Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room is dim, with the deep red curtains having been drawn to block out the setting sun. Ygraine sits at the foot of the bed with her eyes trained on the floor, wishing that she were anybody but herself. She wishes she was more stoic. Less sympathetic. She wishes she was a blind, raging tyrant, who thinks of nothing but the blood in her eyes and her desire to smear it all over her hands. She wishes that her people feared her. That they hated her. Because, Ygraine acknowledges silently, the issue isn’t that she is Ygraine, or even that she is the queen. The real issue, and the one thing that just might break her resolve, is that she will be missed.

This complicates things more than she would like.

Kneeling on the rug before her is Nimueh. She’s pale. She wrings her hands and looks up towards the ceiling, avoiding Ygraine’s eyes, and takes in a shaky breath.

“Tell me what I can say to change your mind.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but ultimately useless.

Ygraine reaches down and places a hand on Nimueh’s cheek. “I told you so that I wouldn’t have to bear this alone, not because I want to be convinced of a better option.”

The women fall silent. Nimueh gives Ygraine a long, searching look, before something in her expression hardens and she rises to her feet.

“May I speak freely, my lady?”

Ygraine grabs her hand and squeezes it tightly. Permission to continue.

“I might be able to intercede on your behalf. I could try and convince the gods to take somebody else.”

Ygraine doesn’t like the sound of that. She shakes her head.

“It is my price to pay.”

Nimueh glances around and takes Ygraine’s other hand in hers. She’s still trembling, but this time it seems to be out of anger.

“The child will be Uther’s as well,” she says quietly. “Why should the sacrifice be yours alone?”

Ygraine doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Nimueh obviously registers that her suggestion was ill-received, but she juts her chin out and scoffs regardless.

“Nobody has the right to ask anyone to die for them.”

“On this, we agree.” Ygraine tilts her head, fighting to keep her expression neutral. She can tell it’s working, based on the confusion that dawns in Nimueh’s watery eyes. “That is precisely why I will not ask that of Uther.”

“If he wants an heir so badly, the burden should not fall to you by default,” Nimueh spits. “If he has the nerve to ask this of you, I fear you will be pinning all of our hopes onto a coward.”

Ygraine looks away. Her friend's words hurt, but she needs to hear them. It’s why she asked for Nimueh this evening, despite her earlier words to the contrary. She needs someone to challenge her one last time. She needs to be free of the gnawing doubt that prevents her from sleeping.

“He doesn’t know.”

Nimueh drops her hands and takes several steps back, her eyes widening to an impossible size.

“Ygraine, you cannot know what this will do to him.”

“A moment ago, you called him a coward,” Ygraine says with a false lightness. She tries on a small smile but finds it to be ill-fitting. Not like it would fool Nimueh, anyways. “Now you seem concerned for him.”

“Not for him,” Nimueh says grimly. “For the rest of us.”

“Women pass away during childbirth all of the time. He needn’t know the details. It won’t change my decision, it will just cause him unnecessary distress.”

“He asked me to give you an heir,” Nimueh says with mounting desperation. “If I agree, and it ends in your death, he may believe it to be my fault.”

“I’ve written him a letter,” Ygraine says evenly. “I sealed it in front of him and stored it in his desk, with instructions to open it after Arthur is born. It explains everything.”

Nimueh glances down at Ygraine’s stomach, large and round from the nine months of pregnancy. She makes several half-hearted movements, as if she’s going to storm out of the room, or cry, or sink back to the floor. She brings a hand to her mouth, her decision finally made, and the tears begin to fall soon after.

Ygraine draws her into a tight embrace, feeling the burn of sorrow behind her eyes but refusing to acknowledge it.

“I’m tired,” she whispers. Nimueh tenses in her arms, suddenly becoming a solid wall. She had a habit of doing that. Whether she was aware of it or not, Nimueh always seemed to sense when Ygraine’s resolve was failing and picked up the slack herself.

“I know.” Nimueh draws back and manages a smile so fragile that Ygraine almost considers forgetting the entire plan. “You should get some rest. The gods know you’ve earned it.”

“Will you help?” Ygraine asks.

Nimueh nods, and as Ygraine settles into bed Nimueh places a hand on her forehead. She leans down, plants a soft kiss to the top of the queen’s head, and whispers a spell. The last thing Ygraine sees is a pair of golden eyes, shining in the dark like twin candles. She is happy.

Ygraine wakes to the news that her son is twenty one years old and her husband is dead.

Gaius’s face is grim when he tells her, his eyes darting back and forth as if fearing her response. Ygraine regrets her wish to be feared by her people; now, seeing it in front of her, she realizes just how lonely it will become.

Bridges have been burnt in her sleep and she is suddenly tasked with sifting through the rubble. She is a specter, a ghost who haunts the king’s bedroom and spreads unease throughout Camelot. This isn’t what she wanted.

She reaches for Gaius’s hand, which is beginning to wrinkle with signs of age, and holds it tight. She means both to reassure her friend and keep herself from panicking.

“You fell into a coma,” Gaius explains in a voice that Ygraine recognizes as the one he always used with Uther. It trembles with every syllable. “When the child came, you were gravely injured. Nimueh thought it best to keep you asleep while you recovered.”

Ygraine swallows. Her mouth is dry.

Nimueh would never. It’s impossible, anyways, Ygraine tells herself. To keep a person in stasis for so long, to release them at the moment of another’s death in the hopes that they would trade places… that type of magic should be impossible based on everything Ygraine knows.

Nimueh is fiery and headstrong and reckless, but she is loyal. She would never betray Ygraine like this.

“Twenty one years,” Gaius confirms, hearing the question despite the silence. “Uther passed away only hours ago.”

He bows his head.

“Camelot is in your hands.”

Ygraine doesn’t hear him, not really, because she notices a weariness in his eyes that betrays something larger. Something that he doesn’t want to tell her.

Worse than the death of her husband? Being betrayed by her closest friend? The loss of twenty-one years with her children?

Ygraine’s voice is hoarse when she speaks. “We’ve been friends for years, Gaius. You cannot hide anything from me. Not successfully.”

Gaius cracks a small, hollow smile, before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His hands tremble.

“Uther sought a terrible vengeance in your name.”

Ygraine’s heart sinks. Her suspicions sit in her stomach, cold and confirmed.

“For a time, it appeared as though you were never going to wake up. Uther accused Nimueh of killing you, and she refused to lift the spell keeping you asleep. Magic has been forbidden in Camelot ever since.”

Gaius is being gentle, for which Ygraine is grateful, but she knows there must be more to it. She ignores this in favor of a more pressing question.

“What became of Nimueh?”

Gaius hesitates. Ygraine knows the answer, so she doesn’t wait for it.

“By Uther’s hand?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few hours ago. They were found in the throne room. Nobody heard much of anything, but the two were…” Gaius shudders, and his brow knits together in visible discomfort. “They were mangled, my lady. Whatever happened in there was personal.”

The information hangs in the air. It’s heavy, but easily digestible in a way that Ygraine wishes she didn’t understand. Nimueh and her husband had always circled each other like wolves, and to find out that they’d been each other’s end felt like the conclusion their relationship was always bound to come to.

“The letter,” Ygraine remembers suddenly. “I wrote the king a letter. He was meant to open it after Arthur was born.”

Gaius’s face is blank, so Ygraine points to the desk with a sharp, frantic gesture.

“It was in the drawer. Top left side.”

Gaius rises from his chair and crosses the room slowly. He reaches down and opens the drawer, and there is a brief sound of shuffling papers before he produces a piece of parchment. His back grows rigid and he makes no move to return to Ygraine.

“Gaius?”

Gaius shakes his head and wipes his brow with a hand.

“It’s… my lady, it’s still sealed.”

Ygraine bows her head. Takes it in. Accepts it.

“May I see my children?”

“I’ve sent for Arthur to be brought here,” Gaius assures her.

“Twenty one years old,” Ygraine muses. “And what of Morgana? She must be twenty six or seven, at least.”

“Morgana?” Gaius repeats. He looks like a startled deer at the name, which Ygraine pretends not to be irritated by.

“Yes. I’d like to see both of my children.”

“She’s not here,” Gaius says, but his voice is hollow. “Arthur will come by as soon as the burial preparations are complete.” He leaves the room soon after, but not before tucking the letter back into Uther’s old desk. His reaction to Morgana’s mention sits in Ygraine’s heart like ice, but she doesn’t allow herself to acknowledge it yet. There’s too much to process and this, inevitably, would only make it harder.

She thinks of her son and tries to smile. She feels cold.

Chapter Text

The first time Arthur ever asked about his mother, Uther froze. His steely eyes had grown soft. The persona which he protected as fiercely as his own kingdom cracked, revealing a look of what Arthur could only describe as resignation. The knowledge that this had been coming, and the loss of a hope that it could somehow be avoided.

Arthur was ten years old when he was finally allowed to see her.

The queen lay in bed, white as the sheets that surrounded her, with a peaceful expression. Her mouth was slightly upturned, and her hands were crossed daintily over her stomach. Her chest rose and fell with even, steady breaths. In the early morning sunlight, bathed in gold and white and smiling serenely, Arthur had been sure his mother was an angel.

He’d remained in the doorway for what seemed like hours, staring at Ygraine in complete awe. He imagined her holding his hand, smiling down at him, laughing softly instead of reprimanding when Arthur would run in the castle hallways. He imagined her reading stories to him, tracing her delicate fingers over his writing assignments and explaining how very proud she was to have a son like Arthur.

With his back to the king, the young prince began to cry.

“You told me she was dead,” Arthur whispered. “She’s breathing.”

The fear that his father would be angry with him crept in immediately, but then Uther spoke in a voice that trembled and Arthur realized he was crying too.

“She’s as good as dead,” Uther managed to say. “Our enemies have ensured that she will never return to me.”

“To us,” Arthur corrected under his breath.

“Always remember who took her away.” The king laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and ushered him from the room.

The words sank in uneasily, and a deep, festering fear took hold in the child’s heart.

Sorcery.

So total is Arthur’s belief in Ygraine’s eternal slumber that, when his father lies in his tomb over ten years later, his mother hasn’t crossed his mind in months.

But then Merlin approaches him with wide eyes and softly, hesitantly, places a hand on his shoulder. His fingers tighten in what Arthur recognizes as reassurance but treats as pity.

“—for you.”

Arthur glances up.

“What?” His voice is harsh and he knows it, can read it in the way Merlin almost reacts but catches himself. It’s too kind. It hurts to be undeserving of it.

Merlin repeats himself in a quiet, steady voice.

“Your mother is asking for you.”

Arthur doesn’t believe him, not really, until he lays eyes on Ygraine himself. He opens the door and freezes, just like his father all of those years ago. He is the same child he was back then, with wide eyes and shaking hands and an urge to run and jump into his mother’s arms. She’s all he has left, now, which makes her even more terrifying to behold.

The woman smiles and extends a hand towards him.

“Arthur,” she says in a voice like the soft whisper of the ocean. It’s as if no time has passed. As if she has been there his whole life, as if she carries that same casual affection that mothers who see their sons every day have, as if there’s no need for a grand reunion because she’s been here the whole time.

Arthur doesn’t say anything. Merlin pushes past him gently and enters the room himself in what would have been a shocking display of disrespect if it had been anyone but him.

Emboldened by Merlin’s actions, Arthur steps over the threshold. He can’t breathe.

“I heard about Uther,” Ygraine sighs. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur doesn’t appreciate being reminded. His father’s face flashes in his mind, bloodied and torn and frozen in an expression of rage. He can’t say anything.

“I want you to have something. Your father never read it. I'd like you to understand where he could not.”

She holds out her hand and offers him an envelope, sealed with the Pendragon crest and bearing his father’s name in small, neat letters. He can’t move, but Merlin seems to understand and grabs it for him. Arthur clasps a hand around Merlin’s wrist and stares for a beat too long, hoping to convey his gratitude without giving too much away. Merlin’s face is blank, but Arthur knows that he understands. He pockets the letter.

“They say Camelot is my responsibility now,” Ygraine says with a pained smile. “But rest assured, it was never my desire to rule. When the time comes, your place will be secure.”

Arthur inclines his head politely but doesn’t respond. Truthfully, he’s relieved. He isn’t ready to rule, not while his father’s body is still warm, but the reassurance that he’ll still be king eventually is a welcome one.

“Your father’s loss weighs on me as well, Arthur,” Ygraine says quietly. “I would share that grief with you, if you’ll allow me.”

She extends her hand.

Arthur can only stare. He opens his mouth to speak but falters, overcome. It occurs to him that this is his mother’s first impression of him. Her only son and heir, the would be king, unable to say a single word. A stab of embarrassment embeds itself in his gut.

Ygraine smiles sadly and retracts her hand. Her icy eyes are unnerving, like she can see right through him. Like she’s thinking the same thing. The embarrassment turns to panic.

“Fine, then. I’ve waited twenty-one years to meet you. I don’t mind waiting a little bit longer.”

She addresses Merlin, then, which seems to catch the servant off guard.

“What’s your name?”

Merlin hesitates, shooting Arthur an asking glance that goes unanswered.

Ygraine’s eyes narrow the longer the silence drags on. Arthur silently begs Merlin to say something, anything, but the other man just stares. Arthur recognizes that it’s hypocritical, but that doesn’t stop the irritation that Merlin chose this particular moment to shut up for the first time in his life.

Merlin raises a hand in a sort of halfhearted wave.

“I’m Merlin.”

“You’re not from Camelot, are you?” Ygraine’s tone is filled with layers of carefully maintained distance, faux-closeness, and even something resembling concern. She is at once Merlin’s best friend and his undisputed superior, as regal as she is reassuring. It’s dizzying. She must have been one hell of a diplomat in her time.

Merlin shifts uneasily. He had always been uncomfortable around the silver-tongued traditions that had remained from Camelot’s earlier years, reflected mostly in the sharp eyes of Uther’s court and advisors.

Occasionally though, he would be forced to endure it during banquets. Noblemen tended to treat Merlin as one would a pet, talking to him more out of a desire for people to see them being kind to servants rather than any genuine attempt to get to know him. It irritated Arthur to no end, especially when they would ignore Merlin’s obvious discomfort. He often gave Merlin excuses to leave, barking orders that meant nothing and asking for things to be brought from his chambers that would take ages to find, especially since they weren’t actually there. Merlin was grateful, and he’d tell Arthur as much, but the Prince would always insist he had no idea what he was talking about.

The way Arthur’s mother speaks is different, though. It’s the way every future king is taught to speak, to avoid both weakness and crassness at the same time. Arthur always thought it was beautiful, in a strange sort of way. It danced around deception while never crossing the line enough to be truly false. It hurts more than Arthur is willing to admit to see Merlin so visibly put off by it.

“No, my lady,” Merlin finally spits out. There’s a strange tilt to his voice. Masking his country accent, Arthur realizes. He glances sideways and finds his friend’s face completely stony.

“And?” Ygraine prompts, sounding a bit impatient. “Where are you from?”

Merlin’s eyes have darkened considerably. “Ealdor, my lady.”

That seems to amuse Ygraine, and she sits up straighter in bed. With her hair falling freely in blonde waves about her shoulders and the casual way she’s dressed, she seems more like a young girl than the imposing Queen of Camelot that she ought to be. The sight eases the worry in Arthur’s gut somewhat.

“How did you get to be the crown prince’s manservant?” Ygraine asks. Her tone is much lighter now.

“He saved my life.” Arthur doesn’t even realize he’s spoken until Ygraine’s head snaps to face him. The urge to spare Merlin any more interrogation wins out over his own fear.

The Queen is smiling wide and Arthur sees so much of his own face in hers that his head spins.

“So you can speak. Tell me, what sort of trouble did you get yourself into? You must have needed saving for a reason.”

Arthur cracks a small smile. She’s getting to him. It’s almost scary how quickly she works.

“Do you remember Lady Helen?” Arthur asks. Ygraine nods.

“She has the finest voice in the five kingdoms.”

“A sorceress assumed her form and staged an attempt on my life,” Arthur explains. “Her dagger would’ve hit me square in the chest if Merlin hadn’t pushed me out of the way. Uther appointed him as my manservant for his bravery.”

“That seems an unusually gracious gift for Uther,” Ygraine muses. “Was he drinking?”

Merlin lets out a startled chuckle that turns into a painfully fake cough. Ygraine laughs, a clear and unburdened sound, and Arthur smiles against his will.

“A little,” he admits. “Camelot was celebrating.”

Ygraine’s eyes light up, and for a moment, it’s easy to imagine her as she must have been in the time before Arthur was born. Beaming by the late king’s side, dressed in a glittering gown, smiling and waving, enjoying one of the hundreds of feasts that Uther used to be prone to.

“What was the occasion?”

“The twentieth anniversary of the end of the Great Purge,” Arthur says. It occurs to him a few seconds too late that Ygraine likely doesn’t know what that means, and the slight frown she gives in response only confirms it.

“The Great Purge?” Ygraine repeats.

“After I was born, Father sought to avenge what was done to you,” Arthur explains, trying his best to keep a delicate tone. “He hunted down every sorcerer in the kingdom.”

“Hunted down?” Ygraine’s voice shakes, but it carries more anger than Arthur had expected. He falters.

“They were burnt at the stake. Some fled. Others, like Gaius, repented and were allowed to remain at court.” The longer Arthur talks, the more Ygraine’s demeanor changes. Her back is perfectly straight and her eyes are narrowed and cool.

