Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This tale took place hundreds of years ago in the time of heroes, dragons, and grand impossible quests. It is already over before the first page is begun. It has already reached its conclusion. It was always going to turn out this way. Those who will die have been dead since the beginning; there is nothing you or I can do to change that. We are merely spectators to a story that cannot be swayed.

This is a tale about love, its different shades and forms, and how it is shown in both resilience and fragility. It is a tale about the depths of courage, the complexities of brotherhood, the lies of morality, and the dark grip of prejudice strangling a kingdom of men. 

This tale may be over but it is also happening right now, right here, as your eyes skim these words. It will continue to repeat itself and I will continue to tell it. The people in this tale have done all of this before and will do it again and again until time ceases to exist.

This is how a man becomes a sword, how a prince becomes a king, and how a servant becomes a sorcerer. This is how a kingdom ascends and crumbles. This is how fire spreads. 

The prelude of the end begins now.

Chapter Text

On that evening, as far as the human eye could see, the land of Mercia disappeared within the paranormal wisps of unnatural fog. It had rained long the week before, a torrential storm so horrible it tore the very skies apart for seven days and seven nights.

There is something to be said about the fear which settles in the heart of travelers when such foreboding weather descends upon their journey. Most will cower and throw themselves into a frenzy, allowing a panic to send them to an early grave, or if they are lucky enough, to a familiar path back home.

Calibor was this fears challenger. The fog did not frighten him. It did not even impress him. His heart hadn’t the room. He was being hunted like a rabbit, leaving a bloody trail behind him from the ankle which had been caught in a snare. The fog gave him time to dress the wound and relight his lantern.

It was a lone star in a sea of white darkness. This guiding light and the instinctual tug of his gut were the only tools he had to determine his direction. He could not see more than a few feet in front of his face and the town he searched for was on a map he had lost a few days back. It had washed away in the flood like everything else, save for the daggers tucked into his belt, and the lantern he held in his fist. He’d even lost his sword, though that was more because of the hunters, after their first run in—before he’d lost them in the earlier storms. He had grown fond of that sword. He owed one of the hunters a violent death to make up for its loss and if his ankle wasn’t in such a state, he would have given it to him.

The town—was his last hope. A weak aspiration for a desperate man and he was a desperate man. A great amount of blood loss could make you so.

He had an idea that he was getting close. The worn grass trail, he could vaguely see with the pale glow from the lantern, had turned more to dirt now. The sign of a well-walked path and if he tilted his right ear upward, he could hear the low communication of cattle in the distance.

His ankle dragged the ground even when he tried to pick it up, and throbbing heat coursed up his left calf, though the rest of his body had gone cold. His vision was dim from the fog already but there was a certain shadowing at the corners which spoke of his weakness. He knew he was leaving tracks and Ganymede was a skilled enough tracker to catch them even if the others didn’t but there was nothing to be done about it now.

He kept his pace. He pressed onward. He had been through worse and better. This would not be what killed him. He had gone on for what could have been another hour, enough time to make him light-headed, and to have left his ankle worryingly numb, when his lantern had caught the side of a wooden post.

Upon limping forward, the lantern shown on a quiet pair of horses lashed to a fence. He squinted and there like a needle in the fog was a dot of light from what might have been a home or an inn.

He had the misfortune of releasing a long breath of relief, just before the air whistled with the sound of a blade cutting through the space above his left ear. His body responded in trained exuberance. He had not a sword or shield so he rolled himself out of the way, stumbling only just over his useless ankle, and catching himself against the fence. He dropped his lantern, heard it shatter on the ground, as he slid through the wooden gaps, coming out on the other side, and startling the horses. They nickered, huffed, and pawed at the ground.

The fog must have muffled the noise of their approach for there, in the vague outline of the fire from his lantern now catching some stray weeds, the tallest of his hunters gleamed. The one who owed him a sword. “Now Calibor, did you really think you could run?”

“Pedivere.” He replied stiffly, through the fog three more figures began to take shape behind him. He slipped his hand casually into his cloak, where he groped the rough leather hilt of ones of his daggers.

Pedivere’s expression was lost in the dark but there was a fair chance a sneer was curling his lips. The familiar sword he held in his felonious hands belonged to Calibor. “Don’t speak to me, dog. We have been on your tail for weeks, following your traitorous stench across the countryside. Two of our men have died. I want your head on a stick!”

“Remember, Pedivere, his head is spoken for.” There was Ganymede, blade glinting in the firelight, eyes sparkling like two black beetles in the shadows, and two more men that Calibor didn’t recognize. Both were taller than he was, wearing thick furs without armor, but wielding axes large enough to cleave a man in two.

“Grown to love me so much, have you?” Calibor asked with snark he did not feel. He shifted his weight an inch, testing how much weight his ankle might hold. The brief spark of pain before numbness descended again did not reassure him. “You need a souvenir?”

Ganymede growled. “His tongue goes unclaimed so far though, Pedivere. Perhaps you’ll do us a favor and cut it out.”

“I invite you to try.” Calibor threatened. He could tell his hunters underestimated him. Despite what they had already seen him do and the wreckage he had left in his path. There was a smugness to their postures as if the battle had already been won. “Take your men back to the Perilous lands while you still can, Ganymede.”

Ganymede’s shadowed chin tilted toward the spluttering flames from Calibor’s lantern catching the dry grass, then up again.  “You can’t pull any of your little tricks tonight. The people in this village will make sure of that.”

Calibor ground his teeth, took the dagger from the loop it rested in, ignoring the uneasy turning in his stomach. “I don’t need any tricks. Not for you.”

“Enough talk!” One of the men with the axes roared. He hefted the blade above his head. “This traitor has drawn breath too long. This ends now!”

The four of them moved at once. Calibor’s dagger left his hand before the first had reached the fence. It sank into the throat of one of the axe men. He gurgled on his own blood as his twin released a furious shout and went down beneath the weight of his fallen friend.

The horses whined and tugged at their leads as Calibor dragged himself behind them, ankle in agony that had to be ignored.

Pedivere vaulted the fence like a wolf and he drew the last of his daggers and held it in front of him. It was the longer of the pair, the length of his forearm, and it had braced many swords when he could get in close enough. The throb of his ankle suggested that this time, he would not be able to.

 He and Pedivere circled each other, still several feet apart with the horses between them, pawing and huffing with wide eyes, as the voice of Ganymede tried to convince his partner to leave the dead behind. “Get up! Get up, you fool!”

“Where is your courage now, dog?” Pedivere hissed, the shine of his blade the clearest thing about his form. As the nerves brought Calibor’s heart into a thundering pace, the fire from his shattered lantern, now behind him, grew larger. He felt the heat on his back and a curdling in his stomach as the new light washed over the horses and the twisted snarl of Pedivere’s scarred face. “All that talk and you cower behind livestock! Face me and die as you should have at Boromine!”

Calibor’s mouth twitched, his eyes trailing to the horses’ straining leads, and back to Pedivere. “I never cower.”

He drew his blade down on the rope, the sheer force of his swing enough to snap the fraying material, and at the same time slapped the soft backside of the brown mare closest to him. “Go!”

It reared back on its hindlegs giving a mighty squeal, as both spooked horses broke into a gallop. Pedivere let out a sound of surprise. The brown mare crashed into his side as he attempted to throw himself out of its path. He cut through the yellow flame-licked fog and slammed into the ground.

Calibor wasted no time with what little advantage he had created. He damned his ankle and sprung on top of Pedivere. The man’s sword—Calibor’s stolen sword—had gone flying out of reach but that didn’t stop him from sending his elbow into Calibor’s nose with a crack that made his eyes burst with sparks of red. His blood flowed freely from both nostrils.

They grappled, Pedivere’s palm slamming into the hollow of his throat. Sucking in a harsh breath that felt like he’d swallowed bits of glass, he drove his knee into the man’s sternum and while Pedivere coughed and howled, Calibor pushed his wheeling arms back and slashed the soft flesh of his neck wide open. A gaping slit that spurted warmth onto Calibor’s face. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t feel. He let the blood spray him and forced the man’s hands down. He watched the horror drain from Pedivere’s face as his body went limp.

Pedivere moved no more but the swelling orange fog danced with firelight and shown the two shadows of his brethren coming down on Calibor’s back. He rolled over in the direction of the tossed aside sword, as the flash of an axe was brought down, it missed him and sank into the corpse instead.

Ganymede towered above him, face ripe with rage, as Calibor’s hand found his loyal sword once more. A reunion of old friends. He brought it up between them.

Their blades clashed together, ringing in the once quiet night, turned violent. Behind Ganymede’s back the flames were climbing over the fence now, several feet high, and only growing. Calibor tried to quell the surge of panic in his chest, tried to beat it back, while shoving Ganymede’s sword away with his own and grasping one hand in the dirt, flung it into his eyes. Ganymede reeled backward, temporarily blinded.

Calibor managed to get to his knees before Ganymede came in again, with much more strength. His aim was sloppy though, and his technique was weak. Calibor saw the flaw, how he overreached, and drove his blade up to skid the lower half of Ganymede’s. The man hissed as his blade caught fingers and pulled back, cursing under his breath, and clutching at his bleeding hand.

Calibor struggled to his feet, troublesome ankle taking none of his weight now, but with a sword in his hand he felt less cornered. Less outnumbered despite the lumbering man waiting behind Ganymede for orders. He flicked his sword between them in the showy gesture that Ganymede had always hated. The man stared at him with fury in his eyes.

“Don’t make me kill you.” Calibor rasped, throat sore and brittle from Pedivere’s blow. Despite everything, all the pain that Ganymede was responsible for, Calibor was willing to let him go. He was tired of killing. He was tired of all of it. “Walk away with your lives. No reward is worth this. I don’t care what your master says.”

Ganymede shook his head, holding a hand up to stop the man from coming forward with his axe. His expression bore into Calibor. It was the same one he wore before a slaughter, before Calibor had watched many innocents die on his blade. “Used to be our master once, didn’t he? No. The money may not be worth it but I will treasure every second that I get to watch the life leave your soulless eyes.”

Ganymede lunged forward but Calibor was ready for it. Their blades clashed again and Calibor parried it away. They circled each other, slashing in and blocking, gaining ground and losing it.

With a sword they were somewhat evenly matched but while Ganymede had perfected the Undermen’s fighting style, he knew nothing of Calibor’s. For Calibor did not fight a certain way. He had learned the techniques of the Undermen, knew it was less about footwork and more about lowering one’s guard before surging in low with your blade, but he had also the techniques of home tucked under his belt, he knew the graceful parrying of knights, and the dirty trickery of the slums. He had studied the blade for years in his youth. It was the one thing that had kept him alive so long. Now he combined moves and created a whirlwind of danger that kept Ganymede guessing.

He had never fought without the use of one of his legs before, had never been so contained to one small area of ground, during a battle, and he had to work twice as hard to make up for it.

In the end Ganymede came in too close, raised his sword too high, and Calibor tossed his blade from right to left hand in mid-air and pressed the cold steel against the man’s neck, making him freeze.

“Drop it!” Calibor hissed, shoving his arm into Ganymede’s shoulder to bring the lower half of his sword in closer to its target. It was weak of him, this hesitation. If he were on the other end of the sword, Ganymede would have struck without blinking, but there had been so much blood loss. It churned in his stomach. It coated Calibor’s face. “Drop it now!”

Ganymede made no effort to do so, his face twisted in rage and disgust. In the corner of Calibor’s eye, he saw the axe man charge forward with a roar.

“No!” Ganymede screamed, his honor wounded, shoving Calibor back, and making him stumble over his bad ankle. He nearly went down. “He’s mine!”

This wretched lie, this boldfaced claim of arrogance, brought the anger that made the pain in Calibor’s ankle vanish. It let him straighten and surge forward as Ganymede rushed him. Calibor’s sword plunged into his stomach, plunged straight through him, glistening with red. For Calibor belonged to no one. He hadn’t—not for a long time.

Ganymede’s expression of surprise did not last. He was dead before Calibor had withdrawn his sword. 

As the body fell, the axe man wailed and charged him, shining steel axe raised high above his head, and Calibor didn’t think. He felt. A surge of power in his gut as the burning fire behind the charging man was sucked inward toward them as if caught in a gust of wind.

It billowed like a cloud of flames and swallowed the man, a foot from Calibor, where it stilled, the heat just licking his face, and singing the tips of his dark hair, as the man howled in agony and disappeared into the fire. His screams echoed into the night as he was burnt alive. The crisp scent of charred flesh swept over the field.

Calibor listened and churned, humming with an energy that made him sick. Finally, the screams stopped and the sound of a body hitting the ground followed. With great effort, breath punching from his lungs in great rasping gasps, he pulled back. The snap of it, the force of a ricochet inside of himself, knocked him down to one knee. He gripped his hands into fists and curled inward.

As if blown out by the mouth of God, the fire consuming the field was no more, leaving Calibor in a world of darkness, surrounded by fog as thick as soup.

