merlin’s next spell came to him easier than he’d expected. Reaching for the wood of the gallows with the palm of his hand, Merlin felt the spark of life within the beams almost immediately. It was all too easy to grasp onto it, pulling on that promise of life just as he had done with the bench in his cell. The gallows began to shake beneath his feet and Merlin rotated his wrists, letting his sorcery run wild for the first time since stepping foot in Camelot nearly four years ago.

The chaos he created was immediate. An oak tree burst to life all around him with a deafening groan, the wood twisting into creeping branches, and Merlin sent those branches hurling up into the expanses of the balcony. He could feel the limbs of the tree as if they were his own arms, directing each one with ease and snatching the knights from their posts. Merlin’s whole body pulsed with magic as he worked, energy like lightning prickling his skin, and his next motion wasn’t planned. He moved on instinct alone, letting a branch sweep him up in its mossy hold and bringing him up, up, up to the balcony in the soft embrace of newly-budding leaves.

Two stunned Pendragons stared at him as he reached their level. Father and son, but there was a difference between them now. Arthur was looking at Merlin with awe, even happiness, and Uther was staring at him with both fear and fury. The king drew his sword, angling to attack, but Merlin reacted before he could strike. He knocked Uther’s sword out of his hands with a branch, sending the king’s weapon flying and leaving flowers to burst to life on the branch’s end, raining petals down onto Arthur’s blond head.

Merlin hadn’t meant to do that. His magic seemed to be taking a life of its own, enjoying the chance to create more life. Merlin didn’t bother reigning it in, allowing more flowers to grow on the tree. He was in control, and yet his unconscious was expressing itself. Creating beauty amongst the chaos.

Merlin hadn’t realised how much he’d needed that.

“Sorry,” he said to Uther, speaking for the first time since coming up to the balcony, and he bore down on the king now from the slight height his tree gave him. He wasn’t really all that sorry. “I’m a bit tired of all this violence. And aren’t you tired of it by now, Uther? The endless cycle of killing? Or has it just become habitual for you at this point?”

“You deserve death, you demon spawn,” Uther spat at him, but there was no bite to his bark. Merlin simply sighed, exhaustion beginning to weigh on him.

“Right,” he said, not even sure why he’d bothered to ask. He rubbed at his face, his jaw still sore and bruised from Uther’s slap back in the throne room. “I won’t bother arguing with you, Uther. I said my piece back at court, and as I told you then, I apologise for what has happened with Sir Roldan. I hope I can make it right one day. Perhaps under new management.”

He glanced to Arthur at this, daring to make his meaning clear, and Arthur stared back at him, looking like he wanted to say something but he dared not. Merlin offered him a smile and he hoped that was assuring. They would speak again in due time, and the glow of relief in Arthur’s eyes was enough for Merlin for now. More than enough, and it was time to go.

This last step had always been a part of his plan. It was a magic stronger and older than any of the spells he’d performed so far, but Merlin required no practice to perform it. He wondered if Arthur knew what was coming as the dragon language left his throat, calling Kilgharrah just as he did back in the clearing. It felt amazing to scream to the sky, and as the dragon’s roar left his lips, Merlin could see recognition dawning in Uther’s face. The king knew the words of a Dragonlord and it wasn’t long before Kilgharrah’s roar sounded in answer to Merlin’s call, the castle itself shaking from the creature’s imminent arrival.

“No,” Uther whispered, horrified as Great Dragon’s giant wingspan became visible in Camelot’s sky. The tyrant’s eyes went wide and bright, glistening with fear as they stared up at an old enemy, and Merlin could not help but smirk at his terror.

“Yes,” he said with fervor, and Merlin willed the branch of his tree just a bit higher, preparing himself for his grand exit. “You really shouldn’t lock us magical creatures up, Uther. We seem to have developed a bad habit of breaking out.”

He was being cheeky now and he knew it, but Merlin didn’t regret his words as Kilgharrah’s massive form reached the mouth of the courtyard, hovering just above them. The townspeople scattered, screaming and fleeing the arrival of a dragon, but Merlin mentally spoke to Kilgharrah, warning him not to attack anyone. He was sure the thought crossed the dragon’s mind as they both stared down Uther—their shared enemy—but now was not the time for revenge. Killing the king wouldn’t do anything but burn the bridge that Merlin had built between himself and Arthur, and he would not jeopardize that.

But that didn’t mean Merlin couldn’t strike fear into the heart of Uther Pendragon. With a twist of his arm, Merlin had his tree bring him up to Kilgharrah’s level, neatly placing himself on the dragon’s back where he belonged. He met Uther’s gaze, declaring himself as a Dragonlord without needing to speak it aloud, and he hoped Uther knew what that meant. He hoped Uther realised he was staring at the son of Balinor in this moment, riding the very dragon Uther had tricked his father into capturing. He hoped that King Uther Pendragon, for all his tyrant ways, was beginning to realise how Merlin was preparing his son to unravel the threads of hatred sewn into Camelot’s tapestry. That when Uther was gone, all he had built may collapse to be turned into something new.

In many ways, Merlin hoped that terrified him.

“I don’t really wish to leave, you know,” Merlin said to them, finding his words as he thought through what sort of message he should leave everyone with. He was speaking to a sitting king and a future king. He would not waste this last opportunity. “I consider Camelot my home, and I know many sorcerers wish they could call it home as well. Sorcerers that could make excellent citizens or knights if you’d let them. Your worst enemies are the ones you create, Uther. So, please. Stop that cycle. Both of you. I’m only your enemy if you force me to be one, but until then…”

Merlin trailed off, letting his words deepen into Draconic as he told Kilgharrah to rise a little higher. He clutched one of the horns on the dragon’s ridged spine while they ascended, but he kept his gaze on Arthur.

“...I’ll be around,” Merlin finished, securing a promise to Arthur, and he was pleased to see the prince smiling back at him. A small smile, a hidden smile, but it was something. “Have a pleasant evening, your majesties.”

And with that said, they were off. Merlin commanded Kilgharrah to leave and it was a melancholic mental order, but very satisfying and very right all the same as they rose into the sky in a flurry of wings and wind. A dragon and a dragonlord taking to the open air, leaving behind a furious and murderous king. Crossbow bolts soared their way, one final attempt at hindering them, but the bolts merely bounced off Kilgharrah’s impenetrable scales. One arrow careened towards Merlin’s face, but he deflected it with a flick of his wrist and it felt wonderful. His magic was still swirling around him in delicious freedom, his oak tree stretching up towards the sky. Its branches seemed to wave goodbye to the pair of them. Merlin still didn’t quite know how to uncreate it, so he left it there, still growing somewhat in the courtyard. A beautiful, mossy oak tree planted in the centre of Camelot.

Merlin could think of worse ways to make an exit.

The open air was welcome to his lungs as they finally left Camelot behind. It was as saddening as it was thrilling, and Merlin found himself breathing hard—heaving a little as the events that had just come to pass caught up with him. But he’d done it. He’d done it.

Madness! Kilgharrah’s voice spoke in his head, and it took a moment for Merlin to realise the trembling he felt beneath him was the dragon laughing. You are truly mad, Merlin. I must say, I had not foreseen this.

Don’t pretend you didn’t love it, Merlin replied to him, smiling, and he slapped Kilgharrah’s back fondly, leaning against the dragon as they rose higher into the clouds. The mist overtook them and rain began to envelope Camelot’s skies. They’d left just in time to miss the oncoming storm.

Kilgharrah just continued to laugh. Oh, indeed, I will treasure that look of horror on Uther’s face for some time, do not doubt that. But have you thought this through, young warlock? We are both free of our shackles now, but you are without a home. Where will you have us go?

Merlin smiled into Kilgharrah’s scales, just letting his cheek rest against the dragon’s hide and the wind brush his hair. He closed his eyes as he let himself be carried away from Camelot, considering Kilgharrah’s question. He’d return. He knew that. Camelot was home, and his destiny called for him to make his way back one day.

But for today, he was grateful to taste the magic in the air. To taste freedom.

I have a thought, Merlin said to Kilgharrah in answer, mentally projecting the place in his mind to the dragon.

And then they were on their way.

~O~

Merlin’s boots sank into the clay of the riverbed as he dismounted Kilgharrah. The forest around them was quiet and calm, minus the distant chirp of birds as they settled down for the evening. Sunset had come and gone, leaving them in blue-black darkness, but Merlin conjured a small globe of light, letting it lift from his hands and float above the water. The cave sat before him just as he’d left it.

Just as Balinor had left it.

“This is where my father lived,” Merlin explained to Kilgharrah, and he could hear grief in his own voice as he spoke aloud for the first time since leaving Camelot behind. “For a time, anyway. This is where I met him. Briefly.”

“I know,” Kilgharrah rumbled in response, and Merlin looked up at him, surprised. “I can feel his magic around us. Dragonlords have a particular energy to their sorcery. It is very distinct.”

“Really?” Merlin said, and he reached out with his own magic, searching for the remnants of his father. It took a moment, but just as Kilgharrah said, he could feel it now. A distinct energy that felt familiar, even comforting. Like a home he never knew, or one he knew long ago. He smiled, finding tears welling in his eyes as he latched onto his father’s magic like a warm hug.

“How long will that remain here?” Merlin asked. “His magic.”

“Forever,” Kilgharrah said, and Merlin started. “Magic does not die, Merlin. It cannot. It will fade or travel, but it does not perish. His presence will always be here, just as your magic will in all the places you have called home.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. There wasn’t much to say, other than to stand there and bask for a moment. To enjoy the gentle sounds of the creek and the rush of the wind through the trees, paired with the soft touch of his father’s magic, entangled with Merlin’s own.