“You considered that a fit occasion to celebrate?” Her voice worms its way into Arthur’s gut and something resembling guilt digs its claws into his skin.

“It was Father’s tradition, I just—”

“Now that I am Camelot’s sole regent,” Ygraine says in a low voice. “Your Father’s wrongs will be righted. His traditions will rest with him. Is that understood?”

The diplomatic voice is back, but it’s different. It’s the one Uther used when he would read declarations of war, order executions, and reprimand Arthur. It’s matter-of-fact, it’s distant, and it’s cold.

Merlin and Arthur exchange a startled look. Arthur takes a hesitant step closer to the bed but is stopped by an icy look from Ygraine.

“My lady—”

“‘Mother’ is fine.”

“Mother,” Arthur corrects. “Please. You’ve been asleep for several years; Camelot is not as you left it.”

“I’ve gathered as much.”

“I would ask that you allow the court to explain the state of affairs before you make any decisions.”

“No.” Ygraine smiles politely, impersonally, and looks towards Merlin. “Please, escort my son out of here.”

Arthur and Merlin bow and leave the room side by side, not daring to speak until they are far from the Queen’s door.

“She’s a lot like you,” Merlin remarks once they’re out of earshot.

“Stubborn? Headstrong? Reckless?” Arthur snaps.

Merlin blinks.

“I was going to say much nicer things, but I suppose that works.”

When they reach Arthur’s chambers, the prince takes a deep breath. He reaches into his pocket and produces the letter with his father’s name on it. Merlin frowns.

“Will you ever read it?”

“Your voice,” Arthur says, ignoring him.

Merlin cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed by the change in subject. He lets it slide, though.

“What about it?”

“You were talking differently.” Arthur shoots him an accusatory glance that Merlin dismisses with an eye roll. “My mother went to sleep years before Cenred made himself an enemy of Camelot.”

“Did she?” Merlin isn’t listening. Arthur’s irritated, but ultimately grateful for the distraction.

“She won’t fault you for being from his kingdom. You don’t need to—“

“That’s how my mother taught me to speak to nobility,” Merlin interrupts, and it’s almost harsh. Arthur raises his eyebrows, completely taken aback.

“You never spoke to me like that.”

Merlin turns and looks at him as though he’s stupid, and Arthur can’t help but wonder if it’s justified.

“I didn’t know you were royalty until after our first meeting, and by that point I didn’t think it necessary to waste my efforts on you.”

Arthur’s struck by a strange urge, then. He wants to explain himself. He wants to tell Merlin that he’s only trying to admit that he likes how Merlin talks, even if it sounds strange next to his mother’s practiced diplomacy. That’s a rude way to put it, but it’s all Arthur knows how to say without giving away more than he’s comfortable with. Because yes, he can explain that his mother is colder and stranger than he had hoped for. He can describe how the way Merlin pronounces his vowels is comforting in a way, and to suddenly be deprived of it had made meeting his mother seem even stranger, but of course that’s not really fair. Merlin’s voice should have nothing to do with it, but it does, and that isn’t Merlin’s fault. It certainly feels like Merlin’s fault, though, and Arthur has half a mind to act on that feeling, but he’s stopped by the look on Merlin’s face that dissolves his racing thoughts like a cloud of smoke.

He’s grinning, which means he’d seen it all. Every single thought Arthur had, probably splayed across his face in devastating detail.

Merlin’s eyes fall to the floor and flit back up to Arthur’s face, and something in his gaze softens. He points to the letter. “So? Are you going to read it or burn it?”

Arthur feels sick. He’s aware of just how transparent he is in Merlin’s eyes and just how badly he wishes he wasn’t. To make matters worse, Merlin doesn’t seem to mind. Even now he just stares with a bored expression, blue eyes narrowed in mock derision.

Arthur extends his hand and waits for Merlin to take the letter from him.

Merlin nods and places the letter into his own pocket.

“I’ll leave it on your desk.”

He understands. Even when Arthur himself cannot, Merlin always understands.

Chapter Text

Merlin never thought he’d see the day.

That isn’t entirely true, because of course he had always believed that Arthur would change his mind about magic someday, no matter how long it took. Hell, if he didn’t believe that, his life would be even more depressing than it usually is. So he believed, because there wasn’t another choice.

But now, with no warning, another choice has fallen into his lap. And Merlin isn’t sure how to feel about it.

He stands at the back of the throne room, dressed in stuffy formal clothing that he’d borrowed per Arthur’s request. The other servants beside him are completely stoic and seem determined to become part of the wall itself. Merlin and Gwen are the exceptions, since their closeness to the royal family affords them a leniency that the other servants don’t get. Their eyes shift back and forth, frequently meeting each other and exchanging nervous smiles.

“I can’t believe it,” Gwen whispers at one point. “I don’t believe it.”

Merlin’s inclined to agree, but he says nothing. Finding out Ygraine was to be crowned this evening was no surprise; even though her power had come from her marriage to Uther, there would still need to be a formal transfer to avoid confusion. Merlin suspects it also functions as a dig at her son; her official coronation will leave little room for Arthur to object, and since it is occurring so soon after she “rose from the dead,” any protest from Arthur would come off as a power grab. Ygraine knows this, of course. Merlin hasn’t spent much time with her, but it’s obvious she is well-versed in dealing with the type of court Uther has created in her absence.

What is a surprise, however, is what Ygraine intends to do at the coronation. Arthur had let it slip the other day after a particularly tense meeting with his mother. Merlin hadn’t even reacted, mostly because he had assumed Arthur was just catastrophizing as usual. The day has arrived, though, and it seems as if Arthur was telling the truth.

Arthur stands before the crowd, dressed in garish formal robes and a long crimson cape. The crown on his head pales in comparison to the one in his hands.

Kneeling before him is Ygraine. She wears a dazzling blue gown embroidered with silver charms and geometric patterns. With her icy blonde hair and the wintry tones she’s adorned in, the warm gold and red of the rest of the crowd seem to be at odds with the new Queen.

Perhaps that’s a good thing, Merlin thinks.

He feels a phantom sense of betrayal, as if the thought goes against his very nature.

“I crown you Ygraine, Queen of Camelot,” Arthur says with a small smile. It’s a fake smile, and both Merlin and Gwen know it. They exchange a tense look.

The crown, despite being gold, looks strangely at home in Ygraine’s monochromatic ensemble. She turns to the crowd and smiles brightly, and the guests erupt into cheers. It isn’t long before “Long live the queen!” is heard, and the throne room dissolves into chanting.

Merlin joins in, though he feels as if he’s betraying Arthur by doing so. Gwen doesn’t seem to have the same reservations.

“Do you think she’ll go through with it?” Gwen asks over the roar of the crowd. Her eyes are alight with something resembling excitement, and Merlin can't help but smile. He’d told her what Arthur had said, naturally. Merlin makes it a point to tell her everything he can, telling himself that it makes up for the things that he can’t.

“I hope so,” he says, allowing her to see behind the curtain, just for a second.

Gwen smiles wide and wraps a hand around his wrist. She squeezes tightly and pulls him into a sort of awkward one-armed hug.

“Me too,” Gwen says, quiet enough that Merlin almost misses it.

Merlin wonders if she knows about his magic. He’s not sure, but for the first time in years, the uncertainty doesn’t frighten him.

When the cheers die down, Ygraine bows to her people and allows a serious expression to cross her face. Geoffrey steps forth from the crowd, carrying a large sheet of parchment and a quill. When Ygraine speaks, he begins to write.

“It is my greatest wish to honor my husband’s memory by fulfilling my responsibilities as Camelot’s protector and guiding our people through these difficult times.”

She closes her eyes and sighs. Merlin thinks he defects a hint of falseness in the melodrama, but it scarcely matters if Ygraine is going to say what he thinks she’s going to say.

“To do this, I believe there are wounds which Camelot has suffered that need to be healed. In striving for justice, we have hurt our own people. This must be rectified.”

Merlin can’t breathe. Gwen grabs his wrist again and doesn’t let go. Beside Ygraine, Arthur is completely unreadable. His back is completely straight, his eyes are focused on an invisible point in the distance, and his face is blank to an unnerving degree.

“The families of every single sorcerer killed during the Great Purge will receive financial compensation from the Crown,” Ygraine continues, ignoring the gasps from the crowd. “If, like many of the victims, there are no living relatives, the help which would have gone to their families will instead be given to the people of Camelot. It will be divided evenly amongst the residents of the lower town, with greater amounts to be given to those with children or other circumstances which increase their need.”

The crowd murmurs confusedly. Arthur lowers his eyes to the floor. Standing beside Ygraine, bathed in red and wearing his father’s face, Arthur is a symbol of Camelot’s past. If the people are to believe in a future beyond him and what he represents, they must see Arthur being in sync with Ygraine. Despite this, Merlin believes his regret is genuine. The prince has never agreed with the amount of blood on his father’s hands; it follows that he would support Ygraine in this decision.

Something like hope flutters in Merlin’s chest.

“The minimum amount of compensation per person will be set at five thousand gold pieces.” The murmurs grow angry, but Ygraine is undeterred. She continues in a strong, even tone. “This does not make up for the losses these families suffered, nor does it erase the stain that the Purge has left on Camelot’s heart. My hope is not to forget these sins, but to express our deepest apologies and promise a future that is free of violence for Camelot’s magic users. I imagine a future where sorcerers are not only welcomed, but protected.”

The room is dead silent. Merlin’s heartbeat is all he can hear.

Ygraine looks towards Arthur for a moment, who responds with a blank stare. They stand as mirror images of the other, equally imposing and equally unyielding. Arthur’s eyes are cold. Ygraine’s are fiery.

Several uncomfortable moments pass, during which no one dares speak.

Arthur looks away.

Ygraine smiles triumphantly and faces the front.

“From this day forward, the ban on magic is lifted.”

The crowd is still silent. Nobody knows what to do. Gwen and Merlin hold each other’s hand tightly, shocked beyond words.

Merlin’s legs feel weak. It’s every emotion at once, all in startling waves that push him back and forth with no reprieve. The prophecy cannot be wrong, because it’s all he knows. Arthur is fated to bring magic back to Camelot and Merlin is fated to help him. This situation, while a welcome change, goes against everything he knows (hopes) to be true.

Is it Ygraine? Was her death part of the prophecy? Did her survival change the future? Is it possible?

Does it matter?

Merlin links an arm around Gwen in an effort to stay standing. She barely acknowledges it, shellshocked as she is.

“Finally,” Ygraine continues with a ceremonial raise of her arms. “I’m organizing a banquet. We will ask the Druids to send representatives to discuss proper peace talks and compensation. Every sorcerer in Camelot who feels safe may join, although there is no obligation, and I will extend invitations to every corner of the five kingdoms. My reign will begin with the breaking of bread, not the spilling of blood.” Ygraine nods towards Geoffrey when she’s finished, who stops writing.

Ygraine gives Arthur a pointed look and leaves as the crowd begins to disperse. Arthur remains where he is, smiling politely. The smile still isn’t real.

As the crowd disperses, something in the prince’s eyes grows sharp.

He’s furious, Merlin realizes, and the brief flutter of hope in his chest disappears. A stab of grief forces him to avert his eyes.

Then, a second realization:

This is going to hurt.

Chapter Text

The hovel is dark and smells of rain, and Morgana is twenty-seven years old.

She doesn’t know if a year has passed yet. She’s long since given up on keeping track of the days, and really, it hasn’t mattered in a long time. But still she wakes up, three months after her father’s death, and she knows.

Her bones shift strangely. The wind is cold. She misses her mother. She is twenty-seven.

The forest outside her window is all mist and shades of grey. Morgana used to love fall; the feasts and holidays and chilly air were always the backdrop for some of her fondest memories. Now, it brings her as much joy as a sunny spring afternoon, which is to say, none at all.

Her solitude is as much a mental state as it is a physical one.

Morgana senses the crow before she sees it, looping gracefully around the treetops in a flurry of feathers and figure eights. She almost smiles.

Morgana had been expecting to hear from her spy in Camelot for days. She was a young girl named Sif who worked in the kitchens, and although she barely interacted with any members of the royal family and was therefore useless for most purposes, her insight was often helpful in keeping Morgana up to date on general information regarding Camelot.

Ideally, she thinks bitterly, Gwen would be her spy. Or better yet, would be out here with her. She’s the only one Morgana allows herself to miss. The ache feels nice.

Morgana stretches her arm out and allows the crow to land on it.

“You’ve come a long way, my brave friend,” Morgana coos. “Thank you.” She gives its beak a little tap and begins untying the message from around its leg. The crow hops off her arm and flutters down to the floor as Morgana begins to read the piece of parchment.

Her blood runs cold.

A dead queen thawed. Magic is legal. A banquet in two weeks time.

Morgana sinks to the forest floor and remains there, staring at the moss and ignoring the cold that creeps into her skin like venom. Hours pass. The crow saunters back and forth, seeming confused as to why he hasn’t received another letter.

Morgana doesn’t notice; she’s rereading one line over and over.

Prince Arthur appears to support her decision wholeheartedly.

Tracing those words with her eyes feels like picking a scab. Arthur, a changed man. Her brother, accepting magic with open arms. Why now? Morgana saw the look on his face when her own magic was revealed; she’s acutely aware of the disappointment that has colored every mention of her in court since she left.

No, it makes no sense. It happened too fast.

Which means, Morgana thinks to herself with increasing anger, that it isn’t true.

If Morgana knows her brother, and she does, he’s just being his horribly diplomatic self and pretending he isn’t upset. His hatred of magic, of Morgana, will never change. It’s impossible.

But perhaps he has changed, a small voice whispers. I can go home. I don’t have to fight anymore. I can have a family again.

Uther’s face rises to answer it, until it becomes Arthur’s, and then Morgana’s own. She squeezes her eyes shut but the images don’t disappear. She digs her fingers into the dirt beneath her and breathes deeply, trying to reign in her thoughts that swirl like a hurricane and threaten to swallow her whole.

And then the face is Vivienne.

Or at least, what she imagines her mother to look like. Dark hair, like Morgana’s, with soft green eyes and a gentle smile. She wears a white gown, which Morgana believes to be a little on the nose, even for a hallucination.

Then her mother’s smile grows unnaturally wide. It’s wolfish and sharp, and she looks even more like Morgana than before. From where she stands, towering over her daughter, Vivienne speaks in a voice that drips with hatred.

“Ygraine.”

Morgana shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut, but her mother’s eyes remain burned into her memory.

“She took care of me,” Morgana says weakly.

The image of Vivienne scoffs.

When Morgana looks down, the plants beside her hands have turned to ash. She takes it as a sign.

Arthur cannot change. If he was capable of change, it would have happened already. He would have found the humanity in Morgana, would have cared enough to look, would have understood why she needed to rule. But he never did, so he never will. He will still be king someday. He will rule as Uther did. It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t matter.

Morgana makes her decision quickly. Her stomach churns as she pictures the aftermath, the expression that will likely adorn her brother’s face as he realizes what has happened. The blood. The sounds. It will be costly, her people don’t deserve it, and it is necessary. They must not be deceived. They must understand that Arthur Pendragon is a danger, no matter how quiet he is. It isn’t enough to kill him; she needs to kill his name.

She scrawls a note on the back of the parchment.

Get out of Camelot immediately.

The crow flies away.

Morgana closes her eyes and asks the gods for forgiveness.

***

Arthur spends the next few days waiting. Waiting for what, he’s not exactly sure, but he knows something is coming. Sorcerers flood the streets, revealing themselves to have been hiding in every single dark corner in the kingdom. They set off colorful displays of light in the sky to celebrate. They stand in the citadel to cheer Ygraine’s name and conjure flowers to place on the steps. They shake Arthur’s hand when he passes by and throw themselves at his feet. They talk about Uther as though he was a dark cloud that has passed over them, and Arthur grits his teeth and remains silent.

His skin crawls, but he remains firm in his facade.

The day after Ygraine’s coronation, Arthur decides he needs perspective. He goes to Elyan first, believing him to be the most likely knight to tell him the truth. Surprisingly, though, Arthur has to go to great lengths to get Elyan to utter a single word about the matter. His eyes shift back and forth, avoiding Arthur’s, and he clears his throat a few too many times between half-answers and misdirections.

“I’ll ask once more,” Arthur says eventually, after cornering him in the castle hallways for the fifth time that day. “Please. Speak freely.”

Elyan seems defeated. He sighs.

“I left Camelot when I was young. I didn’t grow up fearing sorcery. I still don’t.” Something sad enters his tone, then, and he meets Arthur’s eyes for the first time. “Is that good enough for you, my lord?”

Arthur supposes it is. It has to be, for Elyan refuses to elaborate.

He asks Lancelot next, with similar results. Then Leon, who predictably answers that he believes whatever the crown says to be true. Then Percival, who merely shrugs and says that the people seem to be happy with the decision.

Arthur asks Gwaine, next, who immediately responds that the decision was long overdue and gives Arthur a friendly slap on the shoulder.

He thanks Arthur.

“It wasn’t my decision,” the Prince clarifies quickly, which only makes Gwaine chuckle in that soft, warm way he often does when he’s exasperated. It catches Arthur completely off guard.

“I know, Princess,” Gwaine says, smiling. “I’m thanking you for letting it happen.”

The nickname both comforts and unnerves Arthur.

Being thanked for being complicit doesn’t sit well with Arthur, but he plasters on a smile and takes his leave, feeling numb the entire walk back to his chambers.