For many minutes he could not move. He could only desperately try to remember how to breathe, how to rewarm his body which had gone viciously cold. When his ankle was back to throbbing, he forced himself up to his feet, in the all-white nothingness. He cleaned the blood off his sword, ran it through the grass, and limped in the direction of Pedivere’s body.

He nearly tripped over it and had to pat along beside the corpse to find his dagger. He slipped it into his belt and trudged toward the fence, he could not see. Exhaustion clung to his movements, in a way that begged to be released, for him to lie down in the dirt near the bodies and relax into death himself. But he knew by now that he would not be allowed such mercy and upon finding the fence, slipped through it, found the body in which he had embedded his shorter dagger and retrieved that too.

He wiped the tacky death-spit of Pedivere’s demise, off his face with the back of his sleeve, though his nose was still bleeding freely, and peered through the dark where the one speck of light stood out.

With the ghosts of four more souls, clinging heavily to his back, whispering their hatred and revenge into his ears, he stumbled toward the inn.

Chapter Text

Inside of the inn, two men sat at a corner table, two mugs of untouched ale in front of them. One of them had nearly black hair, wore a little red scarf, and thought himself the more intelligent counterpart of the two. The other had all the signs of a noble man with fair-colored hair, golden like straw, and a strong chin, but was, in the first man’s opinion, quite brash and thick-headed.

It was the noble man who spoke first, casting a dirty look at a pair of grubby-faced men laughing loudly at the bar, slinging back mead, and telling raucous jokes that could be heard over the entire chattering of the place. “If I have to stay one more night in this wretched place, I’m going to lose it.”

“It isn’t so bad.”

“I mean it, Merlin. I might very well murder those two if I have to hear them repeat another foul bit about stealing the baker lady’s maidenhood.”

Merlin sighed. It had been many nights since they had first come upon the Inn. It had begun with the storm and Arthur’s prideful mutterings that they weren’t lost. Even when the rain began to fall so thick, the wind so violent that it shook down branches, and they’d been forced to cower inside of a flooding cave that they had passed, not once or twice, but thrice times. It was only a bit of luck that in the dark of all of it, Merlin spotted the little glowing lights in the distance that signaled the town. Then it was just a matter of running, with their cloaks pulled over their heads, and praying that a stray branch wouldn’t crush them on their way.

The storm had continued for a week, trapping Arthur and Merlin inside of the inn, which grew busier and busier as time went on. It seemed most of the townspeople were of the mind that crowding into the inn and drinking themselves silly was the ideal solution to waiting out the storm. The rain had stopped that morning and Arthur had been hopeful that they might be able to depart at last and continue their journey. Instead, a most eerie type of fog had descended over the countryside, too dense to travel in, and impossible to see through.

Thus another night had been paid for and Merlin had been forced to listen to Arthur’s incessant complaining which had partly to do with cabin-fever and partly to do with his general dislike of sleeping in peasant’s quarters—or sharing a bed with Merlin.

Merlin had to admit, that he himself, was quite looking forward to leaving the Inn, if only to be rid of Arthur’s constant whinging. Though, he would surely whinge about something else as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

That evening, the Inn was roaring with activity, just as it had been for many nights before. There were creamy candlesticks lit at each table and torches strung up to provide the warm yellow glow of light that illuminated the place. On the outside, white clouds of fog pressed against each of the windows, making the world seem unearthly and foreign, as if the Inn was the last place in Albion, and the rest of the country had disappeared and left them in a wasteland of nothingness.

In truth, Merlin had only been half-paying attention to Arthur’s meager attempts at conversation for some time. His mind was elsewhere, though he couldn’t figure out why. There was something different now than there had been the nights before. He could feel it in his gut, an odd energy that tingled just below the surface of his skin and sat on his tongue. It was if something had entered the field of his awareness and set off some sort of alarms. The only problem, as his eyes swept around the swells of men and woman, laughing and drinking, he couldn’t discern what it was.

Arthur released a long breath, having realized by now that Merlin wasn’t listening, and set his mug down with a heavy clunk. “I’m going to speak with the Inn Keeper.”

“You do that.” Merlin told him, not looking up as his friend moved to his feet and left the table. Strangely, at that moment, the candles on the tables, and the torches on the walls, all flickered, all seemed to swell brighter for a moment before returning to normal. Merlin looked around but no one else had seemed to notice.

 His eyes found the large wooden door of the Inn just before it opened, gaze drawn inexplicably by a tugging inside him. The door came open quietly, though it was shoved with some force, and out of the fog came a young man—he couldn’t have been much more than a boy.

He was dressed in all black and slipped inside quickly, without notice from the other guests, and drifted to the opposite corner of the Inn than the one Merlin occupied. He walked with a pronounced limp and still somehow managed to move like a ghost, without attracting the attention of any of the men or women he passed.

As the boy glanced around the room, eyes tracking with that same awareness that Arthur held upon entering a new place, his face caught the light. It showed the tendrils of dark curly hair peeking from beneath his cloak, flashed his pale skin, and the dried crust of blood under his nose. 

Merlin noticed the darker stains on the boy’s clothes that could only have been one thing and the flash of a sword beneath his cloak. He collapsed into a chair and propped his elbows on the table, briefly burying his face in his hands.

Merlin watched with intrigue and an odd feeling of foreboding as a Barmaid came over to the stranger to take his order. He slid a few coins out to her and sent her away.

Arthur was still at the counter speaking profusely to the Inn Keeper, an older gentleman with graying hair, who speared his eyes at the ceiling in exasperation as he dried a set of glasses. The barmaid had to pass him to begin making the stranger a plate.

Merlin returned his gaze to the boy at the table, whose face was now shadowed by his hood. The strange feeling that had bothered him for several minutes had only grown since the boy had entered and Merlin was almost sure now that it had to do with him. Narrowing his eyes at the boy, searching him up and down, to little avail, he tried to figure out why.

The barmaid brought the boy his food and a pint of some brown colored liquid. He set to picking it apart at once, occasionally shoveling small bites into his shadowed mouth. As she walked away, back toward, the bar, Merlin let his curiosity get the better of him and flagged her down.

“What can I do for you sir?”

“What do you know about that man?” He asked her, gesturing with his chin to the other side of the room. “The one who just came in.”

The barmaid shrugged, running her hands along her apron, and peering his way. “Nothing. I’ve never seen him before in my life. We get all kinds around here, don’t we? Is there anything else?”

Merlin shook his head and the woman went on her way. It was odd for Merlin, usually when he had certain premonitions about people, he could tell pretty soon whether they were negative or not. With this boy, he emanated no strong aura, no positive or negative undertone that he could detect. He just felt. A tingling under his skin, a familiarity in his gut, nothing fixed.

He couldn’t make anything of it. Eventually, Arthur came back to their table in a worse mood than when he had left. “Come on, Merlin. We’re going up to bed. I don’t care if the fog clears out tomorrow. We’re leaving.”

“Does that boy seem strange to you?” Merlin asked, staring at the boy one last time. He had finished his super and was sitting, unmoving, head-tilted downward, face impossible to make out beneath his hood.

“What boy? There’s more than two dozen people in here.”

“The one in the corner. In the dark hood.” Arthur was looking in the complete wrong direction. Merlin kicked him beneath the table.

“Ouch! Merlin!”

Merlin jabbed his thumb in the right direction, rolling his eyes. “There.”

Arthur seemed to follow his line of sight and peered over at the boy with his brow furrowed. Just a quick scan with his eyes before he turned back to Merlin. “Are you serious? Look around you, Merlin. Who here, does not seem strange to you?”

He shook his head, muttering about the absolute idiocy of nosey servants, and Merlin grunted. He didn’t know what he had expected from Arthur, who had once been tricked into almost marrying a member of the Fae. He got to his feet, before Arthur could drag him up, and thought to himself that at least they would be leaving tomorrow. Then, he wouldn’t have to worry about the stranger in the hood any longer.

Their room was a quaint one, not unlike Merlin’s room in Camelot, but to Arthur it was entirely unaccommodating. He made a fuss about having to sleep beside Merlin each night but fell asleep within ten minutes of his head hitting the pillow. Merlin couldn’t very well complain, he found he slept quite well in the bed. It was almost more comfortable than the one he had at home.

Merlin struggled to fall asleep, long after Arthur began to snore noisily. The strange new energy plaguing him made it difficult to drift off but as many hours ticked by, the sensation began to fade. Like a knot, gradually loosening, the strange boy left his thoughts, and he was able to find the pleasant relief of sleep once more.

That night he dreamt of an enormous royal-looking ship fighting against the violent waves of a tumultuous ocean. A catastrophic storm waged war around it causing the boat to almost capsize. It was hoisted with two large white sails, each embroidered with a diamond-shaped blue star. Merlin watched from high above as if he were a bird, a spectator without purpose, until the dream changed.

Then, he was just Merlin again and he was in an ancient forest. He felt that it might once have been a peaceful place but was now a blazing inferno, consumed by wildfire. The heat seared his skin and the flames devoured everything around him, greedy and out of control. Merlin tried uselessly to summon his magic, he tried to draw water from the sky, he tried to put it out, but nothing happened. The smoke wrapped around his lungs, suffocating him, and as everything went dark, he saw a sword, a sword that fell to the floor of the forest, and extinguished the fire all at once.

Merlin was shaken away some time in the morning by Arthur. He only knew it was morning because overnight the fog had cleared and now rays of blinding white sunlight penetrated the frayed curtains and seared his freshly peeled eyes.

“Wake up, Merlin! Wake up!”

“What?” Merlin yelped, dragging the blankets up and blinking furiously at a slightly blurry configuration of Arthur, fully dressed, with his already sword strapped to his hip.

“The townspeople have discovered bodies in a field outside the Inn.” Arthur was saying, speaking low and rushed, in a tone that suggested danger before the word bodies even fell from his tongue. Merlin sat up straighter. “They’re saying it was magic. What did you do?”

Perhaps once the accusatory tone in which Arthur demanded this, would’ve irritated him, but there wasn’t so much as judgement in his features but worry—about the catastrophe which might very well have been heading their way as they spoke.

Merlin, whose brain was still muffled with sleep, only managed some mumbled variation of, “That’s impossible.”

“Impossible or impulsive?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. He shook his head and began throwing Merlin’s clothes at him. “When did you even have the time to get into this sort of trouble? I was with you practically the whole time.”

“No. No because that’s—” Merlin’s pants hit him in the face. He dragged them away. “That’s the point. It wasn’t me!”

Arthur paused half-way through dragging both of their packs out from where they had hidden them, under the bed.

“It wasn’t you?” This only stalled him for a few seconds before he was back to hastily gathering their things. “Well, whoever it was—it doesn’t matter because they’re arguing in the square right now, pointing fingers at anyone who came into town in the last few days. That’s us, Merlin.”

Merlin muttered a few choice curse words, threw the blankets off, and began to change. “Alright just let me get dressed first.”

“Get dressed quicker.” Arthur demanded, in that insufferable voice of his. “They’re going to start raiding the rooms as soon as they’re finished fighting amongst themselves. Not to mention our horses are gone. Someone cut them free.”

Well, that was a problem. If their horses were gone that lowered their chances of making a quick escape from town before anything got too messy. Merlin had just finished dressing and about to take his bag from Arthur when the memory struck him—as sharp as a dagger. He gasped. “Arthur!”

Arthur frowned, looking at him as if he had gone mad. “What?”

“The stranger from last night, the one I pointed out to you. I bet you anything it was him!”

Understanding clouded Arthur’s eyes. “Why was it that you pointed him out anyway?”

“I had a strange feeling about him.” Merlin took his bag, swinging it over his back, thoughts flying through last night all over again.

“Really, Merlin?” Arthur exclaimed, scowling. “You should have told me!”

Merlin blinked at him. Then reached out and smacked the back of his head. A bit more bravely than he ought to, considering he was the servant and Arthur was the prince.

“Ow!” Arthur yelped, wheeling backward. His expression was comically offended.  

“I tried to tell you, you daft idiot!” Merlin shouted. “You called me nosy!”

“Well, whether you did or didn’t, none of that matters now.” His stupid, useless, blonde friend said angrily, rubbing the back of his head. “We need to get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we do something about this? The townspeople don’t know who they’re looking for and if he’s a sorcerer it won’t matter if they find him. He could just do them in too.”

Arthur appeared to think this over for a moment, then shook his head. “The bodies weren’t townspeople; they had the mark of the Undermen. Whoever the stranger is—he may have had good reason to kill them.”

Merlin frowned at him. “What’s the mark of the Undermen?”

“It’s a brand on the upper left arm. The Undermen are a violent group of radicals from the Perilous Lands. They’re at war with most of the northern villages in this side of the country. They often shed blood for the fun of it.” Arthur must have seen the expression on Merlin’s face because he shook his head. “No, Merlin. This isn’t any of our business.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “Not any of our business? Since when have you decided something like this isn’t our business? This is exactly the type of situation you stick your nose in all the time!”