Kilgharrah allowed him his minute of reflection, but after a while, he spoke again. “You will call this place home for a time, I imagine,” he said, gesturing to the cave with his large head. The dragon seemed cramped by his surroundings, and Merlin could tell he was already itching to be free in the sky once again. “But I do not doubt that Camelot is still your home in your mind.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” Merlin said, and he sighed, perching himself on one of the stones in the creek and dangling in boots in the water. He washed off the clay from the worn soles. “I meant what I said to Uther back there. I have no wish to leave Camelot behind. My place is at Arthur’s side, but I cannot play that role until he’s ready. Not until he’s crowned king and he can welcome me back. If he even wants me back. Until that day, I must wait.”

“And what will you do with all that time?” Kilgharrah asked, dipping his head towards Merlin, his golden eyes shining. “While you wait.”

Merlin considered this for a moment, summoning up a bit of the clay from the riverbed and twisting it into the air to form shapes. “I have a few ideas,” he replied thoughtfully, studying the clay as he molded it. “I can’t abandon Camelot completely, you know. Morgana is still a threat. I don’t know what she’s planning, but surely nothing good, and who knows what she’ll do now that she knows of my magic? I’ll need to keep my ear to it all, and Arthur will need to be able to call me if he needs me. Much as I call on you.”

“Ah,” Kilgharrah murmured, and he seemed to follow where Merlin’s thoughts were headed as he watched Merlin craft a whistle out of the clay. “I suppose it is time you learnt what it is like to be at the beck and call of another, as I do.”

“What’re you on about, I’ve always been at your beck and call with your voice in my head,” Merlin grumbled, but he meant it affectionately as he created two more whistles. His spells felt so free all of a sudden—loose and breezy in a way that the whistles practically crafted themselves. “Arthur will just have to adjust to calling me using sorcery instead of screeching at me. Gwen and Gaius as well.”

“I trust you know how to enchant those whistles to summon you and I?” Kilgharrah inquired, and Merlin didn’t quite like his doubting tone. “Or has Gaius not been tutoring you in your magic as you’d hoped?”

“You’re always so cynical,” Merlin chided, but he finished molding the whistles. “I do know how to enchant them properly, yes. I’ll need a personal tie to the three of them to make the enchantment hold, won’t I?”

“Correct,” Kilgharrah confirmed. “And how do you plan on gaining such items, when you’ve left Camelot behind? It would not be prudent to waltz back into the citadel so soon after your miraculous escape.”

“No,” Merlin agreed, and he frowned, thinking before coming upon a possible solution. “I’ll need an agent,” he decided, and then he reached out his hand, whispering to the forest with his sorcery and looking for an animal to answer his call.

He got one. It took a moment, but a little bird alighted onto a branch near the creek, staring down at them curiously. It chirped, and Merlin smiled.

“Hello,” he said to the bird, and Kilgharrah chuckled.

“A merlin falcon,” the dragon noted, amused. “How fitting that it should answer your call.”

“Yes, fitting,” Merlin said, and he stared at the bird, thinking. “Can I put my consciousness into a bird, do you think? Direct it?”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah said with a deep rumble, “I think you can do anything you put your mind to. For so long you have held yourself back, but you need not hide any longer. I can feel your magic just as I feel Balinor’s. You are on the cusp of greatness, young warlock. Do not doubt yourself.”

Merlin blinked up at the dragon, not having expected the compliment. The dragon was his mentor as much as Gaius was in many ways, but it was so rare to hear the creature believe in him. “I won’t doubt myself,” he promised the dragon. “And thank you, Kilgharrah. You can leave me, if you’d like. I will not trap you here. I know you are meant to roam.”

The dragon shifted, bowing his head in thanks, and Merlin bowed back. “I will not stray far,” Kilgharrah promised, and Merlin was once again surprised by the dragon. “There is change in the air, young warlock. Trials yet to come. You need to train. You must push to grow beyond what you know, here and now. It is time you became the wizard the Seers have foretold for centuries.”

Merlin exhaled through his teeth, feeling a knot growing in his stomach at the thought. “No pressure.”

Kilgharrah chuckled, and he spread his wings, preparing to leave. “I believe in you, Merlin Emrys,” he declared, as if reading Merlin’s mind, and Merlin wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the dragon say his prophetic name. “In you, I do see hope for us all.”

And with that said, Kilgharrah was off, taking to the skies as he was meant to do. Merlin watched him go, harbouring some small comfort in the image of the Great Dragon silhouetted against the soft white glow of the moon. The dragon was a symbol of magic, but it was also the symbol of the Pendragons. It had long bothered Merlin to see Uther using a dragon as his crest, but he was feeling a bit better about it now that he viewed it as a shared symbol. It stood as a symbol of what came before and also of what was still to come—all that had led to this time, and all that was left to build. You need to train, Kilgharrah had told him. You must push to grow.

“Alright, then,” Merlin murmured, and he focused on the falcon. “Let’s push a little, shall we?”

And with that, Merlin pushed—shoving his magic out from him and joining his soul with the bird. He left his body behind, traveling with the falcon as it took flight, and he marveled at his own reckless magic. He had no idea what he was doing, not really, but he was acting on instinct and it felt right as he saw the world through the falcon’s eyes. The trees, the sky, and then Camelot, not far off in the distance. The bird’s nimbleness felt amazing, adjusting to every little push and pull of the wind, and before long, they landed as one on Merlin’s windowsill, looking in on his abandoned bedchambers.

The window itself stood cracked open. Merlin realised he’d forgotten to close it. Gaius would have scolded him for letting a draft in, but Merlin was grateful for his own forgetfulness as he and the bird flew inside as one, scooting from Merlin’s chambers to the main breadth of the physician’s quarters.

Gaius was not in. That was good, as Merlin wondered if Gaius would sense it was him within the bird as he flew through the empty chambers, locating Gaius’ medicine bag and directing the falcon to peck a thread out of the leather. That would work alright, and with the thread acquired, they continued on to Gwen’s house, soaring through Camelot’s smoggy night air.

They entered her home through the chimney, navigating down in the dark to Gwen’s tidy one-room. Gwen was also not in, and Merlin directed the bird to the top of Gwen’s dresser chest, locating a stray pink hair ribbon. That would do nicely, and with that secured in the bird’s beak, next Merlin was off to the citadel itself—resting for a moment on Arthur’s windowsill.

The prince was asleep, sprawled out upon his covers and still fully clothed. His face was buried in his pillows, snoring loudly, and Merlin would’ve laughed at that if he could. The idiot couldn’t even undress himself without Merlin’s help it seemed, but it was good to see he was alright. The dollophead hadn’t gotten himself murdered in the few hours Merlin had been gone. That was an achievement.

He pressed on. Last stop: Uther’s chambers. Merlin knew he was being particularly daring trying this. This was so much more than a thread and a ribbon, and he could have gone for something easier in Arthur’s chambers. Something small, like a hair from his comb or a bit of red thread from his cloak, but the royal seal would be better. Stronger. Merlin was sure he’d hear the call of Arthur’s enchanted whistle better if it held magic from the Pendragon seal within it. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he did, even sensing the power of the seal in his bird-form. There was power in the mark of the king.

Merlin stole that power. Just briefly, borrowing the seal and also some parchment and a still-dripping quill from Uther’s desk, and then he was off again, flying back to the cave and back to his body. He left Camelot in a flurry, his second escape of the day, and when the falcon returned to the riverbed, it was a terrible and weird feeling bringing his soul back into his body. Merlin heaved with breath, as if he’d been holding it under water for some time, and his skin felt cold to the touch.

Maybe he shouldn’t try that again.

“Thank you,” he said to the bird, and he took the objects from its beak and claws. “Don’t stray too far,” he added, keeping the falcon near him as he returned to work on the whistles. He molded the thread from Gaius’ medicine bag into one wet clay whistle and Gwen’s hair ribbon into the second. Then, lastly, he took the Pendragon seal and stamped the symbol of the dragon into the third and final whistle, watching as the image settled into the clay.

He dried them with magic. It didn’t take much, a simple wave of his hand and the clay hardened, ready now for the final step: the enchantment. Merlin began that immediately, settling his magic over the three tiny instruments. In many ways, performing this spell felt like writing in swirling letters on a piece of parchment—engraving the whistles with his whispered words but also his personal magical brand. Merlin was connecting their call to him and Kilgharrah, weaving his love and loyalty into the clay itself.

He felt when the spell was complete. He was getting better at this. Just as Kilgharrah had told him, Merlin was pushing himself, allowing his lessons from Gaius to build upon what he already knew by nature. He was growing ever closer with the language of the world and the magic woven within it, progressing into the warlock he needed to become if he were to succeed in all he hoped for.

He hoped he was capable of becoming what he needed to be. This new Merlin was scary to him. No longer hiding. No longer a shadow. Who was this man called Merlin, if not a servant or a secret?

He guessed it was time to find out.

With the whistles completed, Merlin set them gently on the rocks before scrawling a letter to Arthur on the bit of parchment he stole. It was a small note to ensure the idiot knew where the whistle came and what to do with it. Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur would listen to his instructions, but he hoped so, and next, he jotted out another letter—this one to Lancelot. Merlin wasn’t sure where the former knight was exactly, but he hoped the falcon could help find him. Perhaps then the two of them could meet and make plans beyond what Arthur was currently able to do. If Morgana was to attack, Arthur was going to need all the help he could get. They’d need a group of men they trusted to fall back on, and Merlin was pretty sure he knew just the ones to call.

Comforted by this plan, Merlin finished his little experiment and gave both the scrolls, the seal, and all three whistles to the falcon. He implanted his instructions in the bird’s mind carefully, and this time, he didn’t join his soul with the bird as it took flight. He didn’t need to, somehow knowing the falcon would deliver the items successfully and report back to him. In a weird way, Merlin felt like the prince of his own tiny kingdom, left to him by his father. A shallow brook, a quiet cave, and a beautiful forest, alight with life. It was more than Merlin could have ever asked for, and it was exactly how he’d want a sorcerer’s domain to be. Peaceful and undisturbed.