Merlin’s waiting for him when he arrives. He’s not actually waiting. It’s more accurate to say that he is pretending to do his job while wandering aimlessly. He doesn’t even look up when Arthur enters.

Only when Arthur lets out a heavy sigh does Merlin’s head snap to face him.

“What is it?” His expression is blank. Probably a good thing.

Arthur opens his mouth to ask the question, but closes it. He imagines Merlin’s eyes lighting up with a playful twinkle, teasingly explaining that he’s never feared magic, and that he’s been waiting for Arthur to figure it out. He would talk to Arthur as one would a child, now that Arthur was stripped of any promise of total royal authority that would give any sane man pause. Arthur imagines Merlin laughing, finally being allowed to admit that the punchline all these years had always been Arthur himself. Nobody has ever feared magic, he would say. Your father spread his people’s blood onto your hands and told you a story to justify it. It’s as simple as that. Now that he’s dead, things can finally be better. You’re just like him, only you have Ygraine to stop you from ending up even worse. You would’ve grown up to be a paranoid murderer, someday, just like him, if Ygraine hadn’t come back. You should be thanking her.

Why aren’t you thanking her?

“Leave me.” Arthur makes a weak gesture to the door.

Merlin hesitates, looking concerned, but eventually obeys without so much as a snarky comment. Arthur decides he’s grateful for that.

He falls asleep that night missing his father.

***

When Arthur wakes up, he’s tied to a chair. Not ideal.

Sitting across from him is Morgana. She doesn’t seem to notice that he’s awake yet; she’s sitting cross legged atop the chair, a massive book that appears centuries old balanced between her knees. Her head is bowed over it and she’s squinting, mouthing the words to herself as she reads.

She looks terrible. It’s been a long time since Arthur’s seen her, but the woman before him doesn’t resemble the one in his memory at all.

Arthur takes in his surroundings. He has to escape, he remembers. He has a kingdom to save from ruin. Friends to get back to. People who will miss him.

The floor is dirt, as are the walls. Wooden shelves filled with jars of varying shapes and sizes line the walls, reflecting strange multicolored lights onto every surface. All of the light Arthur can see is coming from behind him. She’s placed him directly in front of the door, likely to ensure that he can’t see enough to plan an escape.

Morgana snaps the book shut abruptly, startling Arthur out of his thoughts.

She looks up. Her black hair falls in tendrils around her face, obscuring the cruel smirk slightly.

“It’s only been an hour or two. Nobody knows you’re here. I made sure of that.”

“I’d rather skip the small talk, if it’s all the same to you,” Arthur says. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

Morgana cocks an eyebrow.

“You’re in a worse mood than normal. Is having a mother not as fun as you originally thought?”

Arthur’s not sure what exactly is going on in his head, but all he can manage in response to the situation is a tinge of sorrow. He feels groggy, and has enough presence of mind to wonder if Morgana has used some sort of enchantment on him.

It doesn’t matter either way. He’s going to escape. It’s as simple as that.

“Just tired,” Arthur decides to say. “You interrupted my beauty sleep.”

Morgana’s smile in response is almost delicate.

“I hate you, you know,” she says, and Arthur’s struck by the honesty. It’s not the statement that gives him pause, it’s the fact that she feels the need to say it at all. Like it’s not simple. Like there was a moment, no matter how brief, where she wasn’t sure if he already knew.

Some of this must show on Arthur’s face, because Morgana scoffs.

“You’re my brother,” she says by way of explanation. “I hate you for the same reason I love you.”

“Because you have no choice,” Arthur finishes for her. It’s a sentiment he’s grown used to.

She doesn’t reply.

Arthur turns her words over in his mind. Flips them over, inspects them, tries them on for size. He wouldn’t feel comfortable saying he hates Morgana. It doesn’t seem true. Any time he’s hurt her has been by accident, before he knew the extent of her suffering, or else born out of increasingly childish attempts to bring her back into the light. He tells himself if he looks her in the eyes for long enough, if he holds on tight enough, if he pleads desperately enough, something in her will surface. Something that he recognizes.

But it never does. She’s a stranger. She’s his sister.

Arthur strains against the ropes that bind him. He knows escape is one of two options, and he doesn’t fancy the alternative.

Morgana glances over.

“Magic,” she supplies lazily. “You’re not getting out. Sorry.” Her eyebrows come together after she finishes speaking, as if the apology tastes bitter on her tongue. Her eyes dart sideways and a voice inside Arthur’s head that sounds like his father cries out weakness.

Arthur considers exploiting it.

The knights of Camelot are already on their way. The death they give you will not be dignified. You will be forgotten and I will make sure of it.

We’re family. Please.

You could come home. There can still be a place for you.

Arthur can’t pick one, because they’re all too cruel. He hates himself for coming up with them so quickly. He hates himself for not being able to say them.

Morgana watches him carefully, green eyes narrowed. She scoffs, and something resembling disbelief flashes in her gaze.

“Mercy,” she observes. She lets out a humorless chuckle.

Arthur has nothing to say to that, because she’s right. Camelot’s future is at stake and his road may very well end here, but he can’t bring himself to be cruel to Morgana. She’s his sister. That shouldn’t be enough, but it is.

Morgana sighs. Shakes her head.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to return the favor,” she says. “I haven’t even told you why you’re here.”

“You mean to kill me,” Arthur says, because it’s obvious.

“Eventually. That’s the second item on the list.”

“And the first?”

Morgana doesn’t respond. Arthur realizes he’s afraid. He hopes she doesn’t notice, but the glint in her eyes says otherwise.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks. His voice is steady. He’s grateful.

“I want you to understand how stupid you sound,” Morgana says, smiling in a way that’s almost fond. “It wouldn’t be very smart to explain my plans to you before you’ve had a chance to complete them for me, would it?”

Morgana whispers a word in a language Arthur doesn’t recognize and his jaw snaps shut. A coldness spreads through his blood, tainting the edges of his vision green for just a moment before it returns to normal. His mouth tastes bitter.

Morgana shoots him a look that drips with disgust.

“You may have your people convinced, but you’ll never fool me. Men like you don’t change. You can’t.”

Before Arthur can protest, everything goes black.

Chapter Text

When he wakes, it’s to the sight of Merlin, wide eyed and anxious. Everything feels foggy. Arthur wonders if he’s dreaming. If this is heaven.

When Merlin registers that Arthur is awake, his lips part into a smile, electric and raw with pure relief. Arthur realizes he must be alive, for nothing else could look so much like coming home.

“You’re alright,” Merlin reassures him. It sounds like a prayer the way he says it. A thanksgiving and a plea and a funeral march, all wrapped into one. Merlin always had a way of talking like that. Like his words meant everything. Or maybe they meant nothing, and Arthur was just hanging on his every word the way he always had. Such things didn’t seem to matter right now. “Are you hurt? Can you hear me?”

Arthur looks up at him, dazed and confused, but manages a dismissive wave of his hand that seems to ease Merlin’s worry somewhat. He glances around, sees a few other shapes that must be people. They’re blurry and nebulous but draped in Camelot’s colors. The knights, probably. Hopefully.

“Are you hurt?” Merlin repeats, sounding far off, and Arthur cuts him off with another wave of his hand.

“Morgana. She was here.”

Merlin sucks in a startled breath but otherwise doesn’t react. Some of the shapes behind him murmur amongst themselves and make their way towards the door, giving Arthur reassuring pats on the arm as they go.

“They’re going to make sure she’s not lurking nearby,” Merlin explains. He’s looking at Arthur in a way that makes the Prince feel exposed, somehow. “What happened to you?”

Arthur shrugs, blinking the fog out of his field of vision. Merlin’s eyes cut through the haze, steady and intense.

“Kidnapped. She didn’t exactly explain how she did it.”

One of the knights chuckles. It sounds like Elyan.

“Are you hurt?” Arthur asks before he can come up with a good reason why he’d need to ask. Merlin shrugs and mercifully doesn’t comment on the urgency in his tone.

“I've had a massive headache since we found you, but not much else to report.”

Then, with a shaky grin.

“You look terrible.”

Merlin reaches forward, towards Arthur’s wrist. The second his fingers make contact, he cries out in pain and snatches his hand back as though he’s been burned. One of the knights takes a panicked step forward, bringing his stricken face into focus. Lancelot. Arthur opens his mouth to ask if Merlin is alright, but the words die in his throat.

“Sorry. I don’t… Something happened.” Merlin seems disturbed. He makes a move to grab Arthur’s wrist again but seems to think better of it. He coughs, places his hands in his lap, and rises to his feet. He sways, braces his hand against the dirt wall and coughs again. Something like fear penetrates his expression.

“I don’t…” He blinks slowly, like he can’t focus his gaze.

“Can you–?” Merlin gestures towards Lancelot, who nods. Arthur feels strong hands hook themselves beneath his armpits and drag him to his feet as if he weighs nothing. An impressive feat, Arthur thinks distantly. His head feels heavy, and, forgoing embarrassment in favor of the exhaustion that still threatens him, he allows it to rest on Lancelot’s shoulder.

“She did something to me,” Arthur mumbles. His voice sounds far away. “Magic.”

His vision greys out.

Arthur hears Merlin whisper his name, voice fraught with concern, and a hand brushes a strand of sweaty hair from his forehead. He leans into the touch instinctively, forgetting himself, before Merlin screams. Immediately, all hell breaks loose.

He is lowered roughly to the ground and the sound of panicked voices calling out Merlin’s name cuts through the ringing in his ears. Arthur reaches out a hand blindly.

“Don’t touch him,” somebody snaps. It sounds like Gwaine. His arm is pulled back, assumedly away from Merlin.

“Is he alright?” Arthur tries to pull himself up to no avail. Nobody answers. He can’t see. He hears swearing and the shuffling of feet and the sounds of the knights clashing against one another in their panic.

“–to Gaius.”

Someone makes a sound like an animal being stepped on, followed by a harsh wheeze and a fit of wet coughs. Arthur panics.

“Merlin?” A rough hand on his shoulder pins him down.

“Sorcery wouldn’t have caused this.”

A sound like a bucket of water being dumped into the grass. A warm feeling on Arthur’s hands. A rancid, metallic smell.

“Oh gods…”

“Get him on his side. He’s going to choke.”

“Get him away from me,” Merlin’s voice cries out, raw and filled with fear. “Get him away from me.”

***

Ygraine is dangerously close to losing her composure.

Gaius explains the situation concisely, professionally, obviously trying to keep the tremors from the edge of his voice. She pities him, but it doesn’t do much to stop the faint annoyance with which she regards the news. The banquet is days away. Her entire reign rests on its success. She likes Merlin, truly she does, but being queen officially comes with a new set of priorities. And besides, it doesn’t seem like something the Crown should be concerned with.

Which means, Ygraine reminds herself gently, that the boy’s condition is something which Gaius cannot fix himself. Not even with magic.

This thought allows her to keep listening, lips pursed in thought and nodding when appropriate. Gaius is her friend. She needs to be present.

“It appears to be tied to your son,” Gaius explains, and Ygraine goes rigid in her seat. This has caught her attention in a most unwelcome way. She glances around, ensuring that no one else is in Gaius’s chambers.

Ygraine allows a hint of real concern to penetrate her expression.

“Why would Arthur have anything to do with Merlin’s ailment?”

“It gets worse the closer Arthur is to him,” Gaius explains quietly. “We had to move him into Gwen’s home to keep them far enough apart. The closer Merlin gets, the more deadly his symptoms become.”

Ygraine hums, taking that in. “What sort of symptoms?”

“Bleeding, mostly. We’re not sure what would have happened if they’d stayed together, though. The knights that were with them brought them home in two groups. They had to leave an hour apart for Merlin to be well enough to walk.”

Ygraine cocks an eyebrow.

“Any wounds?”

“None.”

“Where did the blood come from?”

“He…” Gaius coughs, looking uncomfortable. “It came from his mouth. It was too much to be from his stomach.”

Gaius’s tone suggests it isn’t a simple case of internal bleeding, so Ygraine doesn’t ask. The image of Merlin, pale in the face and gagging on his own blood in the dirt, flashes in her mind. She winces outwardly before she can stop herself, an expression that Gaius mirrors.

“Is it magic?”

Gaius sighs, and it’s obvious that this is the real reason Ygraine has been called here. She has a guess, of course, but she waits to hear it from his mouth.

“The Lady Morgana,” he admits quietly. His face looks as though it is being pulled towards the floor for how miserable he appears.

Ygraine closes her eyes, her suspicions confirmed. She can’t tell if she cares just yet. Ever since waking up, she’s felt dull. Out of step with the world around her. Every action is calculated, every word filled with new and unthought of implications that she hasn’t been alive to learn about. Her daughter’s betrayal doesn’t make sense. Nor does her son’s cold demeanor. Nor does Gaius’s fearful expression. It’s all new and it’s all old and Ygraine is exhausted.

She settles, as she always does, on the future.

“Arthur is healthy?”

“I’m told so.”

“Morgana must have a reason for targeting Merlin.” She gives Gaius a meaningful look which he returns uneasily. “You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

Gaius knows. Ygraine can read it as clear as day in every slight shift of his eyebrows, every twitch of the corner of his mouth. She wonders if he’ll lie to her.

“Yes,” Gaius replies, shocking both of them. Ygraine smiles. It’s a real smile.

“Well?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t my place to share.”

That intrigues Ygraine. She narrows her eyes.

“That leaves few options as to what it could be. You must recognize that.”

Gaius’s voice is calm.

“Quite clearly, my lady.”

Ygraine nods once and rises to her feet.

She places a hand on Gaius’s shoulder and smiles. Some of the fear melts from his gaze, but it still remains at the edges of his expression.

“Thank you, Gaius. You’re a loyal friend to us all.”

Then, returning to business:

“Regardless of what she knows, I fear it will ruin Arthur. Have you seen him? How is he feeling?”

“No, but I’ve been assured that he’s perfectly healthy, my lady.”

“I asked how he was feeling,” Ygraine urges. “He almost killed his best friend.”

Gaius looks slightly guilty, but he manages a placating smile that Ygraine decides she’s grateful for.

“I’ll send Guinevere.”

“Arthur hangs off of every word that boy says,” Ygraine muses, not intending to ignore Gaius but not caring to respond. “I suppose I have my husband to thank for that.”

Gaius blanches.

“My lady?”

Ygraine gestures vaguely and sighs, unable to find the words.

“It’s lonely for us all,” she settles on saying. “But I fear Uther raised a soldier instead of a boy. Merlin speaks to him as an equal. It’s only natural Arthur would cling to the single person willing to meet him where he is.”

“Uther tried his best,” Gaius says, which tells Ygraine everything she needs to hear.

“I must be honest,” she says. “If Morgana knows how important Merlin is to Arthur, and if she means to delegitimize Arthur as an heir or weaken his resolve before attacking Camelot, she’s picked an effective strategy.” Ygraine doesn’t mean to sound impressed, but it must have leaked through because Gaius is looking at her like she’s grown two heads.

Ygraine sighs. There’s no point in retracting her words. She wasn’t lying.

“My lady,” Gaius begins, but he’s cut off by a wave of Ygraine’s hand.

“No more,” she says lightly. “I’m going to see him.”

“Merlin? He’s resting.”

Ygraine shoots him a cold look.

“I’m going to see my son. I suggest you tend to yours. They’ll both need a hand to hold.”

Gaius seems unsure what to do. Ygraine considers apologizing, feels the sting of regret on her tongue, but finds it a useless sentiment. She turns and keeps walking, understanding for perhaps the first time how her husband came to know such fear.

***

Arthur hasn’t left his room for nine days.

The servants that are sent to tend to him don’t talk to him. Not that he wants them to.

Whatever Morgana did to him has grown worse. Merlin has had to be moved three times, which implies that the curse is growing stronger. Currently, he’s staying in Gwen’s house, where he seems to be completely fine.

Arthur hasn’t seen him since he was rescued. Gaius won’t let him anywhere near Arthur, and Arthur isn’t stupid enough to try and visit. If what they say is true, and Merlin’s symptoms were caused by his proximity to Arthur, then he’d be signing Merlin’s death warrant by attempting to visit.

Arthur sits in a chair on the far side of his room, where he knows he is the furthest from the direction of Guinevere’s house. He sleeps there, eats there, and avoids leaving the corner for fear of making anything worse.

Why Merlin? Why not Ygraine? Or Arthur himself? Why would Morgana seek Merlin’s death?

Unless it’s to break him.

Unless Morgana knows. Has seen the pitiful way he flounders without Merlin there to guide him.

This train of thought all but confirms it in his heart.

She wants Arthur to never see him again, for this is when he’s weakest.

It’s strangely easy to admit to himself.

Guinevere is sent in on the tenth day, asking careful questions about his state of mind and making it unbearably obvious that everyone is worried about him. He tries not to snap at her, but the days eat away at his resolve like maggots.

She doesn’t stop trying, though.

On the eleventh day, she sits across from him and passes him a plate which he will eat none of. They both know this.

“I was thinking,” she says brightly, rummaging around in the bag she’s brought with her. “If you can’t see him, I thought it would help to talk to him.”

“I can’t talk to him,” Arthur says. His voice is hoarse from disuse. Gwen notices, because she always does. A pained look crosses her face before she shrugs and places a sheet of parchment on his lap.

“Write to him,” she insists with a pat on his wrist. “I’ll be back tomorrow to collect whatever it is you want to say.”

Then she’s gone, and Arthur is cold.

He doesn’t intend to write anything. He’s halfway through deciding to rip the parchment to shreds when he decides he won’t send it. He can write whatever he wants because he doesn’t have to give it to Guinevere.