“I’ve decided it just now.” Arthur snapped back. “Now listen to me, we’re going to make our way to the farmer’s house, the one we ran into trying to find the Inn, and I’m going to talk him into selling us his horses.”

Merlin sucked in a deep sigh. He could tell that there wasn’t any pushing Arthur on his matter. “And what shall I do?”

“You are going to keep your head down and wait for me.”

“Right.” Merlin muttered. “Brilliant. I love this plan.”

Arthur scowled. “Come on.”

The two of them left the room in which they had been staying for the past week. The Inn was scarcely inhabited, there was just a few voices drifting from closed doors into the otherwise empty hall, and a few mice straggling in the dining hall looking from crumbs. As they passed through the hall, Merlin eyed the table at which the stranger had sat last night. Arthur was peering out of the window.

“It looks like most of them are still gathered in the town square.” He let the curtain fall shut again and looked at Merlin. “Alright, I’ll go to the farmers and get the horses now. You’ll hide here.”

“Why do I have to hide?”

Arthur stared at him in the way that he did when Merlin said something that he found incredibly stupid. “You’re the most suspicious looking. Anyway, you’ll hide here until I get back. Do you understand? Do not go wandering about.”

Merlin made a face as if he were offended. “Who do you take me for?”

“Merlin.”

He sighed, though he very much wasn’t planning on staying put, and lied through his teeth. “Alright. I won’t go wandering about.”

Arthur nodded. “Good.”

“Great.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Merlin.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Arthur gave him one last, long, suffering look, before disappearing out of the door into the outside world. It was bright and sunny outside, quite the contrast of the past week’s weather. Merlin moved to watch him from the window. He watched Arthur look both ways, cross the street, and vanish between the houses. Merlin smiled to himself, counted to ten, and followed him out of the Inn.

The streets were deserted and a soft wind tickled the back of Merlin’s neck as he crept along in the shadows of the houses in the direction of the town square. He came across the destruction of the following night first. From where he stood under the eaves of a large home, the field across from it, the one that Merlin and Arthur had strapped their horses to posts, was a crisp wasteland of charred wheat. A good portion of the wooden fence was blackened and from where he stood, the breeze carried over the scent of burnt flesh.

Merlin gagged, pulling his collar over his nose. There were a few bodies, as far as he could see, but only one of them appeared to have died in the flames. The scorched land was in the most unnatural pattern, spreading wide at the fence, and then cutting an almost straight line through the field to where the charred body lay. It was clear to Merlin, as it had been to the townspeople, that this was the destruction of magic.

He pressed on, crossing the street, when he was certain there was no one around, and slipped between the allies in the direction of voices. He had only to round another corner, and slip close behind an old wagon, to see the chaos that had formed in the town square. The townspeople weren’t alone. There were flashes of silver chainmail, soldiers bearing the crest of Mercia, standing amongst the crowd. At least a dozen of them. Their leader spoke loudly trying to be heard over the crowd.

“It must have been a beast!”

“A dragon perhaps!”

“You idiot, there haven’t been dragons in a hundred years.”

“Listen to me!” The leader commanded and the townspeople grew a little quieter. “No, beast did this. There were blade wounds on the other bodies. Only a sorcerer could have been responsible for this. Now think, have you had any strangers come into your village within the past few days.”

“Several!” A woman piped up; the flash of her blonde-grey hair made Merlin recognize her as the barmaid from the Inn. “We get many odd ones, passing through these parts.”

Another soldier came forward, holding a piece of parchment that Merlin couldn’t properly see. “How about one in particular? A young man with dark hair and a scar through his mouth. Like in this drawing?”

The boy. Merlin didn’t know if it were fate, his instincts, or a strange coincidence but something drew his eyes to the darkened alleyway opposite him, across the town square. The boy had his hood drawn, but the long dark curls peeking out of it were unmistakable. He was watching the crowd as Merlin was and had straightened against the wall now.

“I’ve seen him before! I have!” The barmaid’s voice came, loud and high, piercing the air. “He checked into our Inn last night!”

There was a growing rumble of assent as the man stowed the parchment and the soldiers drew their swords. “Check the Inn!” The leader roared. “The rest of you spread out and comb the streets!”

They moved in a flash, passing the alleys between Merlin and the boy they were searching for. Merlin saw the boy turn and begin to back down the alley. If Merlin were the logical sort, he would go find Arthur at the farmer’s house. He would let the boy—man—sorcerer person go. But there was a loud scream across the town square.

“He’s here! Help! The sorcerer is here!”

And Merlin, not the logical sort, saw two soldiers run down the alley the boy had disappeared from, and went after them.

The soldiers had a head start and so did the boy. He heard the clashing of blades, came around a corner to see the boy break through a gate, a soldier lying unconscious, that the two more following him ignored. Merlin jumped over the unconscious man and followed, through the winding passages between houses, he heard sneering.

“You really thought you could get away from us, did you?”

He rounded into an alley.

The boy was cornered, with his back to a house, a dead-end. The two soldiers stood a few feet from him, with their swords, raised. The one closest to the boy darted forward and Merlin made a split-second decision.

He hissed the words, throwing his hand up toward the crumbling roof of the house, and brought the corner down onto the two men. The boy ducked as rubble rain down, shaking the ground, and knocking the men unconscious. He looked up and his eyes met Merlin, surprise etched onto his features. Something seemed to pass between them as Merlin panted for breath and then the gaze broke—the boy slammed his side against a door and disappeared through it.

“Hey!” Merlin called, surprised though he ought to have expected that. “Stop!”

Merlin ran after him, stepping through the broken door, into a darkened shop. It seemed to be an apothecary, the boy vaulted over the counter, and Merlin with a groan clumsily followed suit.

“Come on, now! Wait a minute!”

Movement outside the window of the Apothecary caught Merlin’s eye. A flash of silver—Mercian soldiers. The boy was almost to the door when Merlin managed to throw himself forward, grabbing him around the shoulders, and turning him at the last second so that they wouldn’t crash into the door. They crashed into the wall instead, the boy hitting first, violence in his eyes, as Merlin trapped him against it, quickly covering his mouth. He began to thrash.

“Hush!” Merlin hissed, jutting his chin at the window. The boy’s eyes followed his to the soldiers outside and surprisingly, he grew still.

He appeared older up close, but only just, and mostly due to the resentment in his features. He was younger than Merlin but had the hardened expression of a man who had seen the worst of the world already. His eyes were a dark shade of green that glared at Merlin.

They were both quiet until the soft chatter of the soldiers passed them by, then Merlin was shoved roughly away. He stumbled but managed to not go down.

“Who the hell are you?” The young man snarled, with a mouth cut through by a raised pink scar.

The question held more than one but Merlin gave it the simplest reply, he could think of. “Merlin, who are you?”

His face flashed with the briefest shade of disbelief, before going blank, a mask wiping everything clean.  “That’s none of your business. Why are you following me?”

He wasn’t going for his sword, though his hand remained on the hilt, so Merlin did what he did best. He talked. “Well, whoever you are. You have about half of the Mercian’s fighting force out looking for you.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, making his scar go white. “I’m well aware. Why are you following me?”

“Because I felt you.” Merlin realized that wasn’t quite an explanation and rushed on. “Last night. At the Inn. I felt your presence with my magic. And this morning I knew—those bodies in the field, you did that didn’t you?”

Whoever he was, stiffened. “Maybe.”

“Why did you kill those men?” Merlin asked, growing serious. He scrutinized the boy’s features, saw the twitch of his jaw, and felt out toward him with his magic. He didn’t feel the anger or the energy of a blood-thirsty man. He felt pain.

Slowly, the boy raised his chin. “They deserved it.”

“What did they do?”

“They were trying to kill me.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” The boy snapped, his posture growing impatient again. Merlin looked him over again, tried to examine why he wasn’t more thrown by the boy’s actions. The aftermath had been brutal. One would think that the person who had committed such actions would share a similar affliction.

“You’re like me.” Merlin responded after a few minutes.

The boy scoffed, almost a choked laugh, but it was all bitter. His green eyes narrowed. “I’m nothing like you.”

“Yes, you are.” Merlin repeated, as anger contorted the features of the boy’s face. “I saw the scorch marks in the field. You practice magic.”

“I don’t practice anything!” The boy hissed. For the first time, an emotion other than anger betrayed him. “I didn’t choose this. I didn’t go looking for this or trying to study it like you people do. I was born with it inside of me. Whatever I can do—whatever is wrong with me—it isn’t magic. It’s a curse and I can’t control it.”

“You were born with it?” Merlin heard himself asking, stunned, the words of Gaius echoing in his ears about the rarity of such people. The rarity of people like Merlin. That feeling he had at the Inn, the strange connection, the thrumming of energy he had felt came to life between them again.

The boy might have felt something too, because his brows flickered together. “I know how it sounds. But it’s true.”

“I believe you.” Merlin said, feeling in his soul a great tugging. “I believe you because I was born with it too.”

His expression, the anger of it, the defensiveness, it almost drained away entirely. For a moment neither said anything. Then the voices of the soldiers outside grew closer and Merlin made up his mind in an instant. It might have been reckless or naïve and it would certainly anger Arthur but he knew he had to do it. He and this boy in front of him were connected in some way, and just as Merlin knew his destiny was tied to Arthur, he had a feeling theirs were tied too.

“Come with me.”

The defensiveness returned. “What?”

“You have two choices. Stay here and get caught by those soldiers, be executed for your magic, or come with me. I can help you.” Merlin told him and he could tell that his words weren’t easily believed. “Let me help you.”

The soldiers were right outside the door now. The boy’s lip curled; his eyes shown with resentment. “I don’t need your help.”

Before Merlin could stop him, the boy threw open the door, and rushed into the street. Merlin, insulting himself, ran after him. They ran into three soldiers instantly and the boy, who had seemed so young in the shadows of the Apothecary, drew his sword and set about fighting them all at once. He was a terror, magnificent and violent. He slashed a blade away from Merlin, with seamless precision, and spun to throw it away from the man. At each turn he made a kill, and the blade came free as if from butter. The three men were wounded and at their feet in less than a minute, though half a dozen more with thundering down the street toward them, and they were running again.

They rounded a corner and bolted, straight into Arthur and a pair of mares. The horse Arthur was riding, whined, and raised up on its back hooves, making Arthur shout. “Woah!”

Merlin came up on the boy’s side. “Arthur!”

The man looked up, quickly glanced at the pair of them, and at the soldiers thundering up a distance behind them and grew pink in the face. “Merlin! What have you done!? I told you to stay at the Inn! And who is this?”

Merlin glanced at the boy, who had for some reason gone silent and pale, a strangled expression on his face as he stared up at Arthur and made no room to go around him or the horses.

“He’s the boy from last night.” Merlin explained, quickly. He grabbed the reins of the other horse from Arthur and clumsily, put his foot in the stirrup, and hauled himself over the horse and onto the saddle. The boy seemed to get ahold of himself because he moved to go around the horse but froze when Arthur pointed his drawn sword at his throat. Down the road, the soldiers were getting closer. “Don’t stab him! There’s no time to explain. He’s coming with us.”

“I am not.” The boy growled at the same time that Arthur hissed, absolutely not. “I’ll find my own damn horse. Get out of my way.”

Merlin wanted a bit to slap them both upside the head. Arthur didn’t remove the point of his sword from the hollow of the boy’s throat. “Come on, Arthur! He needs our help. If the soldiers catch him, they’ll kill him for using magic against those men.”

“Earlier you were suggesting we might have to do the same thing!”

The boy’s head whipped around toward Merlin.

“Well, I’ve changed my mind!”

“He’s a fugitive, Merlin!”

“So am I—technically!”

“He killed those men.” Arthur exclaimed, not looking at Merlin, looking down at the boy who glared up at him, not backing down. “Their bodies were charred beyond recognition!”

“You said they were bad men!”

An arrow whistled past Arthur’s ear, making him curse and withdraw his sword so that the boy wouldn’t impale himself on it when he ducked. More arrows began to soar past them, hitting the dirt at the horses’ feet, or cutting through the air a few inches closer than Merlin would have liked.

“I don’t trust him.” Arthur growled and Merlin felt almost as if the words weren’t directed at him, for the gaze between the boy and the prince was so great, so filled with shared dislike.

“I’m not asking you to trust me.” The boy hissed back. “Now get out of my way!”

The first of the soldiers, the fastest, reached him, and the boy turned to meet him. Their swords clashed and Merlin held onto his horse as it tried to pitter backward.

“Please, Arthur.” He begged and Arthur did meet his eye. He could see the conflict fighting out in his friend’s mind, the surrender. He let out a loud, exasperated growl, just as the boy disarmed the soldier and stabbed him through. The body fell to the earth. More coming for vengeance.

Arthur held out his arm to the boy as he faced them again, bleeding from his nose. “Get on!”

The boy glared back at him. More arrows rained down around them.

“Get on.” Arthur repeated, with his own vicious glare. “Or I’ll leave you to die. It’s no skin off my back.”