It was a calming realisation, if a little melancholic, and with drooping eyes, Merlin retreated to his father’s cave to get some sleep. He was pleased to find his father’s furs and other supplies were still sheltered within the darkness of the cavern, undisturbed. Exhaustion overtook his body without warning, and Merlin cuddled within his father’s sleep sack, relishing the smell of Balinor still on the fur. He’d forgotten that smell. He wouldn’t let himself forget it again, and swaddled in that sweet warmth, Merlin drifted off into some much-needed rest.

~O~

It was just after dark when Merlin heard the call of the enchanted whistle. A piercing, ethereal sound deep in his ears, shooting through the thick trees and scattering the birds before it settled in his eardrums. Ceaseless and ringing. Annoying.

Really, Merlin had expected nothing less from Arthur’s call.

He had enjoyed his one day off. A simple day. A quiet day. It was exactly how Merlin had always imagined taking some time off—lounging by his father’s little creek and fishing unsuccessfully for an hour. Playing with the birds as they came to spy on the new human occupying the cave. Merlin even suspected his father used to feed animals because the birds and squirrels were absolute beggars, not at all afraid of a human touch as they crowded the rocks near the cave. For one day, he felt like the forest sprite Will had always accused him of being, but he was all too excited when his falcon returned with a successful reply from Lancelot.

The former knight’s swirling handwriting covered the scroll. It spelled out Merlin’s name, and Merlin’s heart had skipped a beat at the sight. He’d been all too excited to read the note, and while it wasn’t long or detailed, Merlin was beyond delighted to hear that Lancelot was not only doing well, but that he was nearby. The swordsman was staying in a town Merlin recognised—Engard, which was within walking distance. Lancelot gave the name of the inn he was staying at and Merlin planned to meet him there, especially as the former knight assured him he knew of a tavern where they could speak more privately. It was a tavern with reports of bar fights that spoke of another possible friend, and Merlin looked forward to that. Even with one day on his own he was getting lonely, and when night fell, Merlin began to prepare for his trip into town tomorrow.

But then the call reached his ears. Loud and shrill, Merlin had been waiting for it, but he was also unsure if he’d hear it so soon. He hadn’t been sure if Arthur would call him right away, or if he’d wait some time. But apparently he’d actually listened to Merlin for once, and Merlin fought against the lightning strike of nerves that rose up within him. He himself wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk to Arthur. He was even less sure what he wanted to say. Everything had changed, but neither of them could just ignore that change.

And as always, there was still work to be done.

Merlin didn’t even need to summon Kilgharrah. The dragon appeared in the sky above Merlin’s creek within minutes, landing in the same deep footprints he’d pressed into the clay the night before. The dragon stared down at Merlin with a deep tiredness in his golden eyes that Merlin was beginning to understand.

“We are beckoned,” Kilgharrah announced, sounding vaguely annoyed, and Merlin tsked his dower attitude, climbing onto the dragon’s back while rubbing at his ears with one hand. The sheer call of the whistle still lingered there.

“It isn’t so bad, is it?” he asked the dragon as they took off. Anticipation flowed through him like static, paired with a nervousness like no other. Part of him dearly hoped it was Gaius and Gwen calling him alongside Arthur. He had so much to say to them. So much to explain. “I did have a whole day to myself without anyone asking anything of me. A calm before the storm. I consider that a win, don’t you?”

“Hmph,” Kilgharrah growled in response, but Merlin wondered if the dragon felt it, too. The magic in the air was different than yesterday. It was darker, colder, and it warned of change on the horizon as they soared back to Camelot, returning to the clearing that had spawned that change in the first place.

Three figures awaited them on the clearing’s pitch. Blond hair, brown hair, and white hair as the trio stood together in the moonlight, not at all strained or unfriendly. Merlin’s nerves leapt to his throat at the sight. He was nervous, but also joyful. These were three people that meant more to him than the whole world, and as they landed, Merlin dismounted from Kilgharrah in a flurry, tripping over himself as he did so. He recovered clumsily, yelling a hopeful hello to the three of them. Arthur, Gwen, Gaius. His friends, his family, and then he sprinted across the clearing, rushing into Gaius’ arms.

It wasn’t how he planned to make an entrance. Merlin hadn’t really had a plan, or any good words to say. He’d seen tears in Gaius’ eyes and then he’d acted, feeling they both needed a hug after how they’d left things. He wanted to feel Gaius’ touch not separated by bars, and part of him realised he needed this hug more than he’d thought.

“It’s okay, Gaius,” Merlin murmured in the physician’s ears, basking in the familiar scent of his mentor. It was very different than Balinor, but just as comforting. Herbs, mostly, and the distinct musk of Camelot, their home. “Really. I’m fine.”

“You’re an idiot,” Gaius murmured back affectionately, and Merlin grinned into Gaius’ tunic. He relished their embrace for a moment longer, feeling Gaius’ magic resting just beneath the physician’s skin—dormant, but alive. Merlin entangled his own magic with Gaius’ on instinct, just as he had recently done Balinor’s, and he wondered if the physician felt that as they broke away, trying to compose himself before he faced Arthur and Gwen properly. He tried his best to appear diplomatic, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

Gwen and Arthur stood next to each other, just a few feet off from them. They were both watching him carefully, and Merlin wasn’t sure he was ready to have their cautious gazes on him so soon.

He could tell Arthur was not quite ready either. The last time they had locked eyes, Merlin had had a noose around his neck, and before that, he’d been restrained by shackles and bars. So much had happened between them. So many lies, so many betrayals, and so many little stabs to the heart. Merlin wasn’t sure anything could be the same between them again.

But then Gwen was running from Arthur’s side, embracing him—grasping onto Merlin so tightly he could barely breathe, and he melted into her touch. “Oof, alright,” he gasped at her loving attack, clutching her back, and he felt tears grow in his eyes once again. “S’okay, Gwen, I’m okay.”

“No, you aren’t,” Gwen whispered into his scarf, and in that moment, Merlin truly processed the strain she must’ve been under. This had been hard for her too, and he felt a pang of guilt at that. They hadn’t spoken since everything that had happened, and as Gwen broke away, Merlin could see the worry she’d had for him. With a very Gwen-like smile, the serving girl drew a purple flower from her bun and tucked it behind Merlin’s ear, as if making sure he was still there. She looked so relieved, and the scent of violets surrounded them, overwhelming him.

“I don’t think any of us are alright,” Gwen continued, and she patted his cheek. Her brown eyes shone with emotion, just like Gaius. “I thought… I thought you and Gaius were perhaps messing with magic. Cooking up potions, or something like that! I suppose this goes a bit beyond that, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, a bit,” Merlin said, and he got the sense that Gwen wasn’t sure what to think of his magic. In a gesture of goodwill, Merlin removed the small flower from his hair, holding it out to her and transforming it into a full flower crown with a spell. He levitated that on Gwen’s head as a sort of apology, delighting in her awed smile. “Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he added sheepishly. “I did wonder if you’d suspected me.”

Gwen laughed, eyes glittering, and she took off the crown, studying the flowers Merlin had brought into existence. Merlin waited a little nervously for her review. “I didn’t expect something quite like this,” Gwen admitted, although to Merlin’s relief, she put the crown back on with satisfaction, tucking it into her curls. “But I’m warming up to it.”

Merlin returned her smile—relieved more than he could say that everything was alright between them. That she accepted him. “I’m glad,” he said, squeezing her hand tightly, and then he took the next step. He brought his gaze back to Arthur.

The prince hadn’t moved. He stood frozen where Gwen had left him, stiff as a statue. He wasn’t dressed in his armour—just a tunic and a blue cloak that Merlin recognised as his own. He’d gifted it to Arthur during the time he’d wanted to pass as a commoner for the tournament, and Merlin had forgotten he’d stuffed it in the back of Arthur’s wardrobe after. The prince couldn’t have looked less like a royal in this moment, and for some reason, that amused Merlin as much as it calmed him.

Arthur cleared his throat, and Merlin had never seen the prince so unsure of himself. Merlin wondered if he felt obligated to speak. “Still alive, are you?” he asked, and really, Merlin wasn’t sure what he’d expected Arthur to say. Not that, but somehow, that was the most Arthur to say, and because of that, Merlin’s face broke out into a smile. It was the most relieved and genuine smile he’d had in days.

“Still alive,” he confirmed, happy to say that, and he noticed his whistle was still clutched in Arthur’s hand. He pointed to it by way of conversation. “Glad to see you received my gift. And glad to hear it works.”

“Works!” scoffed Kilgharrah from behind them, rumbling the ground beneath them with his voice, and Arthur recoiled, startled. Merlin supposed the dragon was going to take some getting used to for the prince. “I say. That is an understatement. A detestable sound.”

“But effective,” Merlin pointed out, glancing back at the dragon and mentally warning Kilgharrah not to startle Arthur. He then looked back to Arthur, preparing to explain. He wasn’t used to talking about his magic openly and he wasn’t sure if he should, but he pushed on anyway. “I specifically enchanted the whistles so they would summon the both of us, no matter where we are. Could you even hear it?”

“No, I couldn’t,” Arthur answered after a brief hesitation, his voice a bit strained, and Merlin wondered if he should have refrained from asking him magical questions so soon. The prince lifted the whistle like it might bite him, studying it in the moonlight. “Although Gaius appeared to. Two sorcerers operating under my nose, and now I have you sneaking about my father’s chambers and stealing his seal out from under him. Reckless and harebrained even for you, Merlin.”

He shook the whistle at Merlin, reprimanding him a little, and Merlin smiled, happy to hear a hint of the normal Arthur returned to his voice. He was also happy to see the Pendragon seal hadn’t gone unnoticed. He’d been proud of that little addition, and he approached Arthur cautiously, trying not to crowd him. Arthur watched his approach warily, but he didn’t step back. That was good.

“I guess I’ve always been a bit harebrained, haven’t I?” Merlin said softly, and he stopped just short of Arthur, lifting a hand to reveal the enchantment on the whistle. The clay instrument glowed lightly in Arthur’s fingers, Merlin’s spell woven into the curves of the Pendragon dragon.