This thought spurs him forward.

I’m scared, the letter begins, and it’s immediately too much for Arthur. He crosses it out furiously, ripping holes in the parchment with his fervor. He groans out loud, runs a hand down his face, remembers the sound of Merlin’s screams.

I’m sorry, the letter resumes, which feels right. It isn’t his fault, Arthur knows that, but he should have warned Merlin sooner. He should have known when he woke up at all that the curse wasn’t intended for him. He should have been smarter.

This is exhausting.

I wish you were here, he writes. It takes everything in him to keep the parchment intact. He stares at the small black letters, willing them to disappear. To be less true.

It doesn’t work on either front.

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur says to no one.

I don’t think writing this will help. In fact, I know it won’t. You’ll never see this.

Arthur writes it as a reminder to himself, mainly.

My fear is unfounded. You will get over this. So will I. There’s no reason for me to be so upset.

Another thing that doesn’t feel true. He’s making a habit of this.

I hope you don’t hate me.

Too close. He crosses it out.

I’m losing my mind.

Crossed out.

What if I never see you again?

Crossed out twice.

Are you alright?

He leaves this one untouched.

You’re the only one who makes me feel–

Crossed out before the sentence was over. Arthur shudders.

Guinevere seems to think this will help.

True. It can stay.

I miss you.

Crossed out. He thinks for a moment. Rewrites it.

I miss you.

Arthur stares at the words. They feel true. He hates it.

Crossed out.

He feels hysterical. Kings don’t act like this.

But, maybe Princes do. That’s all he is, isn’t it?

I hate you.

Well, that’s not true. He just wanted to see how it felt.

Crossed out.

I–

Crossed out three times.

He hears Merlin’s voice in his head again, raw from screaming and interrupted with retching and the sound of too much blood flowing from his mouth. He feels the phantom touch of a hand on his forehead, and he feels the hands go stiff and cold.

I love you.

Arthur stares at it. The quill remains poised above the page, itching to scratch out the words. His grip tightens. He forces himself to keep writing.

I love you.

He grits his teeth.

I love you.

It’s not true. It can’t be.

I love you.

Arthur imagines himself drowning in the blood that seeps from Merlin’s lips. He imagines Merlin smiling.

I love you.

It isn’t healthy. He doesn’t deserve that.

I love you.

He tastes blood. He’s bitten the inside of his cheek.

I love you.

Men like him don’t get to feel this way.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

When Arthur looks down, the page is covered. A wave of disgust seizes him.

You are obsessive. You are wrong. You are evil and your very presence corrupts.

I love you.

Arthur tosses the parchment into the fireplace.

Chapter Text

Arthur doesn’t let Ygraine into his room. She respects that, of course, but the banquet is in two days and she needs to ensure her son is ready to be seen in public. With his manservant out of commission, she shudders to think what the state of his room is like.

He’s barely said two words to her since she legalized magic, and it’s beginning to weigh on her.

She needs information, but she also needs to feel like there’s a chance she’ll ever have a family again. Not that she’d readily admit that part aloud.

She summons Merlin to her chambers, feeling guilty about the pain it will put him in but promising herself she’ll keep it brief. Nobody informs Arthur, per her orders. It would only complicate things.

Ygraine considers going to Guinevere’s house but quickly dismisses the thought. It may be selfish, but Arthur was kidnapped only days ago. The idea of leaving the palace unnerves her.

“I think you’re my second favorite servant,” Ygraine says the moment Merlin enters the room. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t strictly true; He seems to be the only one who can get through to her son in any meaningful way and she would be remiss if she didn’t at least try to make use of that fact.

Merlin doesn’t look surprised at being addressed so casually by the queen. Interesting.

“You’ve met Gwen by now, so I don’t think I need to guess who number one is.” He smiles weakly and gives a quick bow, as if the etiquette is an afterthought. Even more interesting.

“She’s lovely,” Ygraine agrees. The first time she’d met Gwen was the day of her coronation. Ygraine had asked Gwen to pick her favorite of the gowns at her disposal to wear for her first day as the queen. She had hesitated for only a moment before selecting the gown with a wide smile. The colors were odd for the season. The icy tones and long sleeves bore the feeling of winter. Ygraine thought it was fitting.

“Is there a specific reason you needed to see me, my lady?” Merlin asks. He’s fidgeting nervously by the door, as if waiting to be excused. He carries a blood soaked rag in his hand which he presses to the corner of his lips intermittently. The rag is almost entirely red, with a single white corner betraying its original color. The sight invites a pang of guilt which Ygraine ignores.

“You visited him?” Ygraine phrases it as a question despite the fact that it isn’t. There’s too much blood for him to have come straight to her chambers.

Merlin’s eyes shift sideways.

This amount of suspicion in such a young man seems odd. Ygraine wonders what could’ve caused it.

“Not exactly,” Merlin admits after a lengthy silence. “I just passed by his room.”

“For what reason?”

Merlin’s eyes grow slightly sharp, and he lets out what could be interpreted as an annoyed sigh if he wasn’t talking to the Queen.

“May I ask why I’ve been called here?”

Ygraine smiles. This one is growing on her more and more by the second.

“Arthur seems to like you.”

Merlin’s face melts into a careful neutrality which Ygraine recognizes only because it reminds her so much of herself. He’s hiding something, of course, but everyone at court usually is. This much is expected in Camelot.

“You’re more willing to speak freely than the other servants. Something about my son must have fostered that trust in you.”

Merlin cracks a small smile. Ygraine mirrors the expression.

“He’s your friend?”

“I like to think so.”

“Then please, answer me honestly: is Arthur like his father?”

Merlin startles slightly, and his eyes immediately dart to the side. Ygraine steps forward and hesitantly places a hand on his shoulder. The boy tenses under her fingers, causing her to retract her hand immediately. All facades of familiarity aside, this boy is not her son and it is strange for her to treat him as such. She chastises herself silently for forgetting that.

“You needn’t fear me,” Ygraine says. “I won’t tell anyone what you say. I won’t know if you’re lying to me, and I’m not sure if I care. I don’t need the truth. I just need to know what you believe.”

Ygraine smiles sadly.

“You’ve known him longer than I have.”

Merlin grins at the little joke and Ygraine decides immediately she likes this one. For real, this time.

“You want my opinion?” Merlin asks, and Ygraine nods. The servant takes a deep breath.

“He doesn’t hate magic. He fears it. He’s content to leave the Druids and peaceful practices of the Old Religion alone, but when sorcery is suspected within the kingdom he has always tried to act as Uther would. It’s never without reservations, though. He’s an arrogant, stubborn, dim-witted, short-tempered, childish brat, and he has a nasty habit of misplacing his things and accusing me of moving them around, but he’s a good man.”

“Dim-witted,” Ygraine repeats with a small smile. “You’ve surprised me, Merlin.”

Merlin looks startled but quickly reads that she’s joking and lets out a chuckle.

“He also lets me say those things to his face and he hasn’t cut my head off yet. You should be very proud.”

Ygraine smiles, and it’s realer than any she’s given since waking up.

“Your honesty makes me feel as though I can ask another question of you.”

Merlin nods once, granting permission.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Ealdor,” Ygraine points out gently. “Why is that? If Arthur has made you feel—“

“Arthur has nothing to do with it.” Merlin’s demeanor has changed abruptly; he is stiff and cold and his tone is incredibly clipped.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Ygraine assures him. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t feel as though Camelot was an unwelcome place.”

“I was taught to speak this way by my mother.” Merlin’s voice is still icy, and his wide smile has been replaced with a small, tight-lipped expression of irritation. “Arthur encourages me to speak naturally but I ignore him. Like I always do.”

Ygraine nods.

“Thank you. I hope it goes without saying, but you needn’t change the way you speak around me.”

Merlin lets out a surprised huff.

“Right.”

Then, with a shaky smile, he speaks again.

“May I ask something of you?”

Ygraine takes a seat at the table in her room and gestures to the chair across from her.

“Within reason,” she says.

Merlin lowers himself into the chair, looking uneasy, and crosses his arms. It’s probably meant to look as though he isn’t nervous, but it has the opposite effect. Ygraine finds herself relieved, deep down, that her presence still inspires some sort of unease in her subjects. It isn’t tactical to be constantly beloved, even if she longs to reach out and rest a comforting hand on the boy’s arm.

“I was wondering if I could be excused from the banquet.” Merlin looks up, eyes scanning Ygraine’s face for a reaction.

Ygraine hums.

“For your safety, I assume.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Obviously my answer is yes,” Ygraine says evenly, taking a moment to relish the surprised look on Merlin’s face. “It saddens me that you felt you needed explicit permission.”

“I’m the prince’s manservant. I’ve never missed a banquet before.”

“I’d wager you’ve also never been cursed to die in your prince’s presence before.”

Merlin cracks a grin.

“Fair enough. You’d be surprised, though.”

“If it helps, I’ll order you not to attend,” Ygraine says with a sigh. “If you’re worried about Arthur’s reaction, that is.”

“No, he’d never… I mean, bleeding all over the floor isn’t such a good look. He doesn’t want me there.”

Ygraine hums again.

“I doubt that.”

Merlin doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. He stands from his seat and bows low.

“I don’t mean to cut our visit short, but to put it bluntly, I’m in a lot of pain. May I be excused, my lady?”

His voice tilts down slightly at the end of his words, betraying the barest hint of his home village. Ygraine smiles. He sounds better this way.

“How do you feel about my decision?” Ygraine knows she’s ignoring his request to be dismissed, knows that she’s pushing her luck, but it’s the closest she’s felt to understanding her son in days. This boy is her way in.

Merlin hesitates, his wide blue eyes landing anywhere but on Ygraine’s face.

“Which decision, my lady?”

Ygraine rolls her eyes before she can stop herself. Not very ladylike, but she supposes it doesn’t matter now that she’s the queen. “Ladylike” is a concept which she has full power to redesign. It seems to amuse Merlin, at any rate.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up at the informality, and a shocked grin blooms on his face.

“You sound like Arthur.”

Ygraine pretends as though that doesn’t make her heart soar.

“You sound like you’re dodging the question.”

“I’m from Ealdor,” Merlin says. “Cenred’s land. He never had an issue with magic, so neither did we.”

Ygraine cocks an eyebrow.

“Gaius tells me he favored sorcerers for his army. Forcible recruitment, most of the time.”

Merlin shrugs, and there’s a hint of something unreadable in the way his shoulders tense at the question. He bows again, and makes a move towards the door.

“Why did you leave Ealdor?” Ygraine asks.

Merlin freezes. An answer becomes suddenly, agonizingly clear. Ygraine can’t tell if she hopes it’s the right one or not.

Merlin seems to be paralyzed, staring at her and making several half-movements towards answering, or leaving, or coming back to the table.

He’s in an impossible position, which he seems to recognize. To say nothing is an admission. To lie is an admission. To tell the truth is to tell the truth. Ygraine should feel guilty for trapping him like this, but instead she feels something akin to hope rise in her throat.

Her husband’s claws may yet release themselves from Arthur’s life.

Merlin’s eyes drop to the floor and he takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it. His eyes are misty. Ygraine sees a reflection of herself in him. When she was sixteen, quiet and shy, pledging her life to a man who’d conquered Camelot and left a trail of bodies in his wake that he spoke of like trophies from a hunt. She remembers the way she looked at him, with sad eyes and a sinking feeling that she would never be enough. She remembers the harsh words, the hissed reprimands that insisted wives were meant to support their husband’s decisions, not offer alternatives as if they knew better. For all the violence and the bloodshed and the cities leveled in her name, Ygraine felt that she would always be every bit the trophy that her fallen counterparts were.

She remembers being so desperately in love that she allowed it. She closed her mouth and smiled and pushed down every part of herself that caused problems in the hopes that love really could conquer all.

Merlin’s expression is suddenly all too familiar. Ygraine drops her regal mask entirely and brings a hand to cover her mouth. The truth hits her in ice cold waves, breaking her resolve one million times over. The hope vanishes. She’s sick.

Arthur doesn’t know. Not about any of it.

Ygraine stands slowly, carefully, holding a hand out as if to soothe a wild animal. Merlin isn’t looking at her. Her title, his position, formality, and anything else that has bound her seems to wash away, leaving only grief.

He is not her son, and she is not his mother, but it scarcely seems to matter at the moment.

Ygraine places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and lets the other one rest on the side of his cheek. He allows it, which Ygraine is endlessly grateful for. He feels cold.

“You’re going to be okay,” Ygraine whispers. “I promise.”

She pulls him into a hug.

Long after Merlin has left, Ygraine sits at her desk and stares at the floor. Her shoulder is wet with tears and streaked with blood.

***

The day of the banquet dawns bright and early and Arthur feels like pitching himself off of the castle walls. The last thing he needs in his current state is to make a public address, but he’s not stupid enough to believe he has a say in the matter. Instead, he dresses himself in his least favorite formal attire that also happens to be Merlin’s favorite. Royal blue, purposefully at odds with Camelot’s colors. Fitting, Arthur thinks, given the purpose of the banquet.

Arthur has spent the time he’s been alone in his room retrieving the parchment which Ygraine left for his father all of those years ago from his desk and replacing it over and over. He opens it, reads the first line, and closes it. He repeats this process hundreds of times, never quite managing to get past “If you’re reading this, my love, I have moved on from this world.”

Somebody, probably Gaius, has enlisted George to tend to him on banquet day, which Arthur quickly remedies by being twice as harsh as usual towards him. The man takes it like a champ, to his credit, but it isn’t long before Arthur’s neverending slew of derogatory comments ices him out into an uncomfortable silence.

Arthur misses Merlin.

He apologizes curtly, insists it’s the cold weather, and is secretly impressed that the smile George gives in response is dripping with very poorly concealed hatred. If he’d only allow himself to be a bit less accommodating, Arthur may learn to like him. With a now-silenced George in tow, Arthur makes his way to the banquet hall.

His mother is scurrying around the hall in a similar dress to the one she wore for her coronation. It’s blue and white and incredibly ornate, and her hair is down and falling neatly about her shoulders in blonde waves. A legion of servants are decorating the hall, bathing it in white ribbons and candles and flowers of all colors and sizes.

“Arthur,” Ygraine says, beaming up at him from where she’s furiously helping to drape a white tablecloth over one of the many rows of tables. She swipes a hand across her forehead and Arthur is hit with a pang of fondness that he hasn’t experienced since his father died. He bites the inside of his cheek and smiles.

“Mother. Preparations seem to be going well.”

“Oh, well enough,” Ygraine says airily, dusting her hands off and coming forward to take in Arthur’s appearance. “You look wonderful. Blue suits you.”

Arthur doesn’t know if he agrees, but he thanks her nonetheless.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. Merlin is doing well; Gaius and Guinevere haven’t left his side for a moment. He sends you his best, but for obvious reasons he won’t be joining us tonight.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur says, though he isn’t sure which part he’s glad about. He also doesn’t feel any better, and is rather in a constant state of stress and outside obligations which have forced him back into a shape that vaguely resembles Arthur Pendragon. Not that it’s relevant.

Ygraine rattles off the itinerary for the day and shoves a parchment into his hands that bears her finalized copy of Arthur’s speech. It’s sanitized, boring, and incredibly short, but Arthur can’t rightly blame her for wanting him involved as little as possible.

His job is to wait in his chambers while Ygraine welcomes the guests and hosts the peace talks. On any other day, Arthur would be offended that he isn’t included, but with Merlin’s health and Arthur’s uneasy feelings about the whole matter, he finds it doesn’t bother him.

He’s to be brought in for the “fun” part, giving a short speech about how he’s incredibly happy for Camelot’s new future and then sitting by his mother’s side until the festivities conclude. By usual banquet standards, it’s going to be an easy night for Arthur. He supposes he’s grateful for this; it’s probably an act of mercy on his mother’s part.

Arthur returns to his chambers to work through the speech, informing George that he is to help the kitchen staff and, more importantly, to make sure that Arthur doesn’t see him a single time. George seems more than happy to oblige, and all but sprints out of the door once he’s dismissed.

Arthur reads the speech aloud once.

Valued friends, thank you for joining us. As your Crown Prince, it brings me great joy to see Camelot’s magic users finally being treated with the respect they deserve. I hope that every single one of you here today feels proud of the way you have survived despite great odds against you, and I hope that you know that the time for hiding is over. You are safe, you are free, and you are loved.

It’s quaint. Arthur has to admit that the sentiment is nice, even if the thought of delivering this speech to a crowded room full of sorcerers who have every reason to despise him doesn’t feel like a good idea. If he comes off as disingenuous, what’s to stop them from using sorcery against him? There’d be no way of knowing which sorcerer was responsible, no way of telling which sorcerers were in attendance, so every sorcerer in the kingdom would be a suspect. It would be—

Arthur cuts his train of thought short, figuring that it probably wasn’t healthy to speculate about his own assassination. Normally, that would be Merlin’s job.

The speculation, not the assassination.

Arthur hopes, anyways.

Feeling uneasy, he rereads the speech over and over, getting it almost memorized by the time a servant (Not George, thankfully,) knocks on his door to let him know that he was needed downstairs.

Arthur approaches the doors and pauses, trying to calm his nerves. He hears voices. Laughter. It sounds as though the peace talks went well. There should be no reason for retaliation, he tells himself. Everyone is happy. Why can’t he join them?

Arthur takes a deep breath and eases the doors open.

The hall, bathed in white and blue and gold decorations, immediately erupts into cheers. Arthur blinks. He didn’t expect that.