For an awful moment, Merlin thought the boy might refuse. He glanced behind him, at the soldiers now less than a yard away, and let out a similar sound to Arthur’s before sheathing his sword.

“Fine.” He hissed, taking Arthur’s arm. Arthur pulled him up onto the horse. The boy gracefully swung his leg over and saddled himself behind Arthur. Merlin waited no more. He kicked out with his boot and caught the closest soldier in the face, rearing his horse, and sending it into motion.

They galloped down the street, arrows soaring past them, heading for the tree line.  Arthur rode out in front of him, he could see the boy pressing close to him, hugging his waist to keep from falling off the horse as it ran over the uneven terrain. He was watching when the arrow hit its mark. It buried itself into the boy’s left shoulder and he didn’t make a sound. The dark of his cloak began to grow red with blood. Merlin saw the boy’s grip loosen, saw as he started to slip away.

“Arthur!”

Arthur looked over his shoulder, the wind dragging through his golden hair. He caught the boy before he could fall off the horse somehow, and pulled him close against his back. They couldn’t stop. Merlin could hear the stampeding hooves of the Mercian soldiers following them on horseback. Thankfully, Arthur seemed to have secured him. They rode hard into the forest and Merlin followed, hoping they could lose them in the trees.

Chapter Text

They rode hard for half an hour. Arthur kept his grip tight on the arm around his waist, the arm of the unconscious, certainly dangerous, irritating sorcerer, that his idiot servant had forced him to rescue.

The sorcerer in question was unconscious, slumped against his back, dark curly hair spilling over Arthur's shoulder, his forehead pressed against Arthur's neck. He felt shallow breathing against his back. He could feel the blood too, hot, and wet seeping through the boy's shirt and into his own.

He spotted a cave in that distance, the entrance blocked by a thick pine, and rode into it, slowing his horse to a slow trot. Merlin followed. It was dark in the cave, but wide, with dripping formations hanging from a ceiling several feet above them. Merlin stopped in the light of the entrance and climbed off his horse. "Is he alright?"

"He's unconscious," Arthur grunted, forcing his horse to a stop too. Merlin came over to him. "Help me get him off the horse."

He adjusted on the saddle, twisting so that he could carefully help lower the sorcerer from the horse. Merlin tugged one of his leather-clad arms around his shoulders and stumbled under the weight of him once he was off. He teetered, though the boy was the same height as him, and certainly thinner, he couldn't seem to hold him up.

"A little help here." Merlin squeaked and Arthur sighed, his frustration already coming back now that they were out of harm's way.

He threw his leg over the side of his horse. "Perhaps you shouldn't pick up strays if you aren't willing to care for them, Merlin."

"That's not fair," Merlin said though it was very fair. "He would have died without our help."

Arthur shook his head as his feet hit the ground. He walked his horse over to the entrance and tied her off to a branch, poking in from outside. He did the same to Merlin's horse. Ignoring the noises of Merlin's struggle. "Maybe he should have."

Arthur turned back to Merlin who was staring at him apprehensively with those eyes that said he'd disappointed him again. "Don't look at me like that. We don't even know him. It's highly likely he's a murdering prick. The bodies in the field would attest to that if they could talk."

"He doesn't look like a murdering prick. He looks like a kid." Merlin replied to which Arthur scoffed loudly. He came over and relieved his friend of the sorcerer's body, sweeping him up into his arms without much difficulty.

"Whoever he is, he certainly isn't a kid." Arthur told him. Which was true. He couldn't have been much younger than himself or Merlin, though asleep like this, he did appear more youthful. Less aged than when he'd been scowling.

 Asleep like this, Arthur thought while carrying him across the cave, he had the type of features that could only be described as pretty. Which was nonsensical and stupid enough that he blamed it on the long ride and all of the jostling it had done to his brain. 

The sorcerer had long dark eyelashes that grazed his cheeks and freckles that dotted along the side of his jaw forming constellations. There was also a raised scar running through his mouth that caught Arthur's attention. It was jagged and pale pink, unnatural in contrast with the softness of the rest of his features. Arthur had to drag his eyes away as he placed him down on a patch of dry rock.

"He's like me." He heard Merlin say quietly, coming up beside him. Together, they both stared down at the stranger. "He told me—he told me that he was born with magic, Arthur. That doesn't happen. It's incredibly rare, that's what Gaius told me. Most people must learn it, practice it, master it, but some people just are magic."

Arthur tried not to react, didn't know how to even if he could. He just raised a simple eyebrow. "He told you he was born with it?"

"He told me a little." Merlin admitted. "Enough that I wanted to find out more."

Arthur blew out a long-suffering breath. "This is dangerous, Merlin. This is stupid."

He knelt over and removed the young man's sword from his belt. He threw it to the other side of the cave where it clanged against rock. The noise echoed into the hollows of empty space. "Just. Go fetch us some firewood? I'll remove the arrow and patch him up before he bleeds out."

"Alright." Merlin said quietly, too quietly for Merlin, and Arthur knew he had touched a nerve. Some raw part of him that Arthur didn't quite understand yet, hadn't had the chance to learn since he had found out that Merlin was a sorcerer and they had had their fight which resolved in the strengthening of their friendship.

Arthur didn't want Merlin to be upset but he didn't know how to explain to him that there were things about magic—people with magic—that he just didn't know how to trust yet. All he had ever learned about magic was that it was deadly and dangerous and corrupted everything it touched. But then he'd met Merlin and he'd learned that magic also protected, it healed, it could be kind and gentle. A fear he hadn't yet shared with Merlin, was that maybe his magic was kind because it was Merlin. The stranger in front of him—he wasn't.

He listened to Merlin's footsteps as he retreated and sighed, running a hand over his face. He knelt beside the young man's rigid form. There was something wrong with his left foot. A bloodied bandage peeked out of the man's boot. The blood was dry, a rust color, which suggested it was an old wound. Arthur shook his head, filing it away as another not-his-problem situation, and leaned forward on his heels, inspecting the arrow protruding from the sorcerer's left shoulder. From where it had entered, it was a miracle that the thing hadn't hit Arthur instead, a single jostle of the horse would've been enough to change their positions so that the arrow had. It had gone all the way through, which was a good thing for the man. Clean.

Arthur reached into his belt and pulled out his hunting knife. He would have to cut the shirt open to see the wound better. That was his plan. He'd barely touched the sorcerer's other shoulder to hold him steady when his eyes shot open. In a flash, he had seized Arthur's wrist and pressed a dagger against his throat.

"Hey--!" Arthur stopped, catching the expression on his face. The boy's eyes were green, a startling sort of green, and they were glassy, his pupils blown wide with fear.

The sorcerer was stronger than Arthur had expected him to be in this state and his tendons seized at wanting to be pulled free but he waited, feeling how he sometimes did on a hunt. When the prey was right in front of you and startled and if you made the wrong move they might get away. Only the prey, in this instant, was a young man with his dagger to the soft flesh of Arthur's throat.

"Don't. Don't touch me." The boy choked out, the expression on his face rigid and distant. Arthur frowned, leaning back on his heels as far away from the dagger as he could with the grip on his wrist. The boy gripped his dagger but stayed collapsed on the floor of the cave, holding it out between them like a warning.

"Alright. I'm stopping." Arthur said slowly, stern voice soaking into the silence. He didn't go for his sword. He could have. But he didn't. "I'm just trying to help you. You've been shot. Do you know who I am?"

The boy's eyes scanned Arthur's face and some spark of recognition passed through him. The tension drained out of him, though his face, if possible, seemed to grow whiter. He quickly released Arthur's wrist, who snatched it back, and lowered the blade, looking as if for a second, he was about to say something.

"Arthur?" Merlin's voice called from outside of the cave.

"It's fine!" Arthur called back, though it wasn't, and then to the sorcerer. "It is fine, isn't it? I'm not going to have to restrain you, am I?"

He narrowed his eyes at Arthur, very much in defiance. A clear challenge of I would like to see you try.

Arthur clenched his jaw. "Slide your dagger over to me."

"Go to hell."

"Really?" Arthur moved aside his cloak, to flash his own sword at the young man, without breaking his gaze. "Do you think that's going to go over well? Slide your dagger over to me."

He glared at Arthur, a full minute ticking by, as he seemed to weigh out his options. Then slowly, very slowly, he flipped the knife so that he was holding the sharp end of it and held the handle out to Arthur.

Arthur grabbed it, leaning back on his heels. "Merlin, your little friend is awake!"

"I am not his friend." The young man growled, pressing himself up onto his elbows. He only showed the most microscopic wince, when he jostled the arrow pierced through his left shoulder.

"Oh, I know you're not," Arthur replied, hardening his voice, and sharpening his face into a glare. "Which is exactly why we can't have you armed in our encampment."

"You're awake!" Merlin's cheerful voice came over his shoulder. He came around Arthur's side, going far too close to their—rescue? prisoner? hostage?—for his liking. He dumped an armful of dry logs onto the ground of the cave beside him, making the young man flinch. "Why is the arrow still in your arm?" Then to Arthur. "Why is the arrow still in his arm? You were supposed to get it out."

Arthur scowled at his friend. "He tried to stab me."

"I did not try to stab you." The stranger hissed. "If I had wanted to stab you, you would already be dead."

"Is that a threat? Really great taste in strays, you have, Merlin." Arthur said, tossing a disgusted look at him. "Really great."

Merlin made a face at him, before kneeling next to the stray in question. "Here, let me help."

He pulled out of Merlin's reach, with a scowl. "I'll do it myself."

To Arthur's surprise, he did. He scooted back into the cave wall, braced himself against the wall, and snapped off the arrowhead sticking out of his flesh. He grimaced but made no noise. He pressed a hand to the front of his shoulder. It came away red.

"Christ." Arthur heard him mutter. He contorted his arm and, breathing fast and hard, grabbed the arrow's feathered end and began to pull it out. Merlin made a choked noise as the young man let out a string of quiet cures and managed to pull it free. He tossed the blooded arrow away from him. It clattered on the rocks.

Arthur was impressed, though he didn't intend to show it. He got to his feet and went over to his saddle near the front of the cave. He pulled out a roll of bandages, came back over to them, and tossed them to the young man. He caught them with red fingers.

"What's your name?" Merlin asked, settling onto his behind and crossing his legs, leaving Arthur to sort out the fire as per usual. The bloody no-good servant.

The young man hesitated, still staring at Arthur with narrowed eyes, he could see it in the corner of his vision as he knelt to rearrange the logs. Then he began to slowly strip off his cloak, breath coming in rough bursts in the quiet of the cave.

"Excalibor."

Arthur couldn't help snorting. "What kind of a name is that?"

He was pointedly ignored by both dark-haired men.

"Mine is Merlin. I already told you that but this is Arthur—"

"—Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot, I know." The young man, Excalibor, finished with a groan that made Arthur pause his movements. He raised his chin, meeting Merlin's surprised and weary eyes with his own. He turned his gaze on Excalibor, who was winding the bandage, with difficulty over his shoulder and under his armpit, his face set in solid stone. His blood ran crimson over the pale flesh of collarbone.

"How did you know that?" Arthur demanded, quiet, unsteadier than he would like to admit. He wore no seal, no brand of Camelot, no color pattern that might betray him. He and Merlin had been certain of it when they had set out for Deira.

Excalibor tied off the binding, using his teeth to tear the strip, before tossing the roll back at Arthur. It hit the ground beside his knees. "Who else would you be? A blonde nobleman with his servant seeking shelter in a tired village within Mercia? Mercian nobles won't even allow their servants to be seen in a place like that much less risk being seen there themselves."

Something about this explanation wasn't good enough for Arthur. The stranger stared at him through long lashes with eyes that spoke of anger with more dislike than Arthur thought he was normally entitled to. One glance at Merlin confirmed that his friend wasn't comforted either.

He glanced back at Excalibor, scrutinizing him. "Have I met you before?"

Excalibor's bottom lip curled, the scar rippling along the pink of his mouth. "Certainly, you would remember if you had."

That was true. Arthur couldn't imagine seeing a face like his and forgetting. It was too distinctive, strangely celestial in the dark of the cave, and marred with a scar across a full mouth that caught his eye too easily.

Arthur let nothing betray him in his expression and turned back his firewood, placing the large pieces in an x and working the more flammable thin pieces beneath.

"Why were you in that village anyway?" Merlin asked, never one to give up even when the signs said otherwise.

It was quiet for a few moments, just the quiet rustling of Arthur peeling back bark to put underneath his logs.

"I was running from something."

"The Mercian soldiers?"

"Not quite."

"The men you killed?"

Arthur paused, hand in his pocket to retrieve the case that held his flint and steel. Merlin and Excalibor were staring at each other, tense, Merlin sitting on the precipice of violence without recognizing it.

Excalibor released a long breath, cutting his gaze away from Merlin to the ground. "Among other things but yes, they're hunting me. Those men I killed won't be the last of them."