“I’ve tempted fate enough these past few days,” Merlin explained further, and then he dropped his hand. The whistle stopped glowing. “Might as well tempt it a bit further. The seal actually strengthens the enchantment. A personal tie to you. It amplifies the sound and makes it easier to hear its call from long distances. This way you can… you know. Call me when you need me.”

“I see,” Arthur said shortly, and he stared at the whistle, as if debating whether he should chuck it and its magic away from him. But he didn’t. “Well, the bird that delivered it shat on my bed, so thank you for that.”

Merlin choked back a laugh at that. He’d temporarily forgotten about the falcon he’d sent to Arthur’s chambers. Shitting on Arthur’s bed hadn’t been a specific part of his magical instructions, but Merlin did think it was rather funny. “Well, I might have told the bird to do whatever necessary to get your attention, including making a bit of a mess,” Merlin admitted with a laugh. “Got yourself a new servant to deal with it yet?”

“Got a new one this morning,” Arthur answered, his voice stoic, but his tone betrayed a hint of mirth. “He’s dreadful, really. Somehow even more incompetent than you.”

He smiled a little. A weak smile, but a smile nonetheless, and Arthur really was trying. Merlin could see the effort. He was trying very hard to speak like things were normal between them, and Merlin appreciated that, even if it was just delaying the inevitable. Arthur was avoiding a conversation they both knew they must have, as either the two of them would find a new way forward or they would not. Merlin hoped for the former. He felt it was within their reach…

But to achieve that, Arthur would have to make that move himself. Arthur was the future king, and he needed to make the decision to accept Merlin, not the other way around.

“Poor chap,” Merlin said simply in response to Arthur, smiling softly, and then he fell silent. He stopped pretending everything was normal. Stopped letting himself slip into his usual banter and stopped carrying the conversation, awaiting Arthur’s decision. Awaiting what he would say as to where they stood.

An awkward silence fell upon them almost immediately. Arthur looked at a loss now that Merlin wasn’t leading their conversation, and it was made all the worse by Gwen and Gaius standing idle, watching them and unsure of their place in this standoff. Arthur squirmed, and Merlin could see the battle raging in his blue eyes, struggling to figure out what to say. The prince’s lips parted after a second and Merlin stilled, prepared for whatever it was that he was about to say, but Arthur’s mouth just sort of flapped soundlessly. Whatever words he meant to speak did not come out.

Merlin couldn’t quite hide his sadness at this development, but he understood it. Nothing about this was easy. “It’s alright, Arthur,” he said after another pause with Arthur failing to speak. It was awkward and painful, but Merlin did understand. He supposed it had been a foolhardy wish to have Arthur just accept him and move on. “You don’t need to pretend everything is normal. It’s not, and it will probably always feel strange. I’m just… I’m glad. More than I can explain. I’m glad you’re giving me a chance. That you chose to give me a chance. I do appreciate it.”

Those words tumbled out of Merlin with ease. He was glad, and as he spoke he saw something shift in Arthur’s expression. Merlin wasn’t sure what it was, but whatever Arthur was thinking, he struggled to voice it. The prince still failed to speak, and after another pause of awkward silence, Gaius cleared his throat.

“Perhaps you should introduce Kilgharrah to the two of them, Merlin,” the physician suggested, providing them with an out, and Merlin jumped on the opportunity.

“Right, yes!” he said, clapping his hands and turning back to the dragon. Maybe Arthur just needed a bit more time. “Kilgharrah, I believe you know Gaius already, but I don’t think you’ve met Arthur or Gwen properly. Gwen, Arthur—meet Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon.”

He gestured between the dragon and his two friends, pretending this was a normal introduction. It wasn’t, of course, and Gwen drew a little closer to Arthur’s side. She seemed nervous, but she also eyed Kilgharrah with a profound curiosity. “Hello,” she offered, and Merlin supposed that was something.

“Hello,” Kilgharrah said back, bowing his head to them. He was being polite, which was good, but then the dragon continued speaking. “It is certainly a pleasure to meet the young Pendragon and his future queen, and under better circumstances than last we met.”

Both Arthur and Gwen’s eyes widened. Arthur sputtered, bombarded by his first prophecy, and Merlin cringed, rounding on the dragon. “Kilgharrah, please keep it light on the prophecy snippets,” he hissed, mentally telling off the dragon before turning back to Arthur and Gwen in a rush. “I did tell him I didn’t want to overwhelm you both with prophecies. He rarely elaborates.”

“I elaborate when necessary,” Kilgharrah said, unhelpfully. “When the time is right, and only then.”

Merlin sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Mending the gap between the magical and the not was going to be harder than he thought, and he had expected it to be hard. Kilgharrah was not helping.

“Do you… do you regularly ride around on dragons?” Gwen asked tentatively, and at least she wasn’t totally scared off. Merlin wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d run for the hills at the prospect of a prophecy-spitting, irritable dragon. “And are there more? Dragons, I mean.”

Merlin smiled sadly, having not thought of how little Gwen and Arthur might know of that history. “I’m a Dragonlord,” he explained, although he wasn’t entirely sure if Gwen knew what that meant either. “So, yes, I can speak the dragon tongue and they must listen to me when I ask something of them. It’s an ability I inherited from my father. Unfortunately, due to Uther, there aren’t really many dragons around anymore except for Kilgharrah.”

“Yes, because I was a trophy to him,” Kilgharrah added with a scoff, and Merlin winced, wondering if this was the best conversation for Arthur to be a part of right now. Perhaps he should not have mentioned Uther. “A symbol of his victory against magic. For years he kept me shackled underneath that castle, torturing me when it suited him. I suppose people as young as you did not even know I was there, did you?”

“I didn’t,” Gwen admitted sadly, and Merlin grimaced at the deep discomfort in Arthur’s face.

“He’s very sorry about the fires and all that,” Merlin tried, addressing Arthur and speaking on the dragon’s behalf. But as he spoke he knew that Kilgharrah wasn’t all that sorry about attacking Camelot. Arthur wasn’t stupid, and he likely realised that too.

“It’s… fine,” Arthur said weakly, speaking for the first time in a while, and to Merlin’s surprise, he addressed the dragon directly. “I’m sure my father and his actions made you very angry, Kilgharrah,” the prince began, and he looked like he was fighting with everything in him to look the dragon in the eye. “I’m sorry for what he did to you. I didn’t know of it, and I wish I could have done something to prevent it. But that said, I don’t think attacking Camelot and hurting innocents along the way was the answer.”

Merlin just sort of stared at Arthur for a moment, stunned. He hadn’t expected the prince to speak to Kilgharrah, let alone remember the dragon’s name and attempt diplomacy. Please be nice to him, he warned the dragon mentally. Please. He’s trying. This is progress. This is everything I am fighting for.

Behind him, Kilgharrah shifted, and to Merlin’s relief, the dragon’s response was kind. “No, perhaps it was not the most productive choice,” the Great Dragon replied carefully. “And what a strange day this is. One I have foreseen for some time. A Pendragon, standing before me, talking of peace over violence. I did not imagine this hour would ever come.”

“I did,” Merlin said with relief, and he crossed his arms, finding himself swelling with a bit of pride. Even amongst all this uncertainty, all this struggle, Arthur was here. He was standing here of his own volition, speaking to a dragon that was once his enemy with the diplomacy of a future king. That was more than Merlin had given him credit for. “I knew he’d come around. Your prophecies always come true eventually, Kilgharrah. Even if it’s not in the way we expect.”

Arthur looked to Merlin again at this. His expression was still guarded, unsure, but he seemed a little bit more grounded now. He still didn’t seem to have the proper words to say, and maybe  there weren’t any proper words to say. But that was alright. This was progress, and Merlin took comfort in that.

“Can I…” Gwen began to say, but she stopped, looking sheepish. Merlin turned his attention back to her, and he was surprised to see Gwen’s fear of Kilgharrah nearly gone. She was studying the dragon with a sort of calculating curiosity now. “Can we… that is to say, Mr. Great Dragon, sir, could I…”

She couldn’t seem to form the words, but Merlin caught her meaning, delighting in what she was trying to ask. “Can you ride him? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Yes,” Gwen confirmed softly and Kilgharrah snorted, unamused.

“I am not a horse, Merlin,” the dragon complained, and Merlin rolled his eyes. This was not going very well on the dragon front. Kilgharrah couldn’t be nice for one hour? Merlin was trying very hard to mend the gap between magic and non-magic, but Kilgharrah being snooty about dragon riding wasn’t going to help that.

“She toils all day working in the castle, can you blame her for wanting to try something as exciting as flying?” Merlin snapped at the dragon, and he opted to speak out loud in his defense of Gwen. I am trying to build something here, Kilgharrah, he added mentally, and he hoped the dragon would listen to him without a formal command. Kilgharrah looked frustrated, but Merlin ignored that as he looked back to Gwen. “Of course you can have a go, Gwen,” he said cheerfully, granting her his permission. He was quite happy that she’d want to try dragon riding. He hadn’t expected that, and it was a nice step towards non-magic users accepting magic. “There’s nothing quite like it, trust me.”

Gwen’s face lit up at his answer, and she turned to Arthur, grasping his arm in excitement. “Will you come with me?” she asked, breathless, and Merlin had never seen such deep horror slash across Arthur’s face like that.

“Er—” Arthur managed, and he eyed Kilgharrah, looking like he’d much sooner eat a jar of worms from Gaius’ medicinal stores. “I think my feet do better on the ground, thanks. But you’re welcome to it.”

Gwen deflated a little. “I’m not sure I want to go alone,” she admitted, unsure now, and Kilgharrah chuckled, setting off Merlin’s nerves again.

“Perhaps the physician would like to join you,” the dragon suggested with an edge of malice. “If I remember right, you never did conquer your fear of heights, did you, Gaius?”