Every single table is filled to the brim, and dozens more people are standing in the aisles, having no room to sit.

Arthur feels dizzy. There were this many sorcerers in Camelot? And he never noticed? His father never noticed?

Arthur approaches his mother’s table, feeling numb. Ygraine greets him with a wide smile and a warm hand on his elbow.

“My son,” she says, addressing the crowd. “Arthur Pendragon.”

The sorcerers clap and cheer twice as hard and Arthur feels as though he’s dreaming.

Arthur stands up at the front of the room, looks out over the sea of sorcerers, and takes a deep breath. His eyes land on a small child sitting on the floor between tables. The child’s eyes are big and round with awe, and when they look back at Arthur he feels himself smile.

“Valued friends,” he begins. “Thank you for joining us. As your—“

And then a scream breaks out.

A young woman in the front row falls to her knees, and then flat onto her face, letting out a sickening howl of pain as she does so. A puddle of red forms beneath her.

“Get Gaius!” Arthur snaps at a servant, who nods and takes off. Arthur is by the woman’s side in an instant, heart pounding in his ears. He grabs her shoulder and rolls her over to prevent her from choking, but feels a wetness on his hand that causes him to draw back.

Blood pours from her mouth like a fountain, and as Arthur watches, the whites of her eyes turn yellow, and then pink, and settle on a dark and grimy brown that bleeds into her pupils. The crowd of sorcerers erupt into sounds that Arthur can’t process. He’s paralyzed, cradling the woman in his arms as she spasms and bleeds. Spiderwebbed lines of dark red emanate out from her eyes, growing darker and darker until it becomes clear that they were never lines at all; they’re cuts, deep and bloody and growing wider the longer Arthur looks. The woman is still screaming, and the lines begin to separate, leaking blood and viscera onto the stone floor as white flashes of bone peek through her flesh. The same rancid metallic smell that haunted Arthur for days after Merlin’s incident is back in full force, only it mingles with a slightly acidic burn that brings tears to Arthur’s eyes. The woman has stopped screaming, and instead makes intermittent choking noises and whimpers as the lines spread down her throat and across her tongue, splitting the flesh with wet squelches at every turn.

When it’s all said and done, she’s nothing more than a pile of meat.

Arthur looks up, frozen with fear and disgust and every other negative feeling at once, and finally registers the drone of noise in the crowd as gagging.

Every single person in the banquet hall, save for the servants, Arthur, and Ygraine, are doubled over and emptying their stomachs of far too much blood. At first, Arthur thinks it must be from the horror of what they’ve seen, but then the gagging turns to crying and choking and he catches a glimpse of a red face and rust colored eyes. The telltale lines begin to spread on their faces as well.

Arthur hears someone screaming, and it’s only when he looks towards his mother that he realizes it’s coming from him. She’s completely pale, tears streaming down her face, screaming things at him which he cannot hear over the wailing and the wet sounds of flesh against stone.

The crowd loses its height slowly, like a wave, being reduced to piles in agonizingly slow displays of violence. Their skin sloughs off, their eyes fall out, and their insides leak out onto the white tablecloths and render them unrecognizable as human beings. It looks like they’re melting.

After only two or three minutes, the floor of the hall is a sea of red. Bits of flesh and bones and clothing float on top of the mess, and when Arthur reaches out, they dissolve beneath his fingers.

His mother’s voice finally cuts through the haze enough that he can understand her words.

”Get away from them!”

It hits Arthur, suddenly, that this is because of him. The curse was never intended for Merlin.

In trying to embrace his people, he has killed them.

Chapter Text

Morgana feels it happen.

She falls to the floor, crushing the dirt her fingers find in the hopes it will ease the pain, but it doesn’t. It shouldn’t, because she’s the one who caused it and it would be unfair. Not like anything is ever fair, but she’s nothing if not committed to the restoration of something resembling justice. It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt. The phantom sensation of stretching skin, bleeding tongues, cracking bones…

She screams.

She did this to her own people. She did this but it was necessary and they would forgive her if they were alive to understand. She knows they would.

Morgana falls to the floor, overwhelmed by the pain and reduced to a sobbing mess. She probably doesn’t look like the high and mighty future queen that she always envisioned, but there’s really nothing left to do except to endure.

When it’s all said and done, Morgana rises shakily to her feet. She staggers to the shelves and grabs a knife that has been set out ever since she set the plan in motion.

She grips the knife firmly and angles it towards her chest. She looks to the side and sees her mother again.

The image of Vivienne smiles, and brings a hand to the hilt of the knife.

“We’ll do it together,” she says gently. “Either it worked, or you’ll join me. You’ll make me proud either way.”

“Thank you,” Morgana says. She’s surprised by how steady her voice sounds.

When she looks back one last time, though, it’s Ygraine.

Her skin and hair glow unnaturally white in the moonlight. It’s scary how much she resembles Arthur.

“My darling little girl,” Ygraine says, smiling so wide that her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“You’re not real,” Morgana snaps. Her fingers tighten around the dagger.

Ygraine hums.

“Does it matter?”

Morgana supposes it doesn’t. She stifles a sob.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Ygraine whispers, bringing a hand up to stroke the back of Morgana’s hair. It feels real. “You’ll be better than I was. Better than Arthur would’ve been. Better than Uther would have allowed any of us to be.”

“All those people,” Morgana chokes out, and Ygraine shushes her again.

“You’re going to be okay, Morgana. You’re going to do the right thing, in the end. I know you will.”

The image of Ygraine smiles warmly.

“I will be your mother for as long as you need to be my daughter.”

Morgana closes her eyes and rams the dagger into her chest.

She screams, falls to her knees, and brings a trembling hand to the wound.

It’s already gone. There’s no evidence a knife had ever broken the skin

She stops crying out of shock.

It worked.

All of those people. It wasn’t for nothing.

Morgana thanks them, every single one of them, calling out blindly into the trees.

The night doesn’t respond.

She hopes they aren’t in pain anymore.

***

Merlin’s head stops aching in the middle of the night.

He glances over, makes out Guinevere’s sleeping form on the other side of the room.

He doesn’t wake her, just in case.

He takes a few steps out of the door. The city streets are eerily quiet, with only a stray dog or two roaming around between the houses. The sounds of their feet padding against the dirt are all that Merlin can make out.

Everyone else is in their homes, mourning loved ones or packing their things to leave the kingdom. A small number gloat in satisfied silence, grateful that Uther’s ways didn’t truly die with him. The streets are streaked with blood, evidence of the mad dash to try and identify the bodies.

It occurs to Merlin as he walks that he may very well be the last sorcerer in Camelot. The thought makes him sick.

Merlin advances slowly towards the palace, pausing frequently to take stock of his physical state.

There is no pain, no matter how close he gets. He got lucky.

Emboldened, he slips inside and lets his feet carry him up to Arthur’s chambers. There’s guards outside his door, but they recognize Merlin and allow him access without much fuss. He pauses outside the door and considers knocking, but something tells him that Arthur isn’t asleep despite the late hour. He opens the door and steps inside.

At first, he doesn’t even see Arthur, until his eyes land on a small wooden chair in the corner of the room. Sitting in that chair, with haunted eyes and a bloodstained tunic, is Arthur.

There’s still blood all over him. His hands, trailing down his face and neck, soaking through his clothes; it’s a miracle he didn’t leave a trail on the way up here.

When Arthur sees Merlin, pure fear registers in his expression. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

Merlin raises both of his hands and takes another step into the room, ignoring the way Arthur jolts backwards. He’s like a wild animal. Merlin finds he can’t blame him, given what he’s just gone through.

“The curse is lifted,” Merlin says gently. “I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

Arthur doesn’t look convinced. He shakes his head again, points towards the door.

“I’m not leaving,” Merlin says evenly. He hopes the unspoken you at the end of the sentence comes through in his tone.

Merlin takes slow, careful steps forward, moving a few feet every minute. Arthur keeps his eyes locked on Merlin’s every movement, visibly shaking with fear. It hurts to see him like this.

When he’s finally in front of Arthur, Merlin extends a hand and leaves it outstretched between them, silently willing Arthur to close the gap himself.

Arthur’s taking shallow breaths with wide eyes, and he keeps alternating his stare between Merlin’s hand and the floor. It becomes agonizingly clear that he isn’t ready to do it himself.

Slowly, giving Arthur plenty of time to recoil if he needs to, Merlin places his hand on top of Arthur’s. The prince’s hand is sticky with blood.

“I’m okay, see?” Merlin whispers, ignoring the churning in his stomach. “It’s gone. The curse is gone.”

Merlin feels Arthur relax ever so slightly.

“I’m going to clean you up, alright?” Merlin keeps whispering, narrating everything he’s doing to fill the silence and distract Arthur from thinking about what’s happened. He can’t tell if it’s helping, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind.

Merlin leaves and returns a few times in order to draw him a bath, and then sets to work peeling off the layers of blood soaked clothing and setting them aside.

Arthur is completely rigid beneath his fingers and offers little help in removing the garments, but Merlin doesn’t mind.

He begins taking off the jacket Arthur is wearing, and notices with a stab of despair that it’s Merlin’s favorite. Originally blue, the amount of blood contained in the fabric makes it appear black.

Merlin wonders how many people are contained within it.

The white tunic underneath has been turned a dark, rusty brown. Merlin unties the strings quickly, trying to pretend as though he isn’t bothered by the blood.

There’s too much of it.

Merlin finishes off the rest of Arthur’s clothes and carefully helps him into the bath. He then busies himself with Arthur’s back, which is the least bloodied area. The rag cuts through the splashes of dried blood with little difficulty, and it isn’t long before the smooth expanse of skin is looking brand new again.

He focuses his attention on Arthur’s face and neck, next.

“Look up for me,” he murmurs, and Arthur obeys. Merlin wets the rag again and begins to rub small, firm circles into the streaks of red beneath Arthur’s jaw. Then, he moves up and attempts to tackle the blood on Arthur’s face, which is thick and tacky and shaped eerily like a handprint.

Arthur looks him in the eyes the entire time, his expression fraught with pure, unfiltered adoration. Merlin can’t hold his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time.

Merlin lifts up one of Arthur’s arms and scrubs the undersides, and then the shoulder down to the elbow, and then focuses his attention on the palms of the Prince’s hands.

He works quickly but carefully, ensuring that every single patch of skin is clean. The blood under Arthur’s fingernails is most stubborn, but even it budges eventually.

Once that hand is done, Merlin reaches for the other. Arthur pulls away, seemingly absentmindedly, and raises the clean hand up to look at it. His eyes fall from his palm to Merlin’s face, and there’s such reverence in his expression that Merlin can’t hold eye contact any longer. He looks down.

Then, he feels a gentle hand on the underside of his jaw, silently coaxing his eyes up.

Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze and finds the Prince wearing an awestruck expression. Like he’s seeing Merlin for the first time. They stare at each other for what seems like minutes before Arthur finally speaks.

“You’re a sorcerer.”

Merlin doesn’t even react. He hasn’t considered this possibility, hasn’t given any thought to how easily the truth could be inferred. He’s almost grateful for it, because he’s certain it’s the only thing keeping him calm.

There’s a softness to Arthur’s voice that carries no immediate threat, and so Merlin nods. It isn’t how he always imagined this happening, but then, he’s not sure that matters.

Arthur seems dazed. He closes his eyes, lets out a huff of something resembling laughter, and brings his clean hand to drag down his face.

“I wanted to tell you,” Merlin decides to say. He reaches down and retrieves Arthur’s other hand from the water, flipping it over to begin scrubbing the blood from his palm.

The water is dark.

“I knew it would upset you,” Merlin continues softly. “Especially when your father was alive.”

Arthur hums quietly. For a moment, it seems as if he’s done talking for the evening, but the second his hand is free of blood he moves his fingers to wrap around Merlin’s wrist.

Merlin glances up.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur sounds strangely urgent.

Merlin shakes his head.

“You didn’t know.”

“I hurt you.”

“That was Morgana. Not you.”

Merlin gently pries his hand from Arthur’s and begins scrubbing the Prince’s other arm.

“I wasn’t talking about the curse,” Arthur murmurs. He’s still staring.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur repeats.

“I know.”

They fall silent after that. Merlin continues washing the blood away, bit by bit, and Arthur continues staring at Merlin as though he’s the only thing worth looking at. It makes Merlin’s skin crawl in a way he can’t place as simply pleasant or unpleasant. It’s too much, whatever it is.

Wordlessly, he selects Arthur’s favorite sleeping clothes from the armoire and lays them out on the bed. He helps Arthur out of the tub and vanishes the bloody water with magic, not caring to hide it from Arthur any longer. The prince, to his credit, closes his eyes and turns away but offers no other reaction.

It’s better than Merlin expected, so he offers up a small smile and hopes it’s enough to convey his thanks.

Merlin begins to dry Arthur off with a fresh rag and a slow, gentle hand, starting with his back.

“Four hundred and thirteen people attended that banquet,” Arthur says, so quietly that Merlin almost misses it. “There were children.”

Merlin closes his eyes against the nausea that the words bring.

“Stop. Please.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t— I can’t fix this. There’s nothing I can do to…” Arthur’s voice trails off.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Arthur shrugs as if it’s simple. “Hundreds dead by my father’s hand. Hundreds dead by mine. It never ends.”

“This was Morgana. Not you.”

“Morgana,” Arthur repeats. “Gods. I did this to her.”

Merlin’s hands freeze in their work.

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Arthur turns to face Merlin with the most miserable expression he’s ever worn. His eyes are wide and stormy and when he reaches up to grasp at Merlin’s arm, Merlin feels as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “My father started it but I played into it. I followed at his heels like a stupid dog and pushed her away.”

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. Merlin wants to punch him.

“I should’ve been there for her.”

“I knew about her magic before anyone else,” Merlin admits, sounding angry despite himself. Arthur winces but says nothing. “Gaius and I both. We told her she was imagining it. We denied her a chance to feel as though she wasn’t alone.”

Arthur takes this in.

“You knew.”

“I knew and I never helped her,” Merlin says. “You never had the chance.”

Arthur’s voice is soft, almost childlike, when he asks, “Why?”

Merlin hesitates. He considers explaining everything, the prophecy, the dragon, the poison, the way he’s been ripped apart by impossible choices since the moment he arrived in Camelot. It would feel good to get it off of his chest, he’s sure, but with it comes the very real possibility that Arthur won’t agree with what he’s done. That he’ll be disgusted with the way Merlin has gone about trying to bring the prophecy to fruition.

It’s that thought that causes him to curl his tongue into another lie out of thousands.

“I don’t know.”

Arthur’s eyes fall to the floor. He nods once. Sadly.

“Alright.”

“Are you upset that I’m a sorcerer?” Merlin blurts out.

Arthur cracks a small smile.

“Yes,” he admits. “Very. But I’ve hardly got any right to be. Especially not now.”

Merlin isn’t sure what to do with that answer, but he also isn’t sure what answer he was looking for in the first place. He crosses the room and retrieves Arthur’s clothes from the bed and returns to help the prince dress.

“Thought you’d be drunk when I showed up, to be honest,” Merlin decides to say in an attempt to lighten the mood. It’s true, at any rate.

Arthur’s smile fades.

“I thought you’d have left Camelot by now.”

Merlin scoffs.

“I couldn’t leave you if I wanted to.”

Merlin catches something soft in Arthur’s eyes as he pulls the sleep shirt over his head.

“You don’t want to?” Arthur murmurs.

“No,” Merlin admits. “Maybe at first. But not now.”

He crosses behind Arthur to fix the sleeves of his shirt, unraveling the tangled ends and pulling them down to Arthur’s wrists.

“After everything I’ve done, you’d still rather stay in Camelot,” Arthur muses quietly. “I think there might be something wrong with you.”

“Probably,” Merlin admits.

Arthur chuckles.

“Gods, I love you.”

The second the words slip past his tongue, Arthur’s back goes rigid. His shoulders tense and he takes a slow, careful step forward, away from Merlin.

The world’s most practiced diplomat, raised to hold his tongue since birth, chastised for even the slightest mistake to the point where every word was chosen as if it were life or death.

Arthur said something he didn’t intend to. That never happens.

Merlin is paralyzed, staring at Arthur’s back and watching his fingers curl themselves into fists over and over again.

His mother’s resurrection, losing the title of king on the same day as his father, and then the banquet. It all compounded into one massive drone of stress and sorrow and grief and created the single set of conditions which would allow those words to escape from Arthur’s lips. Merlin is almost guilty, as if has somehow ambushed the Prince at his most vulnerable.

“Arthur,” Merlin starts, but he’s cut off by a raise of Arthur’s hand.

“Get out.”

Then, so quietly Merlin almost doesn’t hear it:

“Please.”

Chapter Text

Two women sit across from each other.

The first is Ygraine Pendragon, Queen of Camelot. She is in her early fifties, with silver blonde hair and haunted eyes. The years of stasis have left her skin eerily smooth, almost entirely devoid of the smile lines and crow’s feet that indicate that a person has lived any sort of life.

The second is Morgana Pendragon, high priestess and unclaimed daughter of Uther Pendragon. She is in her late twenties, and has long black hair that has been tied back into a sleek bun. It’s been years since she’s looked so regal. Her torn black gown is the only thing which betrays her fall from grace.

When Morgana showed up at the gates of Camelot, there was nobody to greet her. The streets were empty. Silent. It didn’t take long to find the Queen, barricaded in the banquet hall and scrubbing the floors with her own two hands. She hasn’t made much progress; even now, weeks later, the women sit among red stained floors and a faint metallic smell. Morgana can’t bring herself to look at it for too long.