"Arthur said that they were mercenaries. Groundermen or something."

"Undermen." Arthur corrected, opening his tin case and fingering out the cold steel. He speared his eyes at Excalibor. "They were Undermen. Enemies of Camelot and the five Kingdoms. Why are there Undermen coming after you?"

Excalibor held his gaze, eyes glinting in the dark, but saying nothing until Merlin spoke again. "Your magic?"

"Among other things." He repeated in an unreadable voice that infuriated Arthur more than it ought to have. He didn't usually have such a problem with letting people under his skin.

"What other things?" Arthur asked, irritation seeping into his tone. Excalibor's eyes flicked back to him, his mouth curling into a sneer.

"Is this an interrogation, your highness? Are you asking or commanding?"

Arthur opened his mouth to snap back but Merlin cut him off, shooting him a look that reminded Arthur he really needed to have a conversation with his servant about who was in charge of who.

"Fair enough," Merlin said, which it wasn't but Arthur let him continue. "I bet you have some questions about us. How about that? You ask and I answer if the question is something I'm permitted to, of course."

Arthur shook his head in frustration and went back to his fire. It was only late afternoon but it would begin growing colder soon and darker. What meager light filled the cave came only within the first few feet into the entrance and didn't help ease the nerves about being stuck with a stranger. He began to strike his flint and steel together, trying to create some sparks to set the kindling with.

Excalibor was quiet for a long while and only the sound of Arthur trying to create fire permeated the quiet of the cave. "You told me earlier that you---that you have...?"

Arthur sensed Excalibor's eyes on him and could sense the internal conflict of deciding whether he was a friend or foe to those who had magic.

"Magic?" Merlin's voice answered calmly, answering the question for him. "Yes, I do."

"And he's fine with it? The mighty prince of Camelot, the Kingdom responsible for the great purge?"

Arthur's muscles tensed. "I am not my father."

"No. Just a very nice replica of him then."

Arthur turned to glare at Excalibor. "And who are you to judge me? You don't know the slightest thing about me."

Excalibor's lip curled. "I know enough."

"Arthur accepted me after he found out that I had magic." Merlin interjected firmly. "He could have told Uther, he could have had me executed but he didn't. He's a good friend and a good man. He's—He's trying. Which is a lot more than Uther has ever done."

Excalibor and Arthur fought with their eyes for a long moment, until eventually, the other man looked away first. "And you were born with magic then?"

"More or less. I started showing signs when I was a child, just creating little things or playing with water droplets. Things like that." Merlin explained and Arthur went back to striking his flint and steel. "What about you?"

Again, he was quiet and this time, Arthur managed to create a few sparks large enough for the kindling to catch. He knelt and blew quickly into them.

"Nothing as clean and simple as that."

"You said that you weren't able to control it."

The fire caught and spread, the warmth tickling Arthur's face, as it slowly ate away at the dry brush underneath the logs. It began to furl over the large sticks, climbing along their backs onto the logs.

"I can't."

"What does that mean?" Arthur asked, sitting back on his haunches, and scowling between the pair of them. "If you can't manage it, stop using it. Why are you toiling with it?"

"I'm not toiling with it. I—" Excalibor's mouth snapped shut. He squeezed his eyes shut, angrily. "There's something wrong with me. It started when I was fourteen. If I became too emotional, the candles burnt up. If I let myself feel, bad things happened. I didn't—I didn't ask for this."

Merlin was worrying at his lip, chewing at the chapped skin of the bottom one, in the way that he did before saying something incredibly stupid. The firelight began to wash over the three of them, making things glow orange and soft, and warming the chill that had settled into Arthur's bones when he had seen the pair of them being chased by soldiers while they were still in town.

"I could teach you."

There it was. The stupid thing.

"Merlin."

"I might be able to help you channel it."

"Merlin."

Merlin glanced at him, a hint of pleading in his eyes that Arthur didn't like. "It doesn't have to be such a burden. You can use it for good. Magic can be beautiful."

"Not in my experience," Excalibor said staring into the fire, the light shadowing his face, making him look like a shadow. Arthur watched the words settle over Merlin, it had a physical effect, weighing on his friend's shoulders and pressing a defeated frown onto his lips.

He didn't like it, so he changed the subject. "Where are you going, Excalibor? I assume Mercia, isn't your destination? Its laws are as strict as Camelot's when it comes to magic."

Excalibor eyed him, less venom in his gaze than before, clearly trying to decide whether to give out this information or keep it close to his chest. He sighed. "I was trying to make it to Alba before... well, if there was any place left for me, that would have been it."

Magic was legal in Alba. It was one of the only places in Alban where this was the case. It made sense that someone like him would be heading there. It was the young man's choice of words that bothered Arthur.

"Would have been?" Arthur questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Excalibor didn't look at him when he scoffed, a bitter half-laugh that turned the air icy. His eyes glinted in the firelight. "I won't make it. My ankle is wounded."

He reached down, with thin fingers, and unlaced his boot. He tugged it off, revealing the full visual of the bandage that Arthur had seen earlier. It was a gruesome injury. The wrappings encircled his ankle and foot, thick with clotted blood. 

"I ran into a trap." He explained in a dead voice, before tugging his boot back on, eyes never leaving the fire. "Alba was a fever dream to begin with, but I'll never make it now. It's too far and there are too many men after me. You might as well have just left me to the soldiers. I'll be dead in a week."

A solemn chill crept into each of them, and though Arthur tried to ignore it, there was a certain darkness in being able to foretell your death. A ruthlessness in being able to accept it. There was no mercy for an injured creature alone on the road. It was a slow and merciless way to go. If you couldn't walk, you couldn't travel or hunt or fend off attackers, it was one of the reasons why it was uncommon to travel alone. 

"Alba, you say?" Merlin said after a few long moments. He caught Arthur's eyes with his own and he could practically see the wheels turning in his servant's brain. "That's past Deira, isn't it?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin, not liking where this was going. "It is."

"Imagine that, Arthur." Merlin gazed back at him. Arthur tried to convey with his expression that he didn't want to imagine that. He tried to make it clear with his eyes that whatever Merlin was thinking, he needed to stop thinking it. Right now. Merlin pretended not to understand Arthur's incredible silent communication and turned back to Excalibor. "Perhaps, the three of us could travel together for a way?"

Excalibor glanced up, his expression unreadable in the flickering orange. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Nor do I." Arthur agreed firmly, glaring at Merlin more openly now, who was pretending quite badly that he couldn't see him.

"It could be! Think about it," Merlin continued like an imbecile, because he was one, and Arthur had been foolish to think for even a moment that he was otherwise. "We could share our resources with you while your ankle heals. It would be a bargain of sorts."

"Merlin, I really don't think—" Arthur began only to be cut off.

"—and after your ankle is better, we would just require your services in getting the Crown Prince of Camelot to Deira in one piece. You could help me with the horses or fetching water and firewood. "

"Not much of a bargain, is it?" Excalibor noted quietly, voice laced with suspicion. "What makes you think my services would be worth your precious resources?"

"If what we saw in town was anything to go by," Merlin replied seriously. "You would make a better ally than an enemy."

The two stared at each other for a long moment. Something passing between them that Arthur couldn't decipher. He cleared his throat, breaking their attention, having had more than enough of this. "Do you forget who is in charge here, Merlin? Which one of us is the prince?"

Merlin blinked. "Arthur—"

"Don't bother." Excalibor interrupted Merlin, shooting Arthur a sharp look. "I have no desire to act as a squire for some thick-headed royal. Death would be preferable."

"Thick-headed royal!? I could have your tongue for that." Arthur snapped at him. The other man's mouth curled at the corners.

"If you took my tongue, you'd have no one to argue your case for you."

Arthur leaned forward onto his heels. "You know what—"

"Let's not fight," Merlin said quickly. "We can talk about it later—after supper."

Arthur got to his feet, coursing with anger.

"Merlin, could I speak to you for a moment?" He said through gritted teeth.

His idiotic friend looked at him. "Sure, Arthur."

"Outside."

He practically hauled his friend to his feet and dragged him outside the mouth of the cave.

It had grown chillier as the evening waned on, though the sun was still up, he thought the threat of the Mercian soldiers finding them had passed.

He dragged Merlin by the back of his collar, relishing being able to shove him around a bit, until they were behind a thick pair of oaks before facing him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Being friendly?" Merlin replied with a meek smile that made Arthur want to smack him around the back of the head.

"No. You're being stupid." Arthur corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose. "As usual! Rescuing him was foolhardy enough as it was, we aren't feeding him supper, and we certainly aren't traveling with him!"

"But Arthur—" Merlin began, a stubborn expression folding his eyebrows in. Arthur spoke louder so that he could be heard over him.

"No, Merlin! No buts! We're sending him on his way. It isn't any of our business what happens to him from here."

Merlin crossed his arms. "Don't you feel just a little bit bad that he's being hunted like an animal? One person against an entire group of men?"

"I don't," Arthur replied, jaw clenching. His friend squinted at him, arching an eyebrow. "And you shouldn't either. You saw the bodies in the field. You saw what he was capable of! We don't know a single thing about this man! Didn't you notice how he was evading your questions?"

Merlin's expression wavered, his mouth turning into a lopsided grimace.

"Exactly!" Arthur exclaimed, raising a hand. "I know how you are but there is a reason he's in the situation that he is and I don't doubt that there will be hell to pay if we stick around long enough to find out why. Do you want to be murdered in your sleep?"

"Arthur."

"We can't trust him. He's dangerous."

"We don't know that. Why are you so determined to believe that he is?" Merlin demanded, his voice rising to meet his.

"Why is this so important to you?"

 "I can't explain it. I just—I have a feeling about him. He's important. He's lost and we can help him but you're too busy acting like he's some sort of monster! Why?"

"Because he has magic!" Arthur exploded. He regretted it the moment it left his mouth. He regretted it even before it struck Merlin, like a blow, and he watched the tension strike his friend's body. The way his arms fell to his sides and he stared at Arthur with a rigid expression on his face.

"Is that right?"

Yes, Arthur thought stubbornly, though the fire had gone out now. Yes. Because he has magic and he uses it to kill and you don't. Because he's a stranger and you’re not.

"He's not you." Was all that came out instead.

Merlin's tight expression crumpled. "I know that."

"Not everyone who has magic is good. And even if he doesn't have plans to harm us that doesn't make it worth the risk of keeping him around any longer than we must." Arthur said, letting his volume returning to normal. He hated fighting with Merlin. He hated everything about it.

"So, you'll condemn him to isolation on the road with a lame leg?" Merlin was staring at him like he was something new, like a curtain had been dropped and he was seeing Arthur for the first time. All the ugly details. All the things that his father, Uther saw when he looked upon his son.

A heavy stone settled in his stomach but he ignored it. It did not matter what a servant thought of his prince, though the lines had blurred enough, that Arthur hardly saw them anymore.   

"You forget who is in charge here, Merlin." He said after a moment. His tone was hardened to his own ears. "The sorcerer is not traveling with us and he's not staying for supper. That's final."

Excalibor stayed for supper. But not because Arthur's conscious had convinced him otherwise, badgering him ridiculously about the hurt feelings of his servant. He was perfectly capable of compromising if he liked and he did not allow such a feeble thing as guilt to make his decisions for him.

The uncanny trio ate hot mushroom stew around the fire in silence, listening to the wind howl outside of the cave. It was a miserable night, for spring seemed to have forgotten itself once again and it was uncommonly cold. After a week of rain and bitter fog, Arthur had at least expected spring to be eager to return. 

As they ate their meal, the stranger did not seem appreciative of the great courtesy he was being shown. He picked at his stew and stared intermittently between the shadowed face of the cave and the glowing fire. Never saying a word. Occasionally sliding narrowed eyes at Arthur who did his best to ignore him in a mature and princely manner, rather than offering to throw him out into the cold.

Even Merlin who was usually a chatterbox at the worst of times seemed to recognize the atmosphere was not permittable to foolish humor and conversation. Not to mention, he was still upset at Arthur, this much he could tell, considering he hadn't looked at him once since they had entered the cave again. Only speaking when spoken to, quietly taking the orders to prepare the stew, and otherwise behaving as a perfect servant. Arthur hated it. 

It had been a wasted day, in Arthur's opinion, a wasted week really, and they would have to set off early tomorrow morning to make up for it. He told Merlin so. He saw the man's face flicker, clearly thinking about restarting their conversation outside, but Arthur shot him a look, and he'd thought better of it.

Arthur didn't feel bad for his friend's gloomy countenance. It was his right to sulk like a big baby if he wanted to. Arthur didn't feel bad about it and he wouldn't be made too. Even though, looking back, he could have handled the situation with a bit more sensitivity. 

As for their plans, it wasn't as if his father would be any angrier that his unauthorized trip to Deira would now take twice the amount of time than they had planned. He would have it in for him when they returned to Camelot, he might even be looking at spending the next few nights in the cells, but there wasn't any use worrying about it until then.