Beside him, Gaius paled, and Merlin glanced to his mentor with a raised eyebrow. “Are you scared of heights, Gaius? I didn’t know that. We live in a tower, I thought you’d be alright with it.”

“A tower and a dragon are two different things,” Gaius murmured, looking a little sickly, but he met Merlin’s gaze, and Merlin could see him calculating something. “However, I imagine I must get used to it if dragon riding is in our collective futures. It has been many years since I last braved the skies. I suppose now is as good a time as any to get back into it.”

“Back into it?” Merlin echoed, shocked, and his mind whirled as he tried to remember a time Gaius had talked about riding dragons. He was about to inquire on it further, but Gaius all too quickly left his side, moving away as he joined Gwen by Kilgharrah. It took Merlin a moment to recognise what he was up to, but he understood quickly enough. Gauis was providing Merlin with an opportunity to talk to Arthur alone. Just the two of them.

In many ways, he was grateful. He could see Gaius’ unwillingness to fly written in his every feature, but it was clear that he thought this was the best decision. Perhaps this was just what Arthur needed. A second chance for the two of them to speak, no longer separated by bars and without Kilgharrah bearing down on them as a reminder of all that had happened between them.

Gaius began to help hoist Gwen onto Kilgharrah’s back and Merlin watched them carefully. Please be gentle with them, Merlin warned Kilgharrah mentally. Perhaps just a small loop? This is a big step for Gwen, and for bringing magic back to Camelot.

I will be gentle, the dragon assured him, exasperated, and Merlin relaxed a little. Focus on your prince. I will focus on this. I do not wish to see Gaius tossing up his dinner from off my back.

Mm, thank you for that image, Merlin said back dryly, but he put his trust in Kilgharrah and glanced at Arthur to see how he was taking this.

The prince was watching Gwen carefully, eagle-eyed, and his face was pale, lined with worry. “She’ll be fine,” Merlin tried to assure him, but he wasn’t sure if his word counted for anything in this matter. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea after all. “Kilgharrah and Gaius would never let anything happen to her. I promise you that.”

“I know,” Arthur said, and Merlin was pleased to hear sincerity in his voice. A tiny droplet of trust, and Merlin tried to strengthen that trust, speaking to Kilgharrah aloud in Draconic for Arthur to hear. “Be safe,” he said as a command, and the dragon bowed his great head in recognition before he took off in a flurry of wind, Gwen and Gaius both clutching to the horns on his back.

Gwen’s laugh of wonder carried on the air as they rose into the sky. Flowers flew from the crown Merlin had created for her, swirling in the evening air peacefully, while Gaius looked like he was bracing for death. The duo successfully left the clearing behind, ascending into the clouds, and Merlin watched them go with a critical eye, making sure they were secure as the dragon reached his usual height. Kilgharrah would likely do a large circle around the forest before coming back, and that left Merlin a bit of time. Enough time to stop avoiding what he and Arthur were both avoiding from the start, and Merlin let his gaze drop from the dragon, properly looking at Arthur with nerves like wildfire flowing in his veins.

Arthur still had his eyes turned to the sky. The dragon was more or less gone now, but he was still staring, avoiding looking at Merlin a moment longer. The prince appeared shaken, maybe a bit cold or perhaps even more nervous than Merlin, and when Arthur did finally look at him, his blue eyes were welling with tears.

Merlin immediately frowned at this display of emotion. “Are you alright, Arthur?” he asked, almost stepping forward, but he stopped himself. He wanted to give Arthur space, and he was unsure what else to say. He knew Arthur’s answer before it left his lips.

“No,” Arthur said, and that was the truth of it. Arthur was far from alright. This was all too much for him, and that was very clear. “No, I’m not alright, Merlin. I nearly killed you.”

For some reason, that was not what Merlin expected him to say. “No, Merlin, the girl I’ve been courting just took off on a dragon” was more what he had expected, and Merlin softened at the brokenness in Arthur’s face. “Well, yes, I know, but… you didn’t,” he tried awkwardly, attempting to soothe the guilt Arthur was clearly facing. “That’s all that really mat—”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. He didn’t get to finish because Arthur barreled at him in a clumsy, uncoordinated rush. The prince pulled him into a crushing hug before he could move, gripping him in just as hard as Gwen had, and Merlin was so stunned that all the breath left his lungs. Arthur had never hugged him before. Never. Not in four years of service, and he was so shocked by it, so relieved, that it took him a moment to hug Arthur back.

But he did. Merlin melted into Arthur’s touch, hugging the prince back tightly and tears welling in his eyes as he wound his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. All the tension he’d been holding within his chest uncoiled, and just as previous smells had overwhelmed him, Arthur’s scent overwhelmed him now. Merlin wondered if it was his magic that was making him so overly-sensitive, but it didn’t matter. Arthur smelt of Camelot. He smelt of the wood-ash lye Merlin used for his washing, and of the training grounds, and of Audrey’s horrid pies. He smelt of home even more so than Gaius, and Merlin never wanted to let go.

He did, of course. Gently. He let go, not wanting to trap Arthur for too long, but something had changed between them. Something small had been mended, and Merlin cherished the look of warmth Arthur gave him as they broke apart.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur choked out as soon as they separated. His face was red, contorted in guilt and pain, and he should feel that. It was good that Arthur felt guilty and pained by what had happened, and yet Merlin wanted nothing more than to soothe those feelings and banish them forever. To let Arthur grow, and then move on. “I’m so sorry, Merlin. I don’t… I don’t know what else to say.”

“It’s okay, Arthur, really,” Merlin said, laughing a little. “But thank you for saying it,” he added, and it was then that he noticed the flower petal in Arthur’s hair. It was pink and very clearly a blossom from Merlin’s tree yesterday. The clotpole couldn’t even brush his hair without his help, could he?

With a smirk, Merlin summoned the petal using magic, bringing it into the air between them. He saw Arthur’s brow furrow, realising that he’d been walking around with a blossom in his hair all day, and Merlin wiggled his fingers, transforming the petal into a full flower crown to match Gwen’s. He was getting better at that particular spell, and he levitated the crown onto Arthur’s head gently.

Arthur stood very still as Merlin did this. He seemed uncomfortable, not used to witnessing his magic nor appreciating it as much as Gwen, but he didn’t protest. He even laughed a little, tears in his eyes. “Crowning me a bit early, are you?” he said.

“The way I see it, I’ve always been in the service of King Arthur,” Merlin told him, crossing his arms, and he hoped Arthur understood his sincerity. “I was never really a servant to King Uther, not that I ever really listened to either of you.”

His tone lilted in jest towards the end of his sentence, and Arthur scoffed. “You listen when it matters,” he murmured, and he grew serious again, watching Merlin closely. “You did see it, didn’t you? My signal. From the balcony.”

Merlin bit his lip, thinking back to that moment. “Yes, I saw it,” he acknowledged, imitating Arthur’s signal—two brushes to the tip of his nose with his pointer finger. Get out. Run. A last-ditch attempt on Arthur’s part to tell him he was sorry and to tell him to escape, having no knowledge of the plan Merlin had concocted. “I’m glad you remembered it. And I appreciated it.”

Something flickered in Arthur’s expression. Realisation. “You were planning on getting out anyway, weren’t you?”

Merlin couldn’t help but smirk a little at that. Arthur was getting better at reading him. The real him. “I always had a bad feeling I’d end up with a rope around my neck, one way or another,” Merlin explained, and it felt strange to talk about this. Voicing fears and past events he’d never been able to share with Arthur before. “I’ve had nightmares about it for years. But that’s also given me plenty of time to plan how I wanted it to go. I decided if I was going to do a big escape, I might as well do it publicly. Make a statement. Show the people and your father that magic can be a force for peace, if you let it. But… it did mean a lot to me to see your signal. To see you made a decision in the end.”

“Made a decision to not let my father brutally murder you?” Arthur murmured, his tone bitter and tortured, and Merlin flinched a little.

“Yes. That,” he said, unsure how else to respond. He didn’t know how things had gone between Arthur and his father following his escape. He imagined it didn’t go well.

Arthur didn’t elaborate, and Merlin figured now was not the time to push him. “I’m only sorry I didn’t come to the conclusion earlier,” Arthur said instead, apologising once more, and he studied the sky. He was looking for Kilgharrah no doubt, and thinking of all that had happened in just a few days. “I’m sorry that you felt the need to be subjected to a trial and a public execution just to make a point.”

Merlin was really not used to this sad, apologetic Arthur Pendragon. It was welcome, but also strange. “I’m sorry, too,” Merlin offered, because that needed to be said. Arthur wasn’t the only one with regrets. “I’m sorry about Roldan. I had a lot of time to think about that in the dungeon, and about how I didn’t even look at him before I killed him. How my magic is often like your sword, as you pointed out.”

Merlin raised his hand at this, summoning a bit of fire into his palm. It was an easy spell, nearly effortless for him, but he saw Arthur’s expression immediately change. A mix of discomfort and awe filled the prince’s features, and Merlin hoped Arthur could see the beauty in the flame just as much as he saw the danger.

“It is not always a weapon, but when it is, I have a responsibility for how I use it,” Merlin continued, trying to impart that lesson on himself as well as to Arthur as he let the flame flicker in his hand. “I’ve grown careless with that over the years. Grown to see enemies as faceless. As simply obstacles. Not as people with… families. Children. I didn’t used to be that way. I’d… I’d never killed anyone before I moved to Camelot.”

Arthur grimaced, watching as Merlin extinguished the flame. “War changes you,” he muttered, and as he did, Merlin realised this was one thing Arthur was very capable of understanding. “I am certainly not without my own sins in that category. I suppose I’d never considered you a warrior before, Merlin, but you are, aren’t you? And it’s easy to become desensitized to the killing. To only see the end, and not the means, and how often you find yourself in a situation where no answer seems like the right one.”