“They’re blaming me, you know,” Ygraine says evenly, breaking the silence. She smiles wryly. “If you intended to ruin Arthur’s reputation, you’ve done just the opposite. The people believe I misled him. Exacted vengeance for my husband’s murder.”

Morgana stares straight ahead. She doesn’t answer.

“In fact, I’d say the people love Arthur more than ever before,” Ygraine continues airily, taking a long sip of her wine. “They want me to step down. Crown him in my place.”

“I intend to kill him.” Morgana looks up expectantly. Ygraine doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, she chuckles.

“I thought you might say that. With the state he’s in, it wouldn’t be difficult.”

Morgana feels a sting of remorse despite herself.

“How is he?”

“Oh, fine,” Ygraine says airily, taking another sip of wine. “He hasn’t left his room since it happened. He fired his manservant, he barely eats, and I fear he’s going to drink up half the palace’s wine reserves if nothing changes soon.”

Morgana raises a skeptical eyebrow. “He fired Merlin?”

Ygraine groans and waves a hand dismissively.

“Don’t ask why. He wouldn’t say. I kept the boy around, obviously; he’s still Gaius’s apprentice despite my son’s lapse in judgment.”

Morgana bites back the guilt. It can’t do anything for her now.

The two fall into a heavy silence, during which Ygraine looks at Morgana with a softness that doesn’t feel earned.

“I know that you’re Uther’s daughter,” the Queen says. She’s smiling as if it doesn’t matter to her, but that can’t be true. She can’t possibly meet such a blatant breach of trust with indifference, let alone the faint hint of amusement that colors her features now.

Morgana looks away, feigning disinterest.

“I’d like you to know that you’re also my daughter,” Ygraine points out gently. “I don’t care who brought you into this world. You were a sister to my son and a daughter to my husband. We were a family, once. I’ll always believe we can be one again, if you ever decide to come back.”

Morgana shakes her head. A silent plea for Ygraine to just stop.

She doesn’t, of course.

“And as your mother, I’m disgusted with you.” Ygraine’s voice is icy and impartial now. Morgana looks up and meets her gaze head on, unwilling to give away her discomfort. There's a small child deep within her mind that instinctively wants to cower. To run away from the things which she knows to be true.

“What you’ve done to our people is unforgivable.”

Naturally. Otherwise Morgana wouldn’t have done it. She tries on an ill-fitting smile that doesn’t seem to convince Ygraine. The Queen scoffs.

“You’re not evil. You’re sick.”

Maybe. Morgana isn’t sure she can be objective about herself anymore.

“I blame myself for what you’ve become,” Ygraine says, her face softening, and that catches Morgana’s attention.

“How could any of this possibly have been your fault?” She demands, almost angry.

Ygraine cracks a small smile.

“I wasn’t there. I left you alone with him.”

“You were cursed, it’s not as though you—“

“I was warned that someone would die should I give birth to Arthur. I couldn’t handle the thought of valuing a stranger’s life so little. I asked— I begged— Nimueh to take my life. Her curse was her final favor to me.”

Morgana can’t speak. Her eyes are wide and unbelieving. Ygraine chose to die. She left her family on purpose. Her surviving wasn’t even by her own design. Anger flows in to answer the revelations. She left Morgana. She left Arthur.

She left us.

“You’re a coward,” Morgana hisses. She doesn’t realize she’s crying until it’s too late to conceal it, and so she wears her bitterness on her sleeve. It’s uncomfortable. Crying in front of anyone. Let alone her mother.

Ygraine doesn’t defend herself. Instead, she reaches across the table with a gentle hand and wipes Morgana’s tears away.

“Why are you here?” The Queen asks kindly. “To kill me? To kill Arthur? To accept our surrender? It doesn’t really matter, I suppose, but I’d like to know if I have time to say goodbye to what’s left of my people.”

Morgana doesn’t know the answer anymore. She shifts in her seat anxiously and looks away. Her eyes fall on the bloodstained tiles and she imagines the drone of screams. She feels sick.

She imagines the look on Arthur’s face as the bodies fall. She feels phantom wetness on her hands, and when she looks down they’re bloodied.

Morgana squeezes her eyes shut and wipes her hands on her skirt. Over and over. Not real. Not real.

When she opens her eyes, her hands are still red.

Ygraine watches her carefully, her expression pained.

“I’m going to bed,” she says, rising from her seat. “If you intend to kill me, all I ask is that you don’t let Arthur see it.”

Ygraine rounds the table and plants a kiss to the top of Morgana’s head.

“Goodnight, Morgana.”

“Goodnight,” Morgana replies automatically.

It takes her hours to decide what to do. Everything she’s ever wanted is within her grasp. To win would be easy. It will be quick. All she needs to do is have the courage to act. She’s done it once before.

The tiles stare at her, their eyes blood red. Their voices cry out in pain and Morgana plugs her ears against it.

The screaming grows louder and louder and eventually, Morgana is forced to leave the room. She steps outside, breathing heavily, and falls to her knees in the empty streets.

Morgana closes her eyes and breathes in the stale night air. In, out. In, out. She’s alive. Unlike them.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

The answer descends on her slowly, like a rainstorm that picks up in intensity until it becomes a hurricane that levels cities.

She knows what she has to do.

***

“Still in your room,” Merlin observes the moment he walks in. Without knocking. As usual. “Feeling any better?”

Arthur sets down the papers he’d been pretending to read for the past hour and does his best to look irritated. It comes easily to him most days, but much of his resolve has been drained by the events of the past month. “You must have mistaken my firing you for an invitation to bother me in the middle of the night.”

“You fired me by shoving a letter beneath my door,” Merlin points out with a grin. “Did you seriously think I wasn’t going to follow up on that?”

Then, when Arthur doesn’t answer:

“Are you drunk? I can come back later.”

Arthur shakes his head. He’d been drinking a few hours ago, but it’s long since worn off. Turns out wine is much more difficult to come by without a servant willing to fetch it every few hours.

“I’m glad,” Merlin says, and moves across the room to stand by Arthur’s side. “I need you sober for this.”

“For what?” Arthur scoffs, meeting Merlin’s gaze with a cold glare. “Going to beg for your job back? Tell me I’m being stupid? Yell at me?”

Merlin’s lip twitches in either annoyance or amusement, Arthur can’t tell which.

“You told me you loved me, Arthur.”

His voice is too soft.

Arthur averts his gaze and gestures to the door.

“So you’ve come to mock me. Get out.”

Merlin doesn’t get out. Instead, he leans forward until his lips are mere centimeters from Arthur’s. Then he waits.

Testing the waters.

It takes several seconds for Arthur to realize what’s happening, to allow himself to process the implication.

Or rather, the invitation.

He freezes. He’s unwilling to go through with it. He can’t believe that his feelings are real, let alone that they may be returned in any capacity. This has to be a trap, or a test, or some form of strange divine punishment that the gods or Morgana or any other one of Camelot’s enemies has brought upon him as revenge for his actions.

He’s enchanted, Arthur thinks in a blind panic. Merlin is enchanted and he wouldn’t want this if he wasn’t and I can’t do this if—

His thoughts are interrupted by a hand, gentle and firm, being placed on his knee.

“It’s okay,” Merlin whispers against his lips.

And his voice is so soft, his eyes so warm, his presence so intoxicating, that Arthur breaks.

In a moment of weakness which he’s sure he has not earned, Arthur closes the gap.

There’s nothing in the world that he cares about, now. Nothing but soft lips against his own, nothing but warm hands that come to rest themselves on either side of his face, nothing but the traitorous voice in the back of his head that believes he can be worthy of this.

When Merlin pulls back, eyes agonizingly soft, Arthur’s staring.

“What is this?” He hates himself for the way his voice trembles. “What are you doing?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, and instead dips his head down to kiss Arthur again.

The Prince melts into it immediately this time, all pretense of regality and stoicism and unease fading in an instant. His hands, rather embarrassingly, seem to move of their own accord as they come up to grasp at the back of Merlin’s tunic.

Merlin brings a hand up and entangles his fingers in Arthur’s hair. A supremely humiliating sound escapes the back of Arthur’s throat, jolting him back to reality.

Merlin seems to sense his panic and pulls away.

“Is this okay?”

“You need to leave,” Arthur says, doing his best to not sound as wrecked as he feels. He still senses phantom lips against his own. He wants to rip his own skin off. He wants to join the four hundred and thirteen. He wants to sink into the ground and become part of the blood that soaks his father’s tiles. Would it matter that he’s sorry? Does it matter if it changes nothing?

Merlin doesn’t seem convinced. “Do you want me to leave?”

Arthur can’t answer. He doesn’t, obviously; whatever is happening is better than anything he’s ever allowed himself to hope for and he’ll be damned if he pretends he doesn’t want it. But it can’t happen because Merlin deserves better than some clumsy affair with a broken prince, and so he repeats himself in a steady voice. “You need to leave. That’s an order.”

Merlin pauses, considering.

“I don’t work for you anymore,” he whispers. “Not that your orders ever mattered to me.”

“Merlin, this isn’t—“

Merlin’s eyes bore into his.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“What?”

“You keep saying I need to leave. You won’t say you want me to leave.”

Arthur is frozen. The answer is obvious; a resounding loop of PLEASE STAY that won’t leave Arthur’s mind. But to admit that is to admit defeat, so he plasters on a small smile and tries to form his lips around the proper answer.

It won’t work. Merlin looks down at him, expression verging on smug, and Arthur is drowning.

He has to warn Merlin.

“Whatever you intend to do tonight,” he begins softly, gentler than he’s ever spoken before. “It will mean too much to me. I won’t be able to let it go. I’ll follow you like a sick dog for the rest of my life. I’m jealous. I’m angry. I’m obsessive. You don’t deserve that. You’re going to leave Camelot someday and find somebody who loves you correctly. The way you deserve. You’ll be happier than you ever could’ve been with me.”

Merlin nods, taking that in.

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me to leave and I will.”

“Merlin…”

“Just say the words, ‘I want you to leave,’ and I’ll go.”

“Please.”

“Let me tell you what I want,” Merlin murmurs, leaning in to whisper directly into Arthur’s ear. “Since you won’t do me the honor.”

Arthur shudders.

“That’s not—“

“I want to stay by your side for as long as I live.”

He smiles. He’s serious. It makes Arthur sick with longing.

“I'll go if you want me to,” Merlin reiterates.

Arthur shakes his head.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Arthur shakes his head again, doing anything and everything to avoid looking into those soft eyes.

“Sorry, that’s not an answer,” Merlin says quietly. “I swear to you, I’ll do whatever you say. So tell me to leave, or tell me not to.”

“I want you…” Arthur begins, but finds the rest of the sentence useless. “Gods, I want you.”

Weak.

“Good start,” Merlin whispers, and plants a soft kiss beneath Arthur’s jaw.

“I need you to leave.” It’s a miracle he gets it out at all, but the words still taste true.

Merlin stills immediately.

“Alright.”

Their lips meet again, softer and sweeter than before. It’s slow and chaste, like a married couple bidding each other goodnight. Arthur’s heart aches.

Merlin pulls back and straightens up. He bows low and leaves the room without another word.

Arthur keeps watching the spot where he used to be. Just in case.

“Goodnight,” Arthur says to no one.

No one answers.

Chapter Text

Ygraine once wished to be hated by her people. It would make it simpler, would ease her passing and ensure her absence was felt by as few as possible.

She was wrong.

Nearly a month has passed and the streets are still red with the remnants of her people.

Word must have reached the other kingdoms by now, likely filled with accusations about the role of Queen Ygraine as well. Ygraine feels a bit like a rabbit, hiding inside of its burrow and shaking with fear every time the grass overhead rustles. Is it a fox? A dog? The wind? Or is it my mother, returning home at last? It’s only a matter of time before war comes knocking, and Ygraine will answer with open arms and a swift surrender.

At least that’s what she tells herself.

Her son’s knights and most of the guard are intact and loyal, ensuring that Camelot is far from undefended, but what good is an army that protects no one? Much of Camelot has fled; the resources that were distributed amongst the lower town have ensured that many people suddenly had the means to leave. Ygraine comes close to regretting her decision to allot them that money, but reminds herself often that she would do the same.

She shudders to think what her husband would say.

Arthur joins her in rebuilding after the fifth week. He emerges from his room, dark circles rivaling Ygraine’s own, and helps put together four hundred and thirteen funerals. They separate bones into piles, guessing half of the time, going by the clothing the bones were contained in for the other half.

Merlin tries to join them but is quickly dismissed by Arthur.

“He’s a sorcerer,” Arthur tells his mother by way of explanation.

“I know,” Ygraine says, which is the wrong thing to say. Arthur spends the rest of the day looking guiltier than she’s ever seen him.

Not that she’s ever seen him guilty before. It would be nice, she thinks, to see her son’s eyes turn to the gods and ask for forgiveness for something trivial. Breaking a vase. Not finishing his dinner. Running in the castle corridors. She wishes desperately that she could’ve seen Arthur’s guilt in a context that wasn’t soaked in blood. Ygraine realizes with a guilt all her own that her absence may have caused this.

During the sixth week, Arthur comes across a skull that is smaller than all the rest and has to stop for a few days.

Guilt.

Eventually, they have four hundred and thirteen piles.

Ygraine prays over each and every one, calling on every god she can remember, and gently packs what is left of the individual into small wooden boxes. She prepares letters explaining what has happened, knowing deep down that they won’t be read. The other rulers will receive their dead and won’t care to understand, but if war can be avoided with even one of them, Ygraine is honor bound to try.

She wonders if Uther ever considered reading her letter. She wonders if Arthur ever will.

Merlin creeps in that day and remains in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back and eyes shifting to take in the rows of boxes. He doesn’t give anything away in his expression, except for the odd narrowing of his eyes that betrays the faintest occasional wince. Ygraine wishes she had more than a tight lipped smile to offer him. He asks what she’s doing.

“Praying,” the Queen replies quietly. “Trying to, at least.” It’s more vulnerable than she intended. The sting of regret surges in like a wave and retreats just as quickly. “I don’t remember the words. It’s been years.”

Merlin steps forward into the room and stands beside her. It would be disrespectful if it were anyone else, but Ygraine has long since learned that this boy is as much a member of the royal family as her.

“May I?” Merlin asks.

Ygraine rises to her feet and steps back from the rows of boxes. “Of course.”

Merlin nods and steps forward. He kneels in front of the first box and bows his head, speaking softly in the language of the Old Religion. Ygraine had been trying to learn it back before she went to sleep, so she can make out a few words in the prayer. She hears love a few times. Rest. Safe. Violence. Sorry.

Merlin repeats the prayer four hundred and thirteen times.

Ygraine stands beside him for every single one.

“Is that your mother tongue?” She asks after he’s finished. Merlin glances up and shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s an odd answer.” Ygraine offers him a hand, which he accepts, and helps him to his feet.

“I didn’t grow up speaking it,” Merlin explains. “I had to learn it from books and things, but it was the easiest thing in the world. Learning it was like breathing. I’d read a word and understand it immediately, and I never had to look back to see if I was using it correctly. I just knew.”

Ygraine hums.

“I hope you’ll forgive my saying so, but I only ask because you sound more like you’re from Ealdor when you speak it.”

Merlin grins but doesn’t reply.

“Mother?” comes a voice from outside the banquet hall’s door. Merlin’s smile fades.

“Come in,” Ygraine calls, and Arthur ducks into the room. When his eyes fall onto Merlin, his expression hardens. A coldness enters his features and he turns to look only at Ygraine.

“The knights have returned from their patrol.”

“And?” Ygraine prompts.

“And Morgana is nowhere to be found. Any attempts to contact her have been unsuccessful, her last known whereabouts have been picked clean and any evidence has been erased. She doesn’t want to talk to us.”

“Give the knights a few days rest and send them back out. We need her to fix this.” Ygraine sighs and runs a hand down her face. They’ve been trying to get Morgana to look into resurrection rites, healing techniques, even calling forth the deceased’s spirits so that the families can say goodbye. Anything to ease what has happened.

It follows that she wouldn’t care to mend the wounds which she created on purpose, but Ygraine had been hoping the increased public support for Arthur’s rule would be incentive enough. Clearly, it isn’t.

“Stay,” Ygraine instructs Merlin over her shoulder before he can slip out. “I’d like you here for this.” The boy nods.

Arthur nearly rolls his eyes but seems to catch himself. He lets out a short huff that almost makes Ygraine laugh with its petulance.

“I’m going to abdicate,” Ygraine tells her son, seeing no reason to delay the information.

Arthur’s mouth drops open. There’s a beat or two of silence while he processes, and then he’s shaking his head vigorously.

“No. No, you can’t. I’m not ready for this. We’re on the verge of war, and Morgana is—“

“Arthur. Stop.”

“My lady— mother, this isn’t the right time. You have to understand.”

“It’s the perfect time.” Ygraine gestures to the boxes. Coffins, more like. “They believe I did this. There’s no way I’ll be forgiven, not enough to rule them the way they deserve. I want to do right by our people, and I can’t do that as their queen. It has to be you.”

“Arthur’s right,” Merlin chimes in quietly.

Both Ygraine and Arthur freeze. They turn to look at him, both equally shocked by his words.

Merlin shrugs.

“He’s childish. Impulsive. Short tempered. Rude. Camelot doesn’t need a king like that right now.”