After they had finished eating, Arthur deliberately threw down his bedroll next to Merlin's on the opposite side of the fire. In between where he had been sitting several feet from Excalibor.

A silent decision had been made by Arthur, that the three of them could remain there overnight. For one night and he would be keeping watch to ensure Merlin's new friend didn't try anything rash.

Excalibor had no bedroll and Arthur was perfectly happy seeing him prop up against the rock wall in the shadows, wrapping in his cloak, a good safe distance away from them.

He'd made no movement to retrieve either his sword from the opposite end of the cave so far. Which was good because if he had, Arthur would've been ready to stop him with the sharp edge of his own blade.

Eventually, Merlin went off to feed and water the horses, and Arthur and Excalibor were left alone. The crackling of the flames and the spitting of the embers filled the silence. Arthur sat quietly and he waited. He waited and he tried not to think too hard about his own shortcomings—two things he had never been very good at. 

He thought about Merlin and the expression on his face when Arthur had shouted that he didn't trust Excalibor because of his magic. He knew that he and Merlin had been teetering on uneven ground ever since Merlin's secret had been revealed. It had been an accident that Arthur had found out, a moment of fate, a few strange instances coming together in his mind after a quest ended with Arthur nearly being skewered by a mercenary. He'd been thrown onto his back and Merlin had used his magic to send his attacker flying. Arthur had seen. They both knew he’d seen but neither said anything. They had returned home in silence. 

Arthur still woke up in cold sweats because of what he'd almost done next. He remembered what it was like in full clarity: standing before his father, sick with nausea, trying to do what was right. He had been on the precipice of his confession, when it struck him that he couldn't go through with it. He had been destroyed, all that he believed in was put to the test, and he had failed. It became no longer about what was right, but what he could endure, and he knew in that instant that he could not endure Merlin dying on the pyre. So, Arthur had lied.

They fought next. Arthur had taken his mare from the stables and tracked Merlin to the countryside where he had been trying to flee. It had been a violent thing; they had come to blows. Arthur felt betrayed, lied to, after having foolishly decided to trust for once in his life. Merlin felt angry, hurt, ostracized, and then, all at once, very tired. It had all come out and at the end of it, Arthur had asked Merlin to come back to Camelot with him, and he had agreed.

Magic had been a difficult conversation point with them ever since. Always dancing around actually saying it. Always glancing at each other and trying to determine if the other thought any less of them for their reactions.  Arthur knew it was difficult for Merlin, who was already aware of an entire world that had been vilified for him since he was a child.

 What Arthur wondered now, in the yellow glow of the firelight, was if Merlin's steadfast desire to take in Excalibor had less to do with the man himself and more to do with the notion that magical people were worth saving. 

It suddenly occurred to Arthur that they were at a crossroads in their relationship and his decision regarding Excalibor would determine the future of it. 

It bothered him that he was even considering it but he glanced at Excalibor. His dark curls had fallen like a curtain over his face, hiding it from view. Arthur stared at him until the impatience in his chest grew too much and he spoke. "Where are you really headed?"

His head rose, making his hair fall back, to reveal a blank expression.

"I told you. Alba."

"Right." Arthur snapped, glaring at him. Excalibor's mouth pinched. "Which is either a lie or unfathomably stupid of you. Alba is past the Perilous Lands. Undermen country. You expect me to believe that their men are after you and your grand plan is to go frolicking across their territory?"

"Where else would you have me go, sire?" Excalibor returned with a vicious hiss, twisting Arthur's title into an accursed insult. "Where else is safe for someone like me? I don't exactly have very many options, your father made sure of that."

Arthur didn't have a response to his anger. He spoke the truth. There was no place like Alba, no place on their side of the border that was even relatively friendly to magic users. King Uther and the other five allied kingdoms had seen to it.

"Why are the Undermen after you?" Arthur finally asked, voice hard. “The truth this time."

"Why are you heading to Deira?"

For god's sake. Arthur wanted to curse and give it all up right then. This man was infuriating.

Excalibor leaned forward, his cloak falling off his right shoulder, and flashing the strip of bloodied bandage that lay behind it. "You don't trust me. I don't trust you. I think we can both agree on that. You keep your secrets and I'll keep mine."

Arthur's mouth itched, an insult prepared on his tongue, but with great difficulty, he swallowed it.  

"My friend Merlin feels very strongly about you."

This statement caught Excalibor off guard. His face flickered with some emotion, before becoming empty again. He sat back, staring at the fire again. "Well, your friend is an idiot. A kind idiot, but one all the same."

And Arthur knew this very well, so he couldn't be too offended about the stranger's choice of words, but he put a good up a good fight. He climbed to his feet and slowly walked toward the boy. He knew he could be intimidating when he wished to but Excalibor neither flinched nor attempted to move away.

"Merlin believes we should give you a chance to prove yourself. It's important to him."

Arthur pulled out the dagger he had stashed in his belt. Excalibor's eyes narrowed. "Well like I said, he's an idiot."

Arthur held the knife lightly in his hand, let the fire catch it and turn the blade into a shining star, as he squatted before the man. Far too close for comfort and both of them knew this.

"Listen carefully because I am only going to say this once," Arthur said quietly, boring into Excalibor's strange eyes with his own, so that he could see the truth in his words. "You may accompany us as far as Deira but that is it. You will make the rest of the way by yourself. I will ensure your safety if you ensure ours. If you turn on us, if you betray us, or make any attempt to harm Merlin, I will kill you and I will relish it."

Excalibor's mouth twisted into a snarl, hatred burned in his gaze, so intense Arthur could feel it in the air.  

"Do you understand?" Their eyes held each other, scorching with passion, a fierce battle being fought without words. "Do. You. Understand?"

 Excalibor drew in an angry breath and broke their gaze. He glared at the ground but it was written all over him now. Surrender. "I understand."

Arthur searched his face for a moment longer but his features betrayed nothing. 

It was a stupid idea. Horrendous. He shouldn't even be considering it really. A few months ago, he never would have. Granted a few months ago, he likely would have turned the boy over to Mercian soldiers on sight after learning he had magic. 

He had changed since then. Merlin had changed him. And he had yet to decide if the change was a good thing. He supposed this would determine that in the end.

"Then you have nothing to fear from me." Arthur finally said, standing up again. He slid the dagger back into place in his belt. "I'll give this back to you in the morning. Until then—get comfortable."

Chapter Text

The night was cold and callous, balancing on the precipice of something. The inky sky bore a full yellow moon like the eye of a cat. The travelers in the cave could not see it, nor could they see the way the stars had aligned, the eclipsing of two binary stars in the northern hemisphere.

That night the heavens whispered, fate, fate, fate, in a harmony of voices that mankind could not hear.

Inside the cave, Calibor did not sleep.

It was tempting, in the warm heat cast from the fire, the shelter of a dark cave around him, and the company of men who were not currently trying to kill him. It was the best opportunity he'd had for rest in weeks. But he did not trick himself into believing he was safe.

The mage, who had strangely sought to keep Calibor from the King's guard that morning, appeared kind enough—a shame in Calibor's opinion. Kindness, if not a façade, was a vicious killer.

There was nothing more fatal than tenderness.

Calibor did not know what to think of the man called Merlin. He could not figure him out, could not guess at his motives, at why he had offered so much already and asked so little in return. Men like that were often dangerous. Men like that were often liars.

As a younger man, he might have believed the mage meant him no harm. But he was older now and he had been wrong before. His flesh still held the scarring of such consequences.

He kept his remaining dagger close, the only one he hadn't been stripped of earlier, hidden now beneath his cloak while he feigned sleep. He listened intently to the noises of the night. The chippering of nocturnal beasts. The spitting and crackling of firewood. The snoring of the mage called Merlin.

He was not the only one facing a sleepless night. The Crown Prince of Camelot did not sleep either. He could hear him, stirring the fire, sighing deeply, and shuffling about.

It was difficult not to look at him. Not to stare. Calibor had worried at first that he'd given himself away but there was nothing to suggest he had. The man did not recognize him.

Arthur Pendragon was no different than he had been seven years ago when Calibor had last seen him. He'd gone from being an arrogant little boy running around his castle with flushed cheeks, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he liked, to becoming an arrogant older man, who ordered about his servant and threatened whomever he desired.

He was lovely in the physical sense, of course, because the world was nothing if not intolerable. He had grown into his height and broad shoulders, with golden hair and a sharp jawline, he looked the part of a handsome prince. It was all very infuriating.

Calibor hadn't expected to be recognized. He'd never deluded himself into thinking he was worth remembrance but it solidified his image of the man when he wasn't.

What he knew, was that the rage he'd felt as a child was a product of caring too much and he would not face the same misfortune now. Arthur did not get to affect him. Not anymore.

It narrowed the conflict inside of him down to one impossible question, regarding the option he had been given by the prince and his magical servant. To go on alone with the slim chance he might survive long enough for his ankle to heal or to travel with them and hope they were men of their word, something he'd sworn long ago to never do again.

In truth, the decision had already been made for him. Though he fought against it, he knew how he would answer in the morning.

He would not go back to the Undermen. He would not go back to Hades. He would die first—which would be his fate if he tried to go on like this.

It was a miracle he had made it so far, never sleeping, always watching his back, fending off men twice his size who leaped from the shadows with nothing but his own sword. Alba was a fever dream, a delusion, until this moment. With a group of companions to watch his back, it might be possible. If he could get as far as Deira. If the prince and his pet wizard didn't throw him willingly into his demise first.

The morning caught him off guard. Somewhere between that somber edge of sleep and consciousness, each blurring into one another, he was nudged awake with the toe of a boot. He jolted upward, eyes snapping open, gripping the leather hilt of his dagger, as his body prepared for a fight.

For a moment he could remember nothing, vision full of spots, and white light, and he thought he was back in the encampment. He thought it was Ronaldo come to punish him, but then his sight cleared, adjusting to the light of dawn, and he saw that it was only the mage.

The events of yesterday returned to him slowly. As did the aches and pains from his wounded ankle and shoulder which had gone numb in the chill from the night. The mage stood above him, smiling, too cheerfully, and unnatural for this time of day.

"Morning!" Merlin said cheerfully as Calibor stared at him. He stared back, quite contentedly. If he expected Calibor to say something in return to such merry gibberish, they would be waiting a long time indeed. "Oh! Arthur said you could have this back now."

To Calibor's surprise, Merlin held out his matching dagger by the blade. The hilt facing Calibor. Arthur had said it would be given back in the morning but that meant little in the grand scheme of things. Noblemen were only honest when it suited them.

Calibor hesitated, skeptical by this show of faith. His gaze swept over the cave, searching for the man in question. The prince was lashing the bedrolls to their horses, a muscle in his jaw ticking, as he did so. In a much less merry mood than his companion.

That suited Calibor just fine. He didn't mind an angry man, those he knew how to deal with. 

Slowly, Calibor took the dagger. Merlin let it go, giving no sign that he had failed some sort of test.

"And what about my sword?" He asked, sliding the blade into the rightful sheath. The spot where it had been on the cave floor was empty this morning. Merlin's expression fell, eyes darting over to Arthur's back.

"Er. I think you'll get it back later." He said a bit awkwardly. "If you're joining us, that is. Are you joining us?"

Calibor bit into the flesh of his cheek. Being without a sword was never favorable, especially because he had just gotten his back, but he had made do before. He could use his daggers in a pinch and if they thought he would be less of a threat without it, they would be sorely mistaken.

Calibor released a long-suffering breath through his nose.

"Yes." He said pushing himself up with his good arm. He tried not to jostle his shoulder. The pain wasn't unbearable, wasn't worse than anything he'd had before, but it had settled into a dull throb. "I will join you. If you'll still have me."

Merlin's grin widened like a child who had been given some great gift. It made Calibor uneasy. "Of course! I have a good feeling about this. You won't regret it."

Arthur snorted under his breath and Calibor narrowed his eyes at his back, but the blonde did not turn around.

Merlin cleared his throat and held out a hand to Calibor to help him up. Calibor only hesitated a second, before he took the arm and let it haul him to his feet.

That was the end of it. There was no further discussion otherwise Calibor might have regained his wits and decided against this. Arthur spoke only to Merlin as they prepared to make their leave. Stiff conversation, mostly. It was clear that though the prince had chosen to honor the decision made between the three of them, he did not like it.

It was strange to Calibor that Arthur allowed such a thing to continue, to let his servant convince him. Though it was stranger that Arthur had a magical servant and hadn't executed him before all of Camelot.

Before they left the cave, Arthur stood in front of Calibor, his mouth twisted into a sour frown, and gave a rigid speech. "You'll ride with me, not with Merlin. He can hardly ride by himself as it is."

"Hey! I heard that." Merlin shouted from out of sight. He had taken the first mare out of the cave.

"You can hardly ride by yourself as it is."

"It's not my fault the horses never seem to like me!"

"It's not the horses, Merlin."