“Right, exactly,” Merlin said, and he sighed heavily. “It’s hard to imagine a time when I wasn’t caught in such a situation. And is that what your whole spectacle was in the Druid cave? Giving me the choice on what to do?”

Discomfort immediately flooded Arthur’s face at the mention, but he nodded. “A little,” he admitted, and Merlin thought back to how Arthur had acted back in the cave. Erratic and irrational. It was all making a bit more sense now, and Merlin tried to see this from Arthur’s perspective—a knight taught to hate magic attempting to find the good within it.  “I didn’t want to threaten the Druids, but it was part of what my father asked of me. I already knew that you were Emrys, and he put me in a bad position by sending me out to interrogate them. I suppose I… I just wanted to see what you would do if you were in that situation. If you were me.”

“I assure you, I have no interest in being you, Arthur,” Merlin said with a hint of sass, trying to lighten the mood, and Arthur laughed.

“I know,” he said, and his tone was bitter now. “Just checking. And why would you, anyway? I don’t know why anyone would want to be Prince of Camelot. You handled that situation better than I could have ever hoped to do. My kingdom is on the brink of war with Essetir, and we are still warring with sorcery. The people of Camelot don’t trust me. My father sees me as a failure. None of that exactly bodes well for my kingship.”

He sounded so broken. So beaten down. Merlin didn’t think he’d quite realised the extent of Arthur’s instability until this moment, watching the doubt and guilt and fear swirl within the prince’s blue eyes. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Merlin said, and he meant it. Yes, Arthur had been an absolute prat, but now was the time to move on. To face these great tasks, and to work to become better. Could he not see that? “Perhaps it looks that way at the moment, but you have the potential to bring this kingdom in a new direction. A direction your father would never dream of. The Druids have foreseen that potential in you. Even Cian told you as much.”

Arthur snorted in disbelief, and Merlin wished he could convince him. That he could make Arthur realise just how much greatness was possible inside of him. “I admire your optimism, Merlin,” Arthur said, and he kept his gaze focused on the empty sky. “It’s a wonder to me that you can be optimistic at all. But it’s one thing to see potential, and another entirely to see it through. My father is not fit to rule, but I am not ready to replace him. Perhaps I will never be ready. I don’t have a plan for how Camelot can move forwards, and I don’t have any idea how I can go about reintroducing magic to the people after years of it being vilified. What sort of king will I be, if I can’t face all of that?”

The prince’s voice cracked as he spoke, betraying openly his insecurities and fears. That was a big step for Arthur, Merlin realised. Admitting these things, airing them out, and in a subtle way, asking for help. For a warrior taught to bottle up his emotions and handle things with violence, this was huge progress, and Merlin’s heart swelled to hear it.

“You will achieve it, Arthur,” Merlin told him, and he said it with more conviction than he’d ever felt about their shared destiny. They could achieve this. Together. “It is your destiny to become the greatest king this kingdom has ever known. That’s something only you can do, and it is my destiny to help you get there. Mine, Gwen, Gaius. You don’t need to do any of this alone, alright? So don’t let the future overwhelm you.”

Arthur pursed his lips, still looking very unsure. “Easier said than done, Merlin.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Merlin said with a wry laugh, and he didn’t think Arthur quite knew the extent of just how well he knew that. Not yet. One day they’d hash out all the things Arthur didn’t know. But not tonight. One step at a time. “But you’re not your father, and that alone is enough to put you on a different path. I saw you, you know. When Gogan pulled the lever on the gallows, I saw your expression. You couldn’t hide your grief. You once told me no man is worth your tears, but I…”

Merlin trailed off for a moment, trying to think through what he was attempting to say. The image of himself back on the gallows, staring up at Arthur, returned to him in a rather traumatic rush. That was just a day ago, and yet it felt like ages. “I was glad to see you not take your own advice,” Merlin decided on, and that felt like a good way to say it. A gentle way to tell Arthur he was both proud and thankful for Arthur’s decision in the end. “That’s not nothing, Arthur. Your father has become desensitized to death. He has no problem murdering loyal friends. You aren’t like him in that way, and you can change things. You have that power. We both do, and we can find a new direction, together, assuming you’re willing to actually take advice for me.”

He tried to lighten the mood a little there, joking somewhat, and he managed to wrestle a bit of a smile from Arthur with it. “Me, take advice from a sorcerer?” Arthur said in jest, and he sniffed. “A scary thought.”

Merlin shrugged, and he looked up at the sky too, smiling at the moon. “Stranger things have happened,” he said, and he wasn’t totally joking anymore. “You’ll need a royal advisor when you’re king, won’t you? Perhaps I’ll apply.”

Beside him, Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Is that your plan? When I’m crowned king, you come waltzing back in and apply for a promotion?”

“Is it really a promotion if I got sacked from the previous job?” Merlin pointed out, and he was half-serious, half-joking. “Perhaps it’s more of a rehiring situation.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “You didn’t get sacked, Merlin.”

“No, I got arrested. Bit different, I suppose.”

They fell silent for a moment then, both of them just grinning and looking up at the moon. It was nice, in a way, what they had become. Still arguing, still joking—still themselves, but talking of bigger things. Part of Merlin had feared they’d never go back to those things. Some part of him had feared that the days of Merlin and Arthur, arrogant prince and bad-mouthing servant, were finally over. And perhaps those days were gone, in a way, but they were simply moving into new ones. A new dynamic between the two of them was forming, building upon the old one, but this one had Merlin’s magic woven into it.

Merlin’s smile faded a little as he considered that. He should be happy, shouldn’t he? Delighted and relieved that he was free now. Happy that Arthur was okay with it all, or at least as much as he could be okay with it at this moment.

But if Merlin was honest with himself, this new version of their relationship scared him. A new sort of partnership between them, and one with this… unformed identity he now had to contend with. A Merlin not in the shadows, and a version of him that would have to deal with people’s fear of him. People’s fear of his power.

“You aren’t…” Merlin began to say, and he struggled with the words for a moment before he got them out. “You aren’t scared of me, are you, Arthur?”

He forced himself to ask it. The question had been on the tip of his tongue for some time, but part of him really didn’t want to know the answer, and especially as Arthur paused at it. He looked thoughtful, conflicted, but the silence was answer enough. Of course Arthur was scared of it. Everyone was scared of it. Merlin had seen that much back in the courtyard and that realisation sent a sinking, melancholic and lonely feeling coursing through his bones. His non-threatening days were truly over, weren’t they?

“Not scared, per se,” Arthur answered gently after a moment, but Merlin wondered if he was just trying to be nice. “I don’t think you’d ever intentionally hurt me. But I will say it’s hard not to feel like you’ve drawn a sword on me every time you use it.”

A sword. Merlin grimaced a little at that description, but that was a fair comparison. Merlin had used it himself. He could see how it would take time for Arthur to not always see his magic as a weapon, but they could work on that. “The last thing I want is for you to fear me, Arthur,” Merlin expressed, and he hoped this could act as an unofficial pact. A promise to work towards an understanding between them on the matter. “Or anyone to fear me. I don’t think that’s the purpose of it, instilling fear, but I hope the more you learn of it the less threatening it will seem. You’ve only ever seen magic used as a weapon, but there’s so much more to it than that.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Arthur acknowledged, and he did seem to be willing to learn. To face his distrust of magic, and to look for the beauty within it. It would take time, but the embers of hope were still burning somewhere within Merlin’s chest. They could get there. They just needed time. “And if I can begin to see that, maybe the people of Camelot can grow to see it, too. Perhaps that can be the next step in preparing me for the throne. Growing to learn that which I do not understand.”

A tiny smile returned to Merlin’s face at that. Perhaps he was worried for nothing, and he marveled at what Arthur was saying to him. It was like hearing his own hopes and dreams spoken back to him, but in the voice of the person he’d most wanted to hear it from. “I hope so,” Merlin said, hearing the hope shining in those three words, and just as he spoke them, he spotted Kilgharrah returning to them. “They’re back,” he told Arthur, and Arthur started at the announcement, squinting at the sky.

“How can you tell?” the prince asked, confused, and he squinted even more. It occurred to Merlin then that Kilgharrah was still too far out for his non-magical vision. “I don’t see anything.”

“I can see farther than you,” Merlin revealed, unable to totally hide his smugness. Sometimes he forgot his vision was better than the average person’s. “Perks of magic, I guess.”

Arthur just stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. Merlin bit back a laugh at his dumbstruck expression, and he had a feeling he’d be seeing it often as Arthur learnt more and more about what Merlin’s magic entailed. As he discovered just how much Merlin had been holding back on him.

There was still so much left to say. So much left to discuss, but tonight had been a good start. Merlin grinned as Kilgharrah safely landed back in the clearing, Gwen and Gaius still clutching onto the dragon’s back, and Gwen’s face popped up from behind Kilgharrah’s head nearly immediately. Merlin was delighted to see her face flushed with happiness. She’d had a nice time, then. That was good. That was progress.

“Have fun, did you?” Merlin called out to her, and Gwen was practically glowing as she dismounted the dragon with surprising grace, bouncing back over to them.

“That was amazing,” Gwen gushed, her curls windswept as she enveloped Merlin into another crushing hug. Merlin melted into this one just as much as the first, glowing himself at her happiness. It was all so welcome after all the stress of the past few days. “You’re right, there is nothing like it! I can’t even describe it. You really must try it, Arthur.”

“I’m sure I will have to eventually,” Arthur said offhandedly, and Merlin could tell he still wanted nothing to do with it. “Did Gaius survive?”

“He… struggled a bit,” Gwen admitted, and Merlin looked over to the physician just in time to see Gaius throwing up in the bushes. He choked back a laugh at the sight. “He’ll be okay, I think. And how about you two? Have a nice chat?”