“You surprise me, Merlin,” Ygraine says slowly. She turns to look back at Arthur and gauge his reaction (which she’s sure will be furious,) but is instead met with the most pure and unfiltered adoration she’s ever seen.

Arthur is staring at Merlin as though he’s the sun itself, wide eyed and soft and entirely spellbound.

“This is truly what you believe?” Ygraine asks incredulously.

Merlin nods.

“Arthur will be a great king someday. But not today. Not for a long time yet.”

Ygraine looks between Merlin, stoic and cold, and her son, who radiates devotion, and realizes she’ll be damned if she comes between whatever this is. She sighs.

“Very well. I’ll retain my position for the time being.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says to her, but it’s obviously intended for Merlin. Ygraine nods.

“I should go,” Merlin pipes up, giving Ygraine a short bow. He’s nearly out the door when he turns and directs a fragile smile at Arthur. He says a few words in the language of the Old Religion and slips out of the room as if they mean nothing.

They don’t mean nothing. They mean everything.

Ygraine is frozen, her hands clasped over her mouth and her eyes wide with disbelief. It makes sense, in hindsight, but to hear Merlin say those words in this context, and in a way that Arthur surely wouldn’t understand…

It hurts her heart greatly.

Arthur turns to her and frowns.

“What’s wrong? What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” Ygraine lies. “Some sort of prayer.”

Arthur, thankfully, drops it.

When Ygraine wrote her letter to Uther, she signed it with her name and a phrase. A phrase which, in the Old Religion, represented exactly what she wanted her husband to remember her by. It was a common expression of love, taught to her by the sorcerers in Uther’s court, and which Ygraine and Uther exchanged at their wedding. Roughly translated, it means “I love you enough to forgive you.” The sentiment refers mostly to the capacity of a couple to be understanding with each other, and to grant each other the grace to make mistakes and be forgiven time and time again. Spoken exclusively between lovers, it is essentially a recognition that, while one’s partner may wrong them, there is so much love that it can always be overcome together.

Merlin altered the phrase slightly when he said it. It wasn’t a mistake; Ygraine knows it was intentional based on everything she’s learned about Merlin thus far.

Arthur glances between Ygraine and the door, looking confused. He leaves, eventually, muttering something about finding the knights.

Ygraine turns Merlin’s words over in her head, trying desperately to understand.

He didn’t say, “I love you enough to forgive you.”

He said, “I love you enough to forgive us.”

Chapter Text

Four hundred and twelve. That’s how many souls Morgana has at her disposal.

Disposal. Bad choice of words. People aren’t disposable.

Morgana shudders. The hovel is dark, her last candle having long since gone out. She can’t summon the energy to relight it. It’s not for lack of power; no, she has more power than she ever thought possible. It’s just easier to hide in the dark.

Actually, she’s wrong. People are disposable. It’s just that her people aren’t. That’s why she’s keeping them like this. They would be happy to help if they knew. They aren’t being disposed of. They’re being utilized.

Four hundred and thirteen victims.

Not victims. Friends?

That doesn’t feel right. Not after what she’s done. What she had to do.

Four hundred and thirteen souls, then. At first. It’s four hundred and twelve souls, now.

She has to rule. They’ll be there when she does. Most of them, anyways. But for one? The one whose life she has given away carelessly?

She can’t pick. It isn’t possible. She could leave it up to chance, but that isn’t enough. One of them would still be gone. Isn’t that enough?

Morgana had stabbed herself right after the banquet, trying to see if her plan had worked. And it did, but in testing it she has lost one of the souls. One of her people. It was an accident.

It wasn’t an accident, Morgana supposes. But she didn’t expect the wound to be fatal. She probably should’ve thought of that. Stupid. Careless. An emotionally driven decision. That’s always been her problem.

“I can’t give you back just yet,” Morgana murmurs into the darkness. “I need you. I want to rule Camelot with you all by my side.”

Is it even possible? What if they’re scattered? How long would it take? Her blood seems to freeze and she wonders if they’re angry with her. If they’re trying to get out. She wants to rip her skin off and set them free.

“Forgive me,” Morgana repeats absentmindedly. It’s most of what she’s been saying recently. She doesn’t sleep. She barely eats.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers.

It doesn’t convince her.

She feels a presence and doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Ygraine. The Queen always pops in at the worst times.

“Get out of my head,” Morgana growls.

“I don’t want to be here either. Believe me.”

That voice certainly isn’t Ygraine.

Morgana turns around. It’s Arthur.

“Brooding again, are we?” her brother says. His mouth is curled into a cruel sneer. He’s not Ygraine, but he may as well be. The round blue eyes, the mop of blonde hair, the disgusted expression. It’s all very familiar at this point.

Morgana scoffs.

“You don’t usually talk when I see you.”

“Possibly because you don’t know enough about me to know what I’d say,” the image of Arthur suggests lazily.

Morgana can’t disagree, but she tries anyway.

“You’re Uther’s son. I know enough.”

Arthur’s grin widens. Grows sharp.

“And you’re his oldest child. And yet, it’s my name on the throne. Funny how that works.”

There’s such venom in his voice that Morgana is momentarily struck dumb. She narrows her eyes.

“Arthur doesn’t talk like that,” she mutters, more to herself than anything. “He doesn’t gloat. He’s always… polite.”

Arthur lets out a startled laugh. It sounds too much like the real Arthur. Is that all Morgana can remember accurately? His laugh?

“Given what you’ve put me through, I’d say this is very polite.” Arthur examines the hilt of his sword and flicks a bit of grime off of it. He’s fully decked out in shiny silver armor, with a pristine scarlet cloak trailing down his back. The Pendragon crest is strangely absent from the fabric, which makes Morgana more uncomfortable than she cares to admit. It’s another stark reminder that this isn’t her brother. She isn’t sure what it is, to be honest. He’s certainly talking more than her visions usually do.

“You remember how Father used to make us watch beheadings?” Arthur goes on, pausing to make sure Morgana is listening. “Gods, wasn’t that fun? It took me five years to stop throwing up at the sight of it. You cheated, though. Closing your eyes was against Father’s rules, but then, he was usually watching his precious future king too closely to notice.”

Morgana bites the inside of her cheek and pretends she doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t seem to care.

“Turns out he was desensitizing me to the wrong sort of violence. It’s probably a bit difficult to imagine people being torn apart from the inside out with magic if you haven’t seen it happen, so I suppose I’ll forgive him for the oversight.”

Arthur pauses and hums thoughtfully.

“Do you think I threw up? When the bodies started melting, I mean. I know I’m Arthur, but I’m not really Arthur, so I’m not sure. I’d bet you anything I cried, though. I bet I cried just like the sorcerer’s children who—”

“Stop.” Morgana hisses. Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline in mock surprise.

“You can hear me? That’s a relief. I’m inside your head, after all.” He gestures vaguely towards Morgana. “If I’m saying it, you’re thinking it. Don’t blame me for the things you can’t handle about yourself.”

Morgana presses her lips together and tells herself that she won’t cry. She did this on purpose. She wanted Arthur to suffer. It isn’t sad. It’s a victory.

It doesn’t feel like it yet, but it will.

She hauls herself to a sitting position and rubs her eyes, hoping to get rid of the unwanted visitor.

She looks up. Arthur waves.

Damn.

“Let’s figure out why I’m here,” Arthur suggests, lowering himself to sit at Morgana’s table. “Maybe we’ll hug and make up along the way. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“I know why you’re here,” Morgana snaps. “I had to do something terrible and I’m having a bit of trouble dealing with it. It’s natural.”

“Listen to you,” Arthur drawls. “And you think I’m the delusional one.”

He plasters on an expression of mock horror and places a hand over his heart. “‘I just had to do it! You don't understand!’”

The playfulness on his face vanishes. “You know that isn’t true because I know that isn’t true.”

Morgana covers her eyes. It’s childish, but there’s no need to be embarrassed if there’s no one else to see it. And there isn’t, despite Fake Arthur’s rambling.

“Their souls will allow me to take the throne, and when that’s done–”

“When that’s done you’ll give them back their souls and they’ll forgive you?” Arthur cackles, he actually cackles. “You think they’ll love you? I’m sure they’ll find time to thank you after their skin and bones drag their way out of the dirt and stitch themselves together over the span of several days. Maybe even weeks. Do you think they’ll scream with joy, or because of the unthinkable agony that you’re going to put them through? Again? Or maybe their tongues will reattach themselves last, that way you won't have to hear any of it.”

Arthur smiles brightly. “I have a feeling you won’t be so lucky. You never were.”

“Stop,” Morgana says weakly.

Arthur doesn’t listen. Morgana’s not sure why she’s still surprised.

“Not only that, but you’ve managed to lose one. That’s somebody’s spouse. Somebody’s parent. Somebody’s child. Somebody’s friend. I wonder if their loved ones will understand why everyone got brought back except one. Do you have a speech prepared?”

“Shut up,” Morgana snaps.

“You could kill me,” Arthur suggests lazily. “The real one, of course. Trade my life for one of theirs. You know how I am; I’m ready to die for any peasant that bats their eyelashes at me.”

Then, with an odd expression: “Is that really what you think of me? My feelings would be deeply hurt if I was a real person.”

Morgana groans and rises to her feet. She's going to Camelot and she’s going to walk through the front gates and she’s going to kill the real Arthur, if only to stop this one from talking.

“You’re worse than Ygraine,” she tells him as she pulls on her cloak.

Arthur shoots her a boyish grin and hops up onto the table like he owns the place. He sits atop it and unsheathes his sword, tossing it beside him.

Morgana tenses at the sight and her hand moves to rest on the dagger that’s strapped to her hip. Arthur takes this in with a bored raise of the eyebrow.

No danger, Morgana reminds herself. The sword isn’t real and neither is Arthur.

Arthur’s looking at her with a highly amused expression. “What does Ygraine do when you see her?”

Morgana shrugs. She doesn’t see the point in evading his questions when they’re really her own questions, anyways.

“She comforts me.”

“And Vivienne?”

“How do you know–?”

Arthur snaps his fingers in Morgana’s face, causing her to jolt backwards.

“I’m not real. Keep up. What does Vivienne do?”

Morgana glares.

“She scares me,” she admits reluctantly.

Arthur snorts. “And me? What am I doing?”

Morgana sees red and tries to shove him backwards in a momentary lapse of judgment, forgetting that he isn’t corporeal. She stumbles and Arthur watches her fall with a plainly amused expression.

“Right now? You’re pissing me off,” Morgana snaps. She stays seated on the floor, seeing no reason to get back up.

“Why would you need that? Why now?” Arthur pries, hopping down off of the table. He crouches down to her height as though she’s a child. He tilts his head like some deranged bird of prey and grins. “If Mother was here, she would make you feel better. Isn’t that what you want? You’re feeling guilty and she would tell you it’s okay. Why am I here? Why not her?”

“Because it’s not okay,” Morgana murmurs, hushed and miserable. “I need someone to tell me it’s not okay.”

“You’re a murderer,” Arthur says gleefully. “Just like our father. Actually, you’re not like him. You’re worse. You claim to love the same people you massacred. At least father hated them out loud.”

Then, his expression sobers slightly. He jerks his head towards the hovel door.

“They won’t forgive you. You know that.”

“Then I’ll make them.”

It doesn’t sound quite as convincing out loud.

Arthur hums thoughtfully.

“You’re lonely.”

Morgana bristles with rage.

“I’m not lonely.”

Arthur gives her a dubious look.

“Aren’t you? Your parents died. Father didn’t care about you, Ygraine left, and I hate you. Gaius raised you, same as he raised me, and even he turned his back on you. Gwen hates you.”

Arthur lets out a delighted giggle, childlike in its glee. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Even Merlin hates you.”

“You’re finally starting to sound like Arthur,” Morgana spits, voice dripping venom. “He can’t go five seconds without mentioning that stupid serving boy.”

Arthur sighs, and his lips stretch into an overly sympathetic frown.

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings? Because I’ll remind you for the millionth time, I’m not real.”

“You love him,” Morgana accuses, unsure what she’s trying to accomplish.

“You certainly seem to think so,” Arthur concedes.

Morgana runs a hand down her face and laughs, feeling hysterical.

“You treat him like a dog. How can you claim to love him?”

“I don’t claim anything. I’m not Arthur.”

“I know.”

“Besides. You claim to love your people, don’t you?”

“You’re not helping.”

“Do you honestly think I’m here to help?” Arthur scoffs. He tilts his head again. “I didn’t realize you were lonely and stupid.”

“You’re acting like Uther.”

“You’re thinking like Uther,” Arthur counters. “So did Arthur, once. But the difference is that, when Arthur wakes up from the nightmares that Uther gave him, he can run to Ygraine. Or Gwen. Or Merlin. Or Gaius. Who can you run to?”

Morgana can find no answer. It stings more than she cares to admit.

“Everyone you’ve ever known has betrayed you or feared you,” Arthur continues, his voice taking on a gentler quality. “You want someone to care. It’s pathetic how simple it is.”

“That isn’t true,” Morgana whispers, and Arthur barks out a single, harsh laugh.

“Face it. You’re alone.”

“Shut up.”

“You love no one and no one loves you.”

Morgana turns her head to avoid looking into the icy blue eyes. They’re chilling. Entirely unlike the man they claim to belong to.

“There’s an obvious solution, you know.” Arthur’s eyes are glinting with something resembling excitement.

“I can’t give them back yet.” Morgana says, shaking her head wearily. “My plan isn’t finished.”

“You have to,” Arthur insists, and it’s almost kind. “Your original plan was to keep their souls forever. You didn’t anticipate the consequences. You never do. Now you want to give the souls back. You only need four hundred and thirteen. Forget the plan. Give them back.”

“I can’t. I only have four hundred and twelve. Even if I killed you I couldn’t keep your soul like this. It’s impossible.”

“You don’t need to kill me,” Arthur says airily. “There’s four hundred and thirteen inside of you right now.”

Morgana pales.

“What are you—?”

Arthur’s expression is unnervingly lighthearted. He chuckles as if he can’t believe she doesn’t get it.

“What’s wrong? Did the Pendragon family’s penchant for self-sacrifice skip over you? Perhaps it’s only from my mother’s side.”

He smiles wider and it’s chilling.

“I said there was a simple solution. You know what it is.”

Morgana feels sick.

“I can’t do that.”

“You’re so, so lonely,” Arthur says with mock sincerity. “And all of it is your fault. Everything is.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe,” Arthur condedes. “But it’s what you believe.”

“How do you do it?” Morgana asks quietly. “You’ve always met death like an old friend.”

“And you still haven't managed to kill me,” Arthur points out with a grin. “You must not be very good if you can’t even kill a man with a death wish.”

“I asked you a question.”

“I don’t know the answer.” Arthur leans forward, his voice suddenly dropping to a menacing growl. “I’m. Not. Arthur.”

“I wish you were,” Morgana admits. Even the image of Arthur seems to be taken aback by that. Real surprise penetrates his stolen face for the first time.

Morgana squeezes her eyes shut and places her knuckles against her eye sockets, pressing until she sees stars. When she opens them, her brother is still there, watching her with an indifferent stare.

Morgana takes a shaky breath.

“He’d tell me he doesn’t think about it, he just does it because it’s the right thing to do.” The answer feels right. Arthur never thinks when someone else’s life is on the line. He just… does.

Arthur straightens up and hums. He extends a hand to help Morgana stand, which she reaches for. When her hand passes through his, because he isn’t real, Arthur laughs at her.

“You still think I’m here to help?”

“Why are you still here?” Morgana snaps.

“Because you’re scared,” Arthur sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, though. It’s good that you’re scared. I’m here to make sure you understand that you’re absolutely correct in being terrified. It’s going to hurt. Everyone will hate you. The spirits will rip you to shreds and the gods will never forgive you. You should be scared.”

Arthur smiles down at her. His eyes are cold.

“Go on. Do the right thing.”

***

There is a grief for which there is no name.

It starts with marrying the King of Camelot. He’s tall and bloodied and young, with fierce eyes and a kind smile that seem contradictory until it becomes clear that, for him, “kind” is a state of patience, not acceptance. You’re being tolerated. Not adored. It’s not what you’ve always dreamed of, not by any means, but you love him all the same.

It starts with asking him to teach you how to fight. It’s there in his eyes, a brief moment of panic, of paranoia. Like he can’t quite understand you. You point it out to him and he looks at you strangely, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

It starts with watching him during peace talks and banquets and parties, catching the fleeting glimpses between him and a dark haired noblewoman. She’s not your friend, not really, but you imagine something smug in her eyes that feels like a betrayal.

It starts with clenched hands and closed eyes and a knowledge that speaking up will ruin you.

It starts with the anger. The blind, stupid, torrential downpour of rage that renders you completely inconsolable for days on end. You hate men. You hate women. You hate children. You curse your life and the lives that were ended to ensure that this could happen for you. To you. You hate her. You hate him.

It starts with meeting her properly for the first time. She grabs your hands and smiles so wide and so sweet that your walls are temporarily broken down. She tells you she’s glad to have another woman around and how she’s so happy to be your friend. You believe her against your will. She ends up being right. You braid her hair and she sings songs for you and you laugh until your sides hurt. You’re friends, for better or for worse.

It starts with meeting the noblewoman’s daughter. The little tremble in her voice, her unpracticed curtsy, the way she clings to her mother’s skirt. She’s practically identical to the noblewoman. This, in a strange way, makes you forgive her for what she is. What she must be.

It starts when your friend dies.