"Yes, it is! But for some reason they always seem to listen to you and when I do it—"

"Quiet, Merlin." Arthur shouted over his shoulder with a scowl.  Then he continued as if he had not been interrupted at all. "You'll do everything I say when I say it. I want you where I can always see you. You don't get to take watch on your own. And if you betray us—"

"You'll cut off my head, I'm sure." Calibor snapped. "What about my sword?"

A muscle in Arthur's jaw ticked. "I'll be holding on to it until I decide you can be trusted to have it back."

They left the cave soon after.

There was a gentleness to the morning that had not been present in the world for many weeks. The sunlight ran wild in the greens with a soft breeze on its heels and the birds went along singing in the canopy of trees. It was an apologetic sort of weather, tinged in guilt as if it were making up for its recent past behavior.

Calibor rode on horseback behind Arthur as discussed. He was tense and angry about his situation and too warm despite the fair weather. He knew Arthur felt the same, from the rigid muscles in his back, and the white-knuckled grip he kept on the reins. It provided a bit of childish gratification to Calibor's mood that he wasn't the only one furious about this arrangement.

They were both determined to touch each other as little as possible. Something that was difficult to do considering they were touching almost everywhere—the way two people did when sharing a mount. Calibor was forced to hold the man loosely around his waist to keep from falling off and their thighs brushed together with each jostle of the road.

Merlin had a difficult time with his horse and appeared true to Arthur's words, a terrible rider, though he managed to keep up for the most part.

They rode on through the land for many hours, crossing through thickset tangled trees, and interrupting the animals skittering about in the undergrowth, in places where no path had yet been worn into the soil. Mercia was infamous for its forests—they went on for hundreds of acres between towns overflowing with wildlife and teeming with excitement.

Calibor watched the forest, expecting soldiers to descend upon them at any moment but their way was clear.

For anyone else, it might have been tempting to bask in the euphoria of adventure, and the novel possibility of such an endless forest, but Calibor was burnt out and tired of adventure. He had felt the sting of adventure and knew there was nothing fantastical about it.

When it was safe enough and they had left the small town far behind, they slowed their horses a little and went on at as steady a clip as Merlin could manage. The miles fell away behind them and Calibor could feel the weight of them rolling off his shoulders like rain.

In his mind, he could still see the men he had killed in that field. They held no importance to him and he felt no remorse for it. Not for Pedivere who had once held Calibor down so that Ronaldo could discipline him. Not for Ganymede who had started off something like a friend but quickly became another tormentor hellbent on seeing him broken.

Calibor only regretted that it was he who had killed them—that it was he who had done it—because when Hades found out there would be hell to pay.

They did not stop to eat but only slowed till their horses could keep in equable step with one another and passed some bread back and forth. Calibor was used to riding for long stretches and the ache that came from being on the saddle for horses but Merlin began complaining in the late afternoon when the sun-dappled leaves began creating flickering shadows over their figures.

He expected Arthur to silence his servant and ride on, there were a good few hours of sunlight yet before they would be forced to stop, but the man only half-heartedly bickered with the mage for a while before finding a place to make camp between two willow trees.

The willows were a bad omen if Calibor ever saw one. He had heard far too many tales about widowed mothers and suffering goddesses and abandoned lovers encased in the wood heart of a willow tree.

"Perhaps we should find somewhere else to spend the night." Calibor murmured as Arthur threw a leg over their mount and hopped off.

The man took the reins, leading the horse and Calibor, over to a low-hanging branch that he could lash them to. A tendril of soft green leaves brushed over his shoulder, causing him to wince, as he went under it. Arthur frowned up at him, the sun shining in his eyes and making his skin glow gold. "And why would we do that?"

Calibor grimaced, glancing around them. "The trees—they're sacred to some people."

Arthur snorted, a mean grin tugging his lips taut, as he tied the reins off. He glanced over his shoulder to where Merlin had ridden in beside them. "Do you hear this, Merlin? Our guest is superstitious."

"I am not superstitious." Calibor snapped. "I've just the common sense to not negate the beliefs of others."

He snorted again but Merlin had caught his eye, turning to glance about at the gracefully arching stems, floating all around them. "Maybe he's right, Arthur. It's a weeping tree. The common name for Salix Babylonica, Gaius told me they were used as burial markings in the dark ages. It'd be bad luck to sleep on a grave."

Arthur looked between them, a line creasing the space between his brows, and rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. That's childish nonsense. Fairy tales. We're camping here tonight and I don't want to hear anything else about it."

Merlin sighed but climbed off his horse. Arthur ignored Calibor in favor of tugging a bow and a quiver of red-feathered arrows from where it was strapped to his friend's horse. "I'm going to hunt for our dinner. Merlin, keep an eye on him."

Calibor narrowed his eyes at Arthur's retreating form until he disappeared into the thickets. A strong sort of intensity eased out of him as soon as the man was gone. He caught himself letting out a quiet breath.

His leg had gone numb below the knee almost three hours ago. He hadn't said anything for fear of being left behind but now, he stared down from the saddle of the horse, at his foot.

"You can't get down, can you?" Merlin asked, quiet and calm. He had somehow gotten close while Calibor wasn't looking. He peered up at him with thoughtful eyes, boring into him and making him feel vulnerable.

Calibor's jaw clenched and he shook his head.

"Here, let me help you." Merlin said, coming closer to the horse. He took the arm he was offered and with some difficulty, swung his leg over the side of the saddle. Merlin caught him as he slid down the horse's flank and steadied him when his feet hit the ground unevenly. Calibor pulled away immediately, not looking at the man, muttering a quiet thanks.

He limped away from the horses and lowered himself to the ground, between the winding root systems of one of the weeping trees. Merlin joined him as he stretched out his leg, rubbing circles below the knee with his thumb, hoping to bring some sensation back into his shin at least.

"Can I see the wound again?" Merlin asked when the silence had gone on only a few minutes, sitting far too close for Calibor to be comfortable with. A mere three feet away. He had done the same thing the night before—sat next to him as if he were a friend and not a stranger.

Calibor frowned at him, suspicious and wary. Travelers were like wolves, he had seen them kill a member of their own pack if they were too weak to go on.

"Why?"

"My friend Gaius is a healer. He's taught me a little about this sort of thing. It's one of my duties to assist him in his work back at Camelot. I might be able to help."

He studied the mage's face which appeared open and honest. There was no suggestion of sinister intention behind his gaze. 

Calibor tugged off his boot and began to unwrap the binding. It had been done in a hurry, to staunch the bleeding, and had come unraveled slightly over time. The once cream fabric came away a starchy brown color, matted with dried blood.

His foot was swollen a little, inflamed, and pink from the arch of his heel to his ankle. The wounds were deep. Teeth-shaped. Forming a nauseating crescent of flesh-torn cavities on either side of his ankle.

Merlin leaned in to get a closer look, his dark head of hair eclipsing Calibor's vision. It was no longer bleeding but the scabbing was an unnatural yellow and the skin around each puncture was shiny and red.

"It's not so bad." The sorcerer said in a voice that was quite forced.

Calibor blew out a breath, scowling. "It's infected."

"It's not infected!"

Their eyes met. Merlin winced. "Alright, it is infected but it could be worse."

Calibor sat back wiping his face clean of emotion. That too-warm feeling from earlier was now revealing itself as a fever. "I don't suppose there is a spell for this sort of thing."

Merlin shook his head. "Not a spell but there might be something else."

He got to his feet and went to dig around in his satchel bag. Calibor stared after him in confusion. The mare he'd been riding snickered at him, eyeing him in a tempestuous way, before going back to nibbling at her chosen patch of grass. Merlin made an aha! sound and emerged victorious from his rummaging.

He returned to Calibor and knelt beside him, holding something that looked like a small crystal vial with an ornate lid. He held it out to Calibor. "It's a salve. I brought it from back home in case of an emergency. You can never be too careful, especially when traveling with Arthur."

Calibor stared at the vial, then at Merlin. It could have been anything. Oleander. Nightshade. Lily of the Valley. Aphrodisiac.

"It isn't poison." Merlin said as if reading his mind. He tugged down the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a place where a thin scratch had been made from a thorn bush earlier on in their journey. He unstopped the vial and poured the tiniest droplet onto his thumb. It was a dark green and sludgy in texture. Merlin rubbed it over the scratch, showing Calibor. "See? It's safe. I promise."

He pressed the vial into Calibor's hand and sat back, pulling back down his sleeve.

Calibor's brow furrowed as he peered at the strange vial. He turned it over in his palm, watching the way the dying light caught the glass and sparkled off it. Something sharp settled in his stomach. "Why are you helping me?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you being so kind to me?" Calibor grumbled, popping open the cork. He sniffed the contents. It smelled earthy and damp. "Everything you've done. Interfering with those soldiers. What are you getting out of it? Why help me?"

Merlin was quiet, a small smile wavering on his lips. "Because I can."

That didn't. That didn't make sense. Calibor didn't know what to do with that. Capability had nothing to do with it. The power to provide aid wasn't a reason to. What did that even mean?

"Because I can help you," Merlin repeated while Calibor was still struggling to comprehend such an irregular statement. "And I want to. Why shouldn't I? If we all helped each other a little more Albania might be a safer place for people like us."

People like us. Repeated so casually again that Calibor wanted to echo the statement he'd made when they first spoke. I'm nothing like you. He'd meant it as an insult before. Now another layer diluted the meaning. It painted him a shade darker, reminding him that he was made of rot, and others had not always been so wicked.

Calibor had to cut his eyes away from Merlin's, a surprising ache in the hollow of his throat. "Thanks."

He applied the salve with his fingertips, pressing the grainy concoction into each hollow. He expected pain but the numbing of infection had done its job. It only hurt a little, the most distant sort of sting. Merlin provided him with more bandages to wrap it up with again.

When he had slipped his foot back into his boot, the sun was well and truly hidden behind the canopy of the forest and the sky was losing its lavender haze to a grey shadow. Merlin told Calibor that he was going to collect firewood.

"Aren't you supposed to be watching me?"

Merlin shrugged half-heartedly, shooting a look at Calibor's boot, and then raising his eyebrows. "Are you going anywhere?"

"No."

"Are you going to pillage our things, steal our horses, or cut my throat when my back is turned?"

"No."

"Then no." Merlin replied simply. "You'll be alright. I'll be back in a minute."

Calibor settled against the roots of the willow tree as the man left, wondering if this were again some sort of test. If it was, he was not in any position to fail it.

Fatigue set in quickly now that he was no longer moving. There was a noticeable cloudiness in his brain that he blamed on the fever. His skin felt slick with sweat and he released a quiet breath, expelling some of the tension in his chest. He let his head click against the trunk of the tree. 

He could see the sky through the tendrils of soft leaves arching overhead. He watched it transition to a midnight blue, the first of the night's stars flickering to life like little fireflies in the distance.

It hurt that the sky was the same everywhere. It didn't matter where you viewed it--from a castle precipice or a gravesite. As a boy, Calibor had loved counting the constellations. As a man, he never looked up if he could help it. It served only as a reminder of the places he was trying to outrun.

Merlin got the fire going before it was too dark. He created it between the two willow trees where there were fewer wispy branches. He tried to strike up a conversation with Calibor while stirring the newly born flames but it fell flat and they returned to silence.

Arthur arrived soon after, bearing three fresh kills, a pair of rabbits and a squirrel. He tossed them to Merlin as he stripped off his quiver, who yelped when they landed at his feet with a fleshy smack. Arthur didn't spare a single look at Calibor, not even to scowl.

"Well, Merlin, it's good to see you still know how to light a fire. Be a useful dunderhead and skin those, will you? I'm famished."

Merlin made a dismayed noise. "I hate skinning things. All the insides becoming the outsides and your hands get all bloody and the flesh makes that awful noise tearing noise. It makes me gag. Why do I have to do it?"

"Because I killed them." Arthur shot back, pulling his pack from one of the mares. "You can't possibly have that weak a stomach. How you ever got to be my manservant, I'll never know."

"I saved your life." Merlin said in a way that made Calibor uncertain if he was joking or not.

Arthur sent him a pointed look in the orange light. "And you've made it miserable ever since."

The two stared at each other, not much happening on their faces, but a lot happening with their eyes. Calibor glanced between them, electing to pass over this strange interaction, and cleared his throat quietly. "I could do it."

They both looked up.

"It doesn't bother me." He repeated in a low voice. He had to make himself useful. The sooner, the better. Arthur's expression had darkened, shadowed by the flickering flames, but Merlin smiled.

"Cheers!" He held up one of the dead rabbits by its hind legs. Calibor took it. The soft brown fur was matted with blood in the middle where the arrow had struck. It was a clean shot. Through the heart most likely.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice came in a warning as Calibor lay the animal across his lap and tugged his knife free from inside his cloak.

"Oh let him, Arthur. What's the harm?" Merlin replied boldly, behaving again, strange for a servant. Calibor expected Arthur to snap at him but he only grumbled and returned to fashioning a roasting spit.