Gwen touched Arthur’s flower crown with amusement at this, noticing that Merlin had made him a matching one. Arthur’s cheeks flushed, almost as if he’d forgotten about the flowers, and he took the crown off, twirling it awkwardly between his fingers. “Yes, something like that,” the prince said, and then he biffed Merlin roughly with his elbow—throwing Merlin back, and much to Merlin’s surprise. It was a very normal thing for Arthur to do, really, but Merlin had no longer been anticipating such friendly roughhousing. “Things are a little different now, but not altogether different.”

"Ow, hey, speak for yourself!” Merlin complained, and he rubbed at his ribs, acting a little over dramatic just because he could. Inside, however, his heart was soaring. He’d really thought these days were over, but Arthur was right. Things weren’t altogether different. “I’m not your servant anymore. You can’t treat me like your personal training dummy. Those days are over.”

“Are you quite sure?” Arthur asked him, an edge to his voice, and he went to shove Merlin playfully, but Merlin let himself react this time. He allowed his magic to swirl up within him, stopping Arthur in his tracks and holding him back. It was a simple spell, hardly difficult, but Merlin saw Arthur’s eyes widen in shock for a second before narrowing.

“Feels good, does it?” the prince accused, his voice low, and Merlin smirked at him. He thought maybe could get used to this new dynamic.

“A bit,” Merlin admitted, and then he released Arthur, letting the prince fall back into motion. “Not the first time I’ve done it to you, if I’m being honest. Do you remember when we first met? In the market?”

“Oh, I do,” Gwen chimed in, and her eyes were glittering. She was enjoying this, elated to see them fighting again—as friends, and not as enemies. “If I remember correctly, Arthur nearly took your head off with a mace, didn’t he?”

“He did indeed,” Merlin confirmed, and he looked back at Arthur, feeling quite odd admitting to this so long after it occurred. But it was funny to see Arthur processing the truth of it. “But I stopped him. Using magic.”

Arthur’s eyes immediately went wide at the admission. Indignation fluttered across his features, followed quickly by rage. “You cheated!” he exclaimed, leveling a finger at Merlin, but Merlin was ready for that accusation.

“Didn’t cheat,” he argued, and he threw out his arm, pulling a breeze into existence that knocked Arthur flat on his back with one large gust. The prince crashed to the grass with an oof, and Merlin grinned ear to ear as he towered over the prince—the victor finally for once in his life.

“Just used my resources to bring you down a notch, is all,” Merlin finished smoothly, and he smirked down at Arthur’s red face, reveling in the frustrated look staring back at him. It was so very satisfying to see Arthur processing just how easily Merlin could beat him. How much he would now continue to defeat him. “That fight feels like a long time ago now, doesn’t it? You certainly were a prat before I came around to humble you, you know.”

“Think you’ve cured me, is that it?” Arthur grumbled, and he looked disgruntled when Merlin offered him a hand. He accepted it humbly, however, letting Merlin hoist him back to his feet.

“Cured you from what, being a prat?” Merlin asked, and he raised a curious eyebrow. “Hmm, I don’t know. Jury’s still out on that one. Perhaps I should test you on it, Arthur. Create a trial of my own design to see if you’re worthy of being king?”

He was being malicious now, and he knew it. He was pushing the joke a little too far, but Arthur took it well. “Alright, I suppose I deserve that one,” the prince mumbled, brushing grass off his cloak, and Merlin had to give him credit for how well he was taking this newfound loss of status. He decided maybe that was enough banter for today.

“I’ll stop,” Merlin promised, holding up his hands and biting back any further sassy remarks. “Truce? No more teasing? All forgiven?”

“All forgiven,” Arthur agreed, and then he was pulling both Merlin and Gwen into him—drawing them into a group hug. Merlin was just as shocked by this hug as the first one, but he fell into it with open arms. Pure happiness rushed through him for the first time in… well. He wasn’t sure how long. It was bliss, clutching his friends and feeling their love and acceptance. To wind his arms around them and know that the greatest trial he’d ever faced was behind him now. That they could move forward.

Merlin never wanted to let go of them. He never wanted to leave his friends behind—never wanted to leave Camelot behind—but Kilgharrah’s voice wormed its way into his head before long, warning him. We should get going, Merlin, the dragon said, and he sounded rather unimpressed by all this hugging and happiness. A downer as always. The sun is due to rise. We best not be near Camelot when that happens. It’s always best to travel in darkness.

Merlin sighed at the truth in that, and as the group hug broke apart, he felt the overwhelming pressures of duty returning to his bones. He still had much to do. Much to achieve, but it had been a beautiful moment. A blissful second of everything being right with the world, and he would cherish this memory for some time.

Merlin… the dragon chided him again, stronger now when Merlin didn’t respond, and Merlin rolled his eyes.

“I’m coming, okay?” he said out loud, turning to look at the dragon with an annoyed frown. “You don’t need to chide me in my head anymore. You can talk freely in front of everyone now.”

“In your…?” Arthur began weakly, and Merlin realised with a jolt he’d never explained the mental talking magic to Arthur just yet. He opened his mouth to explain, but Gaius chuckled, cutting him off.

“There is much to fill you in on, Arthur,” the physician said, and perhaps he was right and it was best not to overwhelm Arthur too much here and now. “Perhaps I can do so over breakfast.”

“That would be good,” Merlin agreed, relieved that Gaius had offered, and he glanced up at the sky. Sure enough, daylight was beginning to creep its way into the horizon, the slight pink-orange of dawn painting the clouds. “I can come back tomorrow evening, if you’d like, but I’d best be going for now. It’s not smart for me to be near Camelot in the daylight, and besides. I have a meeting to attend.”

“Meeting?” Arthur asked, confused, and Merlin realised he hadn’t mentioned his letter to Lancelot. “A meeting with who?”

Merlin smiled, briefly calculating how to mention this to Arthur. It was good news, after all. For once. “An old friend of yours, actually,” he explained slowly, mysteriously, and he watched as Arthur struggled to puzzle out who that might be. “I thought he might be interested in learning what has transpired these past few days. That, and if your reign is near, how you may consider letting some non-nobles join your knight. A repealing of the First Code of Camelot, perhaps?”

He saw recognition dawn in Arthur’s face almost immediately at that hint. “Lancelot,” he said with an awed smile, and Merlin nodded.

“I sent him a letter, too,” he explained, and he couldn’t quite contain his excitement at the thought of seeing his friend again. “We’re due to meet in a tavern, so I’m hoping we might see another friendly face. I’ve heard reports of bar fights there. Odds are high.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, and Arthur didn’t need to say Gwaine’s name for Merlin to know he understood who they talking about. “What exactly are you playing at, Merlin?” Arthur pressed, and he was serious just as much as he was joking. “Raising me a little secret army? Rounding up all the men my father has exiled?”

“Something like that,” Merlin said, and it was exactly that. An exiled crew that was loyal to Arthur, ready at any moment and a secret from the likes of Morgana, and with that in mind, Merlin reached Kilgharrah, letting his hand stroke the dragon’s scaly side. He was sad to leave. He didn’t want to go, but it was time, and he’d be back. This was the beginning, not the end.

“There are people out there that want you as king, Arthur,” Merlin reminded the prince, and he decided then and there that those were good words to part with. A small glimmer of hope for Arthur that he was not alone in this, and that Merlin chose to follow him. That this was the path he’d decided to follow, with no turning back now. “People who have chosen you as their sovereign, and not just because of your birth status. Don’t ever forget that. There’s power there that your father can’t begin to imagine.”

“And I suppose you know a thing or two about power beyond imagination?” Arthur shot back, teasing him a little, and Merlin laughed as he drew up a spell—floating up onto Kilgharrah’s back with a growing ease. He really was getting better at that flotere spell.

“Me?” he joked back to Arthur, feigning ignorance with a dramatic hand to his chest. “Powerful? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

And then with his hands curled around Kilgharrah’s horned spine, he was off. The dragon wasted no time taking off, flapping his massive wings nearly as soon as Merlin was secured on his back. They took the sky, Arthur and Gwen and Gaius forced to stand back to give the dragon room. They grew smaller the more Merlin and Kilgharrah rose, but Merlin had just enough time to send a spell soaring down at Arthur, sending the flower crown from Arthur’s hands back to head where it belonged.

Arthur’s smile was the last thing Merlin saw before clouds overtook him. Dawn washed over them, warm and soft and hopefully, and they left the clearing behind—leaving Camelot and all its people at their back once more.

For now. Merlin knew he would return, sooner than later. He’d be back for good one day, and Merlin took heart and that as they soared over the lands of Camelot, making their way to Essetir. The future was still ahead of him, as uncertain and scary as ever…

But at least he knew he wasn’t alone. At least he didn’t have to hide anymore. And in that fact, Merlin could finally find true peace.

~O~

It was a cute little tavern, the one Lancelot had chosen for them. It was called The Lady’s Kerchief, and Merlin wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or offended at the drawing of a red kerchief on the tavern sign.

He entered rather cautiously. It felt strange, walking around as this version of himself that wasn’t totally hiding any longer. After all, any person here could possibly recognise him. He was in Essetir, not Camelot, but they weren’t far over the border. There could be Camelot citizens in this very tavern—people that might recognise him as the sorcerer that had magically escaped execution just a day before.

But luckily, no one batted an eye as Merlin strode inside. He glanced around, looking for Lancelot, and while the tavern was lively and crowded, Merlin didn’t spot Lancelot right away. A little disappointed, he opted for the bar, just lounging near it until the bartender took note of him.

“Looking for someone, are you?” the man asked, and Merlin jolted at the attention.

“Er, sort of,” Merlin answered, and he gave the tavern one more wry glance around, hoping Lancelot might pop up at just the right moment. “Just waiting for a friend.”

“And that friend wouldn’t be me, would it?” asked a familiar voice, slurred a little and teasing, sending Merlin nearly jumping out of his skin as a tankard of mead slid its way down the bar, bumping his elbow.

Dark, long hair and hazel eyes met Merlin’s gaze as he looked up, and a smile broke over both their faces.