It starts when her little girl falls into your care. You take her hands into yours and you decide to be a mother long before the king broaches the subject of heirs with you.

It starts with the kind sorceress who begs you to value your life more.

It starts with the physician who monitors your pregnancy carefully and talks at length about how great of a mother you’ll be. You remind him that you already are a mother and he agrees with a patient smile, like he’s indulging in a child’s fantasy.

It starts with two golden eyes in the dark and the knowledge that the king is dead.

It starts with your son, now grown up, staring at you like you’re a specter instead of his mother.

It starts with a glint in your son’s eyes as the crowd cheers for you that, at first, you take to be nerves. It isn’t. Your husband never died, or at least, he didn’t die in any way that mattered. He’s right here, peering out from behind your son’s face and digging his claws into everything you hold dear. He was there at sixteen, he was there at twenty-one, and he’s here at fifty-two.

It starts with a serving boy whose eyes scream fear and adoration in equal amounts, whose devotion to your son feels almost supernatural in origin. Through him, your son becomes human. Through his servant’s eyes, you understand why his people adore him. A sorcerer and a Pendragon. It shouldn’t be possible, but it is.

It starts with violence. Your son sits in a pile of melting bodies and he screams. His own hands snap bones and dissolve sinew like snowflakes landing on a bonfire. You watch him look towards you, a scared child seeking a mother’s comfort, and you watch him realize there isn’t any left to be found.

It starts with the look in your daughter’s eyes as she admits to having caused it all.

It starts with wondering why you were chosen to be an omen of death. Why you have been made into a spectacle without even being awake to acknowledge it. Is it because you tried to run? Or was it always going to end up like this? Is it because you’re the queen? His queen? Could you have stopped it? Would you have stopped it? Are all women born angry? Or just you?

There is a grief for which there is only one name:

Ygraine.

***

Out in the citadel, a cart is prepared, with four hundred and thirteen boxes stacked neatly in the back. Each one is carefully covered in animal skins to protect them from the elements. From the Druid camps in the forest of Ascetir to the kingdom of Mercia, each box will find its home and the people who loved the person contained within. There, hopefully, the letters will be read and war can be avoided.

Arthur volunteers to be the one to travel to the five kingdoms, to look the families in the eyes and explain what happened. The knights will accompany him, as will Merlin.

Arthur asked (or more accurately, Arthur begged,) to go alone, but no one would hear of it.

The day before he is set to leave, he makes one last check to ensure everything is in order.

And that’s when he hears it.

“Something’s happened to the sorcerers,” Arthur blurts out the moment he busts into the counsel room.

His mother and her advisors freeze. Ygraine shoots them all an apologetic look.

“Leave us, please.”

The counselors exchange confused and irritated expressions before getting up and taking their leave. Some of them pat Arthur on the back as they go.

When they’re alone, Ygraine rises to her feet.

“What do you mean? The sorcerers are alive?”

“The boxes are singing,” Arthur insists hurriedly. “I stood by them and I heard it. See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“We can’t leave yet; they’re alive in there. We need to let them out.”

“Arthur.”

“I’m serious. Go listen to them.”

When it’s all said and done, Ygraine can’t hear them. But, after hearing her son’s pleas, she agrees to postpone the journey a while longer.

Arthur returns the boxes to the banquet hall, much to everyone’s displeasure. He cracks each lid so that they can breathe and prays for the first time in his life.

***

The curse was complicated to complete and even more complicated to undo. It takes weeks. Morgana sees her brother out of the corner of her eye the entire time. He’s stopped talking.

***

Merlin is startled awake, exactly two months after the banquet, by a surge of energy unlike anything he’s ever felt before. It’s as though he’s been electrified; he jumps out of bed like a man possessed and stands, shivering in the cold and staring at his door. His eyes hurt a bit as they struggle to adjust to the darkness.

“Gaius?” Merlin doesn’t know why he bothers; Gaius has always been a heavy sleeper.

It’s as though he’s been exhausted for his entire life and has finally recovered. He moves his arms experimentally, feeling their strength in an abstract, disconnected way. He smiles to himself.

Merlin’s first instinct is to tell Arthur. He realizes soon after that it’s the middle of the night, and further, that Arthur still isn’t speaking to him. This fact has been keeping Merlin relatively gloomy these past few weeks, but for whatever reason, it’s doing the opposite this evening. There’s a sense of surety, like it is a guarantee that Arthur will come around soon. Whether it’s magic or intuition or complete delusion, Merlin allows himself to be content with it for as long as he can.

Still too jittery to sleep, Merlin pulls on warmer clothes and makes his way to the door. He tiptoes past Gaius, who is passed out and snoring like an entire herd of wild pigs, and slips into the corridor.

His steps carry him up to the tallest tower, where he picks a cozy spot and sits with his legs dangling out over the courtyard below. The sky is pitch black, with millions of little pinpricks of light making up the stars that stretch out above him, spanning for further than the eye can see. It’s freezing, but Merlin shrugs his coat off anyways. The sting of the air feels nice against his skin.

Without thinking, he whispers spells into the night sky, letting the words roll off of his tongue as they appear in his mind.

The sky begins to fill itself with bright colors and shapes, with large wave-shaped swathes of lavender that overlap blue and yellow orbs of light. There’s tinges of gold that intersect with brilliant green, and as Merlin focuses more, their nebulous forms turn into recognizable shapes. Vines made of light stretch themselves over Camelot, with pink flowers blooming every few feet. The gold turns into a sword, then a tree, and then a dragon that looks suspiciously like Kilgharrah.

Merlin doesn’t know how long he’s been out there, but it feels like days. He’s more at peace than he’s been in years.

He’s so relaxed that he doesn’t even startle when a voice behind him asks, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t know,” Merlin replies, his voice coming out as a sigh. He turns and meets Arthur’s eyes, which are turned to the sky and reflecting all of Merlin’s handiwork in vivid detail.

Arthur doesn’t say anything. The magic is obviously making him uncomfortable, but to his credit, he lowers himself to sit beside Merlin without commenting on it. The tenseness of his shoulders and the careful distance he maintains between himself and Merlin are enough, though.

“What brings you up here?” Merlin asks.

“The lights woke me up,” Arthur says. His eyes drop to the floor and Merlin grins.

“You’re lying.”

“Don’t look so pleased.”

“I’m not. Not until I get the real answer.”

Arthur lets out an annoyed huff and looks back towards the sky. His hair is tousled, longer than it usually is (the back-to-back crises have ensured it’s his lowest priority,) and strangely soft looking. Normally he’s covered in all manner of dirt and grime and sweat, but he hasn’t trained or even left the castle in weeks. The knights are beginning to get restless; with very few people left to protect and nothing to do but wait for Morgana to strike, they’ve been anxiously preparing for a battle that nobody is certain will even happen.

Merlin’s not proud of it, but he keeps Kilgharrah in the back of his mind. If things really came down to it, he could beseech the dragon for help.

And if things really came down to it, he could order Kilgharrah to fight.

Merlin doesn’t like the idea of abusing his dragonlord powers in such a way, but if it means protecting Camelot (and protecting Arthur,) he won’t waste a second wringing his hands over it.

Arthur brings his hands up and buries his face in them, making a low groan in the back of his throat that indicates he has something unpleasant to say. Merlin waits, feigning patience.

“I woke up feeling… good,” Arthur admits. He’s treating the words like they’re damning.

Merlin nods.

“Me too.”

This catches Arthur’s attention.

“What?”

“I feel better than I have in… well, ever,” Merlin says. “I figured it was my magic, but it hasn’t stopped.”

Arthur nods, taking that in. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m happy, I think.”

The absurdity of it ushers a startled laugh out of Merlin, which Arthur receives with a venomous glare.

“I’m serious.”

“I know, I know. I’m just… also happy. I think.”

Arthur rewards that with a small smile. The two fall into a lighter silence for a few minutes, during which they look up at Merlin’s lights as they shift into each other and fade slowly, one by one.

“You never told me why you came up here,” Merlin asks, turning to face Arthur.

The prince shrugs.

“I don’t know. I felt… compelled.”

“Something must have happened to cause this,” Merlin muses. “Maybe Morgana? Her curse was centered in your body and it almost killed me, it makes sense that it would—”

“Can we not talk about that right now?” Arthur cuts in quietly. “I want to enjoy this.”

Merlin falls silent immediately. Arthur chuckles, and turns to face him with a warm smile that threatens to stop Merlin’s heart entirely.

“Now that’s unusual.”

“What?”

“You shutting up.”

Merlin rolls his eyes.

“I wanted to apologize, you know,” Arthur says then, his smile fading.

Merlin hums.

“For firing me?”

“Among other things.”

“Apology accepted.”

Arthur blinks. “I haven’t even gotten to the apologizing bit yet.”

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t need to watch you drag yourself through the exact words. You’re sorry. I can tell. It’s alright.”

When Merlin turns to gauge Arthur’s reaction, he’s met with the same awestruck expression that had adorned the prince’s face after Merlin insisted he wouldn’t be a good king. His blue eyes are wide and misty, and when he speaks, it’s gentler than he’s ever sounded in his life.

“Thank you.”

Merlin isn’t sure how to react to such unfiltered adoration, particularly from Arthur “the-only-emotion-I’ll-allow-myself-to-feel-is-anger-and-occasionally-self-loathing” Pendragon. Merlin stares, and eventually allows a wide smile to overtake his features.

“Does this mean I can have my job back?”

“Anything you want,” Arthur says, still looking at Merlin like he’s the only thing in the world. “Anything.”

Merlin nods, understanding.

“I read my mother’s letter, you know,” Arthur admits after a lengthy silence. “I finally felt ready. It explains a great deal about her.”

A pause.

“Did you know she wanted to die?”

Merlin shrugs. “No.”

“She asked Nimeuh to kill her so that I could be born.”

“I’m not sure if ‘wanted’ is the right word, then.”

Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He’s clearly struggling with that.

“Why?”

Merlin shrugs again.

“She’s probably just the genetic source of that horribly self-sacrificing streak you seem to have. She didn’t want to die, she wanted you to live by any means necessary. There’s a difference.”

Then, with a wry smile: “I would know.”

Arthur inclines his head, conceding the point. After a beat, he frowns.

“If my father had known, do you think he’d still have done it? All of it?”

Merlin glances over.

“Wouldn’t you know the answer better than me?”

Arthur hesitates, looking deeply uncomfortable, before he forces the words out with a smile that more resembles a grimace.

“I’ve never been able to see him very clearly.”

Merlin hums. Considers the question.

“Be honest,” Arthur prompts, likely sensing the lie before it’s even formed. He’s right, which catches Merlin off guard. He was about to lie. It’s strange to be seen in such a way; it shocks Merlin enough that the truth rolls off of his tongue with much more ease than usual.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he did it.”

Arthur falls silent, which Merlin takes as his cue to continue.

“I think your father was grieving. He saw what looked like sorcery keeping his wife away from him and he was blinded. I imagine that, at first, he couldn’t bear to read the letter in case he was right. After a while, I’d bet he refused to read it in case he was wrong. All of those people had to have died for something, otherwise he was just a murderer.”

Merlin looks over at Arthur, his expression deathly serious.

“He was a murderer, Arthur.”

Arthur winces at that but somehow manages to hold his tongue. Merlin’s impressed, if a bit surprised. No one has ever been able to speak ill of Uther around Arthur like this before, at least not to Merlin’s knowledge.

Arthur doesn’t speak for a long while after that. The two men stare up into the sky, tracing the now almost invisible outlines of Merlin’s light with their eyes. Merlin slips his jacket back on after a few more minutes, finding the cold air suddenly unbearable.

After too long, Arthur speaks in a quiet voice.

“That doesn’t bode well for me, does it?”

Merlin shrugs.

“He’s dead. You’re not.”

“So?”

“You still have a chance to do good.”

“To be good?” Arthur asks gently.

Merlin smiles, expecting no different. He rises to his feet and repeats the phrase he’d said in the banquet hall, slowly and with great care. He wraps his tongue around every single syllable as if it’s a prayer, because in a way, it is.

“Yfel frêogan êow nôg into âlecgan ûs of pro ic.”

Arthur doesn’t ask what it means. He just stares.

Merlin wants to hold his gaze but finds it impossible.

***

Ygraine rises the next morning to the sound of screaming.

She leaps from her bed and dashes to the window, where she rips it open with twice the force she’s ever known herself to possess.

What little people remain in Camelot are standing in the citadel, forming a frantic circle around the cart that contains the sorcerer’s remains.

The boxes are glowing.

***

When people write about this day in the future, they describe it as joyous. They praise the gods. They name Ygraine and Arthur as Camelot’s saviors. They write songs about the benevolent Queen and the tyrant king who she cleverly overcame. Morgana’s role is omitted in favor of a divine punishment from the Gods, whose wrath was only assuaged by the noble grief of the Queen and her son.

***

It doesn’t take long for Merlin and Arthur to join the crowd. Guinevere, Gaius, Ygraine, and every single servant, farmer, stable hand, and every man, woman, and child in Camelot gather in the citadel.

After a few hours, the singing Arthur heard is audible to everyone.

A low, vibrating note, mixed with a slight rattle as the boxes begin to shake.

The noise grows louder and louder, and as the people watch, blood begins to seep from the boxes. Enough to fill an ocean. Everyone vacates the area, unsure of what else to do.

***

It takes twenty seven days for the sorcerers to become whole again.

***

On the evening of the twenty-seventh day, the sorcerers stand in militaristically straight rows, all four hundred and thirteen of them. Men, women, and children, their red eyes raised to the sky and their arms glued to their sides. Their backs are completely rigid, and they don’t appear to sleep or grow weary no matter how long has passed. The last of the red lines disappear from their faces, and the flush returns to their skin. Their eyes turn white, and their irises’ colors return quickly, like a wave crashing into a shore. They don’t speak, or move, or breathe. The last of their bones snap into place with audible cracks, the last bit of blood is pulled from the tiles and snakes across the dirt to reach its host, and their skin sews itself together over and over and over. The tears that stream from their unseeing eyes suggest things which nobody in Camelot wants to entertain.

“The whole time?” someone whispers.

There is no answer.

Then a sound rises up from the crowd. A low rumbling at first, which gradually turns into a chorus of pained moans and retching that grows to impossible volumes.

This is the singing.

The sorcerers turn their heads to the sky as one unified whole, their irises blazing as golden as the light that streams forth from their mouths, and they begin to scream. Globs of spit and dirt and congealed blood spray from their lips.

The sound is deafening, causing everyone in the vicinity to cover their ears.

Finally, they move.

Most of them fall to their knees and begin sobbing. A few sit down and stare, completely unresponsive.

For those of them that have loved ones in the city, they are embraced and carried off into their homes, barely aware of where they are. They are given the first meal they’ve eaten in almost a year. They cry. They try to understand.

Ygraine and Arthur embrace each other and sob, uncaring of their people’s eyes that follow them.

Merlin empties the contents of his stomach into the dirt. Gaius rests a hand on the back of his apprentice’s head, murmuring mindless words of comfort in place of anything that comes close to acknowledging what has just happened.

Merlin begins to cry with the sorcerers. When he’s steady enough, he kneels by the youngest of the children and tries to distract them. He conjures flowers and butterflies and pretends to smile. It doesn’t work, but the kid’s hollow eyes follow his hands dazedly as they twirl through the air and form pictures in the sky.

Arthur breaks from the Queen and kneels next to Merlin, saying nothing but thinking only the strongest of apologies he can conceive of. The sorcerers look at him with confusion. Not fear.

None of them are in any position to speak yet.

When Ygraine has finally composed herself enough to see through the tears in her eyes, she notices a little girl with dark hair and bright green eyes who sits quietly among the sorcerers. Around her neck is a thin piece of string that is looped through a folded piece of paper.

“Arthur?” She points to the paper and Arthur nods, understanding. He removed it carefully from around the girl’s neck and flips it over. He freezes.

“It’s for you,” Arthur says, turning to her with wide eyes.

The front of the paper has Ygraine’s name written on it in neat, practiced calligraphy.

Ygraine retrieves it with a whispered thanks and reads it immediately.

Ygraine, it begins.

I won’t waste your time by attempting to explain myself. In truth, I would rather you never understand the depth of my anger. I am filled with more hatred than my body can hold. I don’t know what to do with it. It was never my intention to hurt anyone, but my chosen path in life has left me with few other options. What I did was further than any person should go. I see that now. You once told me that all people are defined by what they do. That kind acts make you kind, and cruel acts make you cruel. I don’t believe you, to be honest, but I wish desperately that it were true. I wish that kindness was as easy as breathing but it isn’t. You must have known that at the time, but I’ll forgive you for making things simple for a scared little girl. Wouldn’t it be nice, though? If all we had to do was pretend to be kind? In this, I have failed to take your advice, and it is a failure for which I will pay dearly in the afterlife. None of that matters, though. By the time you finish this letter, I’ll be long gone. Even as I make my preparations, I am angry. I still feel as though the world is in a state of injustice that does not justify my leaving it, especially when I can save it if I could only let go of my anger. But I can’t. I never was your daughter in that way. In all others, though. I promise you that. My power has grown to the point where it is extremely difficult to harm me. But this power is not mine. It’s my people’s. And so, I give it back. If I must die four hundred and thirteen times to give my people a chance, then I’ll do it. The only reason that I feel my people are safer without me is you. Help them recover from what I’ve done. Teach them to forgive everyone but me. You have to lead them into the light. You have to be kind. Give Arthur my best.

Morgana.