He cut into the rabbit, pinching the scruff at the back of its neck, and creating a slit there. He sliced the skin of the belly open, careful not to pierce the stomach. Dark red rolled in beads off his blade. He ignored it. He'd done this enough times, he could do it with his eyes closed. He slipped his fingers into the cut, where the insides of the rabbit were still warm and wet, and loosened the skin.

The prince and the servant fell into bickering eventually, as Arthur got the roasting spit prepared and Calibor finished with the first rabbit. It was nothing particularly serious, though he couldn't discern about what, they spoke their jabs quietly to each other, and both seemed to be enjoying their easy banter—even Arthur, who routinely scowled and said something harsh about Merlin.

Calibor tried not to listen. Why should he? He didn't care. So, what if he'd never seen a servant get away with speaking to a nobleman this way before? So, what he'd never seen anyone get away with speaking to the great Arthur Pendragon this way before—much less a servant? Even as a child, the prince had been awful to the common-born workers. Calibor had witnessed it firsthand. But so, what? He didn't care.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he worked, and his vision was slightly blurry and delayed. He prayed the salve would begin to fight the fever soon.

He finished skinning the first rabbit in record time. Arthur blinked, forehead creasing when he handed it off. His eyes darted to Calibor's. He appeared to be trying to think of something to say but couldn't. Calibor was satisfied. He was efficient. Ruthless in his work. There were no criticisms to be had. Presumably realizing this, Arthur's mouth pinched and he turned back to taking the piss out of Merlin while he fashioned their dinner to the spit.

Calibor flayed and gutted the next rabbit and then the squirrel. Fast and accurate.

His hands were stained red when he had finished. It dried beneath his fingernails and in each crease of his palms. This was the only part that bothered him anymore—having it finished and seeing the results left on his skin. He had nightmares about this part. About the faces, he still remembered. About the sound of their voices. Sometimes it felt like all he ever did was make something bleed.

Merlin gave him a waterskin to wash his hands with and they sat around the fire after, watching their dinner cook.

It was pitch black already in the forest. There was no moon in the sky that night. The fire was the brightest thing for miles, casting auburn light over their small patch of land between the willow trees. All sorts of nocturnal animals chittered in the darkness accompanying the cricket songs.

It grew cold as the night progressed and felt like a soothing tonic against his feverish flesh. They ate their rabbit, Merlin and Arthur sitting closer to the fire than Calibor, still bickering amongst each other—now about how some sort of tournament had been won and who exactly had won it.

By the time the pair were throwing down their bed rolls, Calibor had relaxed against the trunk of the willow, swaddled between two large roots protruding from the earth. A bit of feeling had returned to his leg which he took as a good sign—persisting as a steady throbbing beneath his ankle.

Merlin let out a pleased sigh, flopping onto his back on his bed roll. "It was a good rabbit." The man murmured happily.

Arthur made a noise, almost similar to an agreement while watching him. The firelight made everything softer and twisted the man's expression into something almost gentle before he caught Calibor's eye. His face darkened instantly like a shadow passing over it. "I'll be taking the first watch. So don't try anything stupid."

"No?" Calibor crossed his arms, holding the man's gaze. "I'll leave that to you then."

The other man's nose wrinkled, eyes shining with anger, but he didn't take the bait. He faced away from Calibor, making a show out of it, to stare into the dark of the forest.

He rested against the trunk, spearing his eyes at the heavens.

"Night, Arthur." Merlin called sleepily. "Night, Excalibor."

"Go to sleep Merlin." Arthur replied tonelessly and Calibor said nothing but watched the gentle tendrils of the weeping tree shudder in the breeze, feeling hollow. A place for wounds and nothing more. Another difference between himself and the mage becoming more prominent. He was not a person who said goodnights and fell asleep easily in the forest.

Calibor drifted around the edge of consciousness for a long time, fighting fever, slick with sweat, and a churning stomach. The dream world toyed with him, caressing his thoughts with images, and tricking his senses.

Just before sleep took him, he found himself humming along in a low rattle to the melody of a woman's song. It drifted in with the wind, not the gentle tune of a rehearsed singer, but a little like his mother's rough voice rolling over a lullaby for him as a child.

If he had been a little more awake this would have alerted him to danger. His mother hadn't sung to him since he outgrew his cradle. But he was so tired and the darkness came so enticingly. He fell into it like he was coming home.

Calibor woke up with no explanation except for a shiver running fast down his spine. His eyelids peeled back before his consciousness had fully breached the line into reality. 

The sky was still dark and clear like velvet, only broken up by the sparkling stars.

The first thing he noticed was the unnatural quiet; as if all of the animals and insects in the forest had gone silent. As if the very wind was holding its breath. 

Calibor tugged his dagger free and sat up.

The fire was still going but had burnt low, flickering feebly, and casting an eerie ring of illumination between the willow trees.

It was in this light that Calibor saw them—Arthur had abandoned his post, sword left dangling in his belt. He was standing beneath the other willow, only the back of his golden-haired head visible. In front of Arthur was the translucent figure of a woman, shining silver and blue like the finest water, and gleaming in the dark.

Calibor's stomach clenched, something like the metallic taste of fear rising in his mouth. 

A brief glimpse of Merlin's bedroll showed the man still slumbering, dark brow furrowed in discomfort, mouth forming unspoken words in his sleep.

The spirit was speaking to Arthur, though her voice was lost in the distance, and only the faint tinkling of chimes reached Calibor's ears. 

He glanced around, assessing himself and the situation. His ankle throbbed but his fever had broken. He might not be fast on his feet but if he had one of the horses... He could leave. Cut his losses and get far away from whatever paranormal force had summoned this lady in white. He was no hero. He was a survivor and he was scared. 

Not to mention, he had told that entitled bastard not to lay down camp beneath the willows and he hadn't listened.  Whatever happened from here was his own fault. Calibor's conscious was clear. 

The thought took root, building in his chest. It tempted him, drawing his eyes to where the mares nibbled grass, entirely unaware. 

He had almost made up his mind when Merlin muttered in his sleep.

Damn it. Calibor thought, eyes catching on the sleeping man. Damn it.

He dragged himself up and crept over to Merlin. He took a deep breath and closed a hand over the man's mouth. Merlin startled awake instantly, eyes flying open wide. He clawed at Calibor's hand, horror dampening his features when he saw who it was.

"Quiet!" Calibor hissed, clamping down harder over the muffled noise of fear the man emitted. "Look."

He jabbed his chin in Arthur's direction. Merlin's eyes followed and his expression went slack. When his frantic movements stopped, Calibor released him.

"Arthur." He heard Merlin breathe, sitting up. Calibor and Merlin made eye contact. There was no exchange of words, gestures, or secret signals but somehow, they both knew what to do and moved in conjunction.

Calibor gripped his dagger tight, moving silently toward Arthur and the phantom woman. Her features were blurred, shifting together. The closer they got the less Calibor could make her out.

"...my boy, please come with me. I've missed you so." She reached out, with a see-through hand and caressed the air in front of Arthur's cheek. His expression was rapt, lost. Calibor squeezed the hilt of his dagger.

"Arthur," Merlin said, tone serious, cutting into the quiet. Arthur looked up, seeing Merlin, and for a moment the dazed look fell away.

"Merlin?"

"Step away from her." Merlin's hands were in front of him, with open palms, and though they were held in a gesture of caution, Calibor sensed there was another reason. He felt a prickling beneath his skin, a hum that originated from the mage.

Arthur's brow crippled in confusion and then a drunken smile crept onto his lips. "You won't believe it, Merlin. This is my mum, she's here. She's alive. Let me introduce you to her."

"Arthur, that is not your mother." Merlin said.

"What—what do you mean? Yes, she is. She's right here!" Arthur turned to glance at the figure helplessly. "Look at her. She came back. She came back for me."

"I will always come back for you, dear." The phantom woman whispered, a voice like a trickling stream. "I never meant to leave. I have loved you since you held fast in my womb. I have loved you forever, my child."

Calibor struggled to look upon the apparition's face but he knew that it was not the late Queen of Camelot. Her features kept melting, distorting, and changing anew as each second passed. Nothing solid. Nothing comprehendible and yet Arthur gazed at her as if she were a star.

"I know, mum." He croaked and the softness in it did something painful to Calibor's insides. When he turned back to Merlin, his expression had hardened. "I understand it's hard to believe. I was confused at first too but—"

"Arthur, she's lying." Merlin pleaded; hands still held up weakly in front of him. "She is enchanting you. Your mother is dead, remember? She died during childbirth—birthing you."

"Why are you saying this?" Arthur asked, lifting his chin, eyes flashing in the dark with wet anger. "Why can't you be happy for me? All I've wanted my whole life is to meet her. Every wish I've ever made was to have her back and you're ruining this."

"Listen to me, that's not her." Calibor snapped, not interested in coddling the prince. Arthur finally saw him, as if he had never existed before, and now a shadow crossed over his face as he held Calibor's eye. "Whatever she is—whatever it is, isn't human. Look at her. Really look at her."

"Don't." Arthur growled. "You have no right to speak to me this way. You know nothing about her."

"He's right, Arthur! She's a corpse!" Merlin was saying when a chill crept down Calibor's spine.  His skin turned to goosebumps, the world narrowing down to nothing when he heard it.

"Calibor."

That voice. 

He knew that voice. 

It kept him awake at night.

"Calibor, darling. Don't ignore me."

All coherent thoughts fled his brain, leaving him murky and slow, in a trance as he turned toward the voice. "Mother?"

He could tell remotely that Arthur and Merlin were arguing but that all sounded very far-off now and unimportant. Especially when his gaze found her.

She appeared exactly as she had the morning before he'd fled North Umbria. She was beautiful in the same way she'd always been—all cold and carved out of stone-with ringlets of hair as dark as obsidian and without a single blemish on her pale face.

Her features bore thinly veiled disappointment as her cold grey eyes surveyed Calibor. Under her stare, his knees weakened.

"You can't be here. You're not—" Calibor choaked. He was fifteen years old again and he couldn't finish a sentence without stammering. "You're not here."

"Why not?" His mother raised her dark eyebrows. "Because you left me behind all those years ago? Because you choose selfishness over your own mother?"

"That wasn't how it happened."

 "Isn't it? You left me. You left behind your responsibilities. Do you know how much I wept? Did you even care?"

"Of course, I cared!" Calibor half-pleaded, catching himself moving toward her. For the first time in years, he could taste home. And it was like ash on his tongue. "I had to leave, mother. He drove me out. I didn't have a choice. My curse was getting worse and he kept—he was hurting me."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

"Excalibor, don't listen to it!" It was Merlin's voice. He hardly heard it but he looked toward the sound of it anyway. The man's expression was firm and focused, and the hand he held in front of him began to glow with white light. "She isn't your mother. She's lying! I know what she is. She's a wraith. She leads travelers to their deaths. I have to make her rest."

Calibor's heart lodged in his throat. There was a searing pain in his head. Everything was dull at the edges. He couldn't comprehend the man's words but the mage was aiming at his mother. 

In a flash of movement, Arthur placed himself in between them.

"Are you mad, Merlin!" He shouted, wrestling Merlin's arm down. "You can't hurt her! I won't let you."

In the back of his mind, Calibor sensed there was a reason for Merlin's concern, but his mother's voice drove the sensation away.

"Come back home." 

Calibor turned back to her. 

She watched him with a soft expression, gentler than he could ever recall her looking at him before. His eyes stung like he was going to cry.  "Home?"

"Yes." She said in a voice drenched in sadness. She held out her arms. "Both of you. My boys. Come home with me."

Confusion fought the haze in Calibor's head as his mother called out to Arthur. The man was still struggling against Merlin but he heard her and looked up, a dazed expression falling over his face. 

The vines of the willow tree began to tremble as Calibor's mother grew closer to it. Almost gliding. The trunk of the tree suddenly glowed blue, shining like a million stars had been placed in the bark. A doorway to the night sky. 

There it was again. That feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Mother?" He had his dagger in his hand. The leather hilt dug into his palm. He couldn't remember when it had gotten there. She looked at him, her gaze rippling with adoration. "Why do you want me to come home?"

The question seemed to confuse her. "I love you, darling. You belong with me."

"You aren't angry anymore?"

"You are my son." She whispered, eyes glistening with tears. A sluggish chill threaded through his veins. "Come home with me and everything will be forgiven." 

He shook his head, the pain growing. "You would be furious. You would never forgive me--not like this. I would have to beg first. You would make me beg."

"What are you talking about my dear?"  She asked, tilting her head a little. But the illusion was shattering, her face was melting again, shifting and changing, unable to find purchase on any group of features for long. He watched his mother's eyes turn white.

"You're not my mother." 

This thing in front of him was a corpse. He could see her clearly now, all magic wiped away. All hollowed bone and paper-thin flesh. 

He let his dagger fly.

It passed through her and struck the trunk of the willow, sinking into the hilt.  The wraith let out an unearthly wail, piercing their eardrums, and echoing into the night. 

"NO!" Arthur roared somewhere in