“Gwaine!” Merlin exclaimed, and he abandoned the drink, pushing away from the bar to tackle his friend in a hug. It had been too long, and Merlin found himself overwhelmed to see him.

“Thought I’d find you here, Merlin,” Gwaine slurred, slapping Merlin a little too hard on the back before they broke apart. The nobleman dropped into the nearest available seat with unsteady steps, and Merlin realised with slight exasperation that Gwaine was already drunk. The sun had barely begun to set. The tavern itself likely opened its doors only an hour ago. How many drinks had Gwaine already had? “That man you know told me you’d be here. You know the one. The bloke with the perfect posture and all the nobleness?”

“Lancelot,” Merlin clarified, and he crossed his arms at Gwaine, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “He found you, then? I did give him your description in my letter to him.”

“Rude of you!” Gwaine complained, and he grabbed his drink only to down a giant gulp of it. “Lancelot showed me your letter! ‘Long, dark hair, drunkard, likely no coin at all and too much confidence’? That is how you choose to describe me to strangers, Merlin?”

“He found you with that, didn’t he?” Merlin said, and he could not hold back a laugh. “Also, he isn’t a stranger, Gwaine. Lancelot is by far one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. I figured you’d like him.”

“Oh, yes, he’s very good,” Gwaine agreed, and he took another sip of mead. “That’s how we met, of course. He came up to me, he asked if I was Gwaine. I said who’s asking, and he mentioned your name. Then he told me he once served as a knight of Camelot under Prince Arthur and that he heard I did so once, too. So naturally I had to challenge him to a duel.”

Merlin’s eyes widened, horrified. “You what? Gwaine! Why?”

“Because I was not a knight under Arthur, last I checked,” Gwaine said, leveling Merlin with a stern finger before burping rather loudly. “The last thing I need is men walking around this town saying I am one! Going to ruin my image, that is.”

“Oh, please, as if you wouldn’t accept a knighthood in an instant if Arthur handed you one,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes at him.

“Well, I certainly would accept it,” interjected a different voice, and Merlin’s head snapped up so fast he got whiplash. His gaze found dark brown eyes, twinkling at him, and Merlin really did think his heart might burst.

“Lancelot,” Merlin breathed, and then he jumped up for his second friendly hug of the night. He embraced his friend tightly, and Lancelot was much gentler than Gwaine, patting Merlin’s head unlike Gwaine’s rather rough slap to his back. It was amazing to see Lancelot again, and Merlin immediately felt safe as they broke apart, the former knight’s smile soft on his face and his eyes alight with happiness.

“It’s good to see you, Merlin,” Lancelot said quietly, sounding as poised and measured as usual, and with a practiced, social ease, he directed Merlin and Gwaine to another table, tucking them into a private little corner of the tavern. Gwaine came along without a fuss when Lancelot expertly put a new drink in his hands, and Merlin hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted to see these two friends interact. He’d known it would feel right somehow. Like he was building a team of people he trusted more than anything.

“Glad to see Gwaine didn’t stab you,” Merlin noted, only half joking as he noticed Lancelot looked perfectly intact. “I didn’t think I needed to include ‘might attack’ in my letter, but perhaps I should have.”

“Oh, it was fine,” Lancelot said, unconcerned, and he grinned a little at Gwaine across their table. Gwaine didn’t notice, as he was too busy trying his new drink. “He was a little too unsteady on his feet to do any real damage.”

“Lies!” Gwaine declared, and he sloshed his drink in Lancelot’s direction now, offended. “A trickster, this one, Merlin. Using fancy footwork to get around my moves. Very sly.”

“You were very talented, I give you that,” Lancelot said, as nice  and complimentary as ever, and he looked at Merlin now, growing a bit serious. “So,” he said, transitioning. “He knows.”

Merlin grew a little still, his mind shifting to Arthur. He thought of how Lancelot had been the only one to know Merlin’s whole story besides Gaius. “He knows, yes,” Merlin confirmed with a deep sigh, and across the table, Gwaine made a confused noise, his eyes narrowing.

“Knows what?” Gwaine asked, and he now eyed the two of them suspiciously. “Who are we talking about? Who knows what about what now? And why’re you putting this lil meeting together, Merlin, and coming out here to Essetir all alone?”

“You didn’t… you didn’t tell him anything?” Merlin asked, surprised, and he looked to Lancelot, only to find the man biting his lip in deliberation.

“I figured it is your choice who to tell,” he answered, noble as ever. “You didn’t specify in your letter if I should tell him or not, and it’s not my information to share.”

“Right,” Merlin said, and he fought back a sudden rush of fear that coursed through him. For some reason he’d assumed Lancelot would just tell him. That Gwaine already knew then, and was fine with it. This was Gwaine, after all. No need to be worried. He was sure Gwaine would be okay with his magic—if he even remembered this encounter tomorrow—but Merlin found himself still nervous. He wasn’t used to sharing his secret.

But no more shadows. No more hiding. He was building a team, and that required trust. A leap of faith. “Don’t panic, okay?” Merlin murmured, and he locked eyes with Gwaine, trying to pull some focus out of the other man. “I’m going to show you something, Gwaine. Something big. Something important. A secret I’ve been keeping for a very long time.”

Gwaine grew very still, and despite his few drinks he seemed to realize this was as important as Merlin said it was. His eyes focused on Merlin, surprisingly serious and alert, and the drunkenness seemed to leave him somewhat. “Show me what?”

“This,” Merlin said, and then he reached forwards and touched Gwaine’s tankard with one finger. His eyes flashed obviously gold, the mead in the cup swirling in a small tempest, and then the alcohol turned to water in Gwaine’s hand.

The water stilled. Merlin drew his hand back. Gwaine stared. Just stared, boring holes into the tankard for a long moment. A very long moment, and Merlin grew a little nervous at how long Gwaine had been silent. For a brief interlude, Merlin glanced over at Lancelot, worried that he might need Lancelot’s help to make Gwaine understand, but then Gwaine moved. Very slowly, his hand curled around the tankard and lifted it to his lips.

He took a sip. A delicate sip, and then his eyes went wide.

“You bloody bastard,” he murmured, and Merlin wasn’t sure if that was a good “bastard” or bad “bastard.” “You bloody bastard, you turned it to water, didn’t ye? I may be a bit drunk, Merlin, but I know magic when I see it.”

“Is… is that alright?” Merlin asked, and he tensed, leaning away from Gwaine just a bit. He studied the man, his friend, trying to gauge any sort of reaction. Any sort of judgment. “Is… is it alright with you, that I have magic? That’s what I’m trying to show you. Camelot isn’t exactly the best place for sorcerers, so I wasn’t really sharing that information. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

The words came out of him in a messy rush, but Gwaine just leveled him with a serious gaze. “You can turn it back, right?”

“What?”

“The water. You can turn it back into wine?”

“I think it was mead.”

“Well, now I want it to be wine. Bloody by the good book that way, right?”

It was Merlin’s turn to stare at Gwaine now. “I think magic is sort of the opposite of the good book, Gwaine,” he explained slowly. “That’s the whole thing. Sorcery, not miracles.”

Gwaine just slid the tankard back to Merlin, entirely serious. “Wine,” he said again, and Merlin sputtered, obliging as he tapped the tankard and used the same spell, switching the water out for wine this time. It was one of the easiest spells in his grimoire, really, but Gwaine looked stunned as he grabbed the tankard back again and took another sip, wine reaching his lips now.

“Brilliant,” he murmured, sounding elated, and he slammed the tankard down to the table top, sloshing wine everywhere before he wiped his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve. He leveled Merlin with a finger again, but his smile was back now, sending relief instantly flooding through Merlin. “You keep doing that, magic man, and you’ve got no problems from me, I can tell you that.”

“O-okay, deal,” Merlin laughed, and he waved his hand, filling his tankard up just a bit to top things off. “You’re alright with it, then? My magic?”

“‘Course I’m alright with it,” Gwaine said with a dismissive wave of his hand, and he smiled wide now, looking quite genuine and not even that drunk. Merlin thought he would remember this tomorrow, and that was a relief. “I’m just messing with you, Merlin. You’re a mate, and I'm no Uther Pendragon, am I? You did give me a fright just now, though, I’ll tell you that much. I definitely did not peg you as a sorcerer, unless I’m hallucinating all this right now.”

“You aren’t,” Merlin assured, laughing. “And don’t worry, most people don’t seem to guess. I gave Lancelot a pretty bad fright with a spell when we first met.”

“Glowing, magic lance,” Lancelot murmured vaguely, and Gwaine raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, now that sounds better than wine,” Gwaine whispered, and his eyes were wide as saucers, clearly imagining magical glowing weapons. “I would like one of those, I think. And could you enchant my sword? Is that a thing you do?”

“We can talk about it,” Merlin said, not about to entertain that request right away, but it truly was amazing, this happiness flowing within him. Acceptance. That was what it was. This was who he was now. Accepted. Free. A new Merlin, and maybe… maybe this wouldn’t be near as scary as he’d feared. Surrounded by friends instead of all alone. “But for now, would you two listen to me for a moment? I’ve got some propositions for you, and the three of us have some work to do…”

And with that, Merlin drew Gwaine and Lancelot in, leaning them in close and beginning to discuss his plans. A grand scheme to create a militia of his own, and a new clan of knights ready to answer Arthur’s call should the need arise. A group of men he could trust to band around him and Arthur in battle.

It began here. It began now. The budding of a new Albion that Kilgharrah had prophesied all those years ago on Merlin’s first night in Camelot, standing cold and unsure on the steps of the cavern below the castle. It had felt like a fleeting dream then when the dragon had first told him of it. A fantasy, and nothing more.

But it felt real to Merlin now. A new day dawning for the kingdom of Camelot, and a glorious future hidden just around the corner. A bright new realm of possibilities for Albion, and a future where knights and sorcerers and kings and commoners alike could live in prosperity and peace. A golden sunrise in the name of King Arthur.

And wasn’t that something worth fighting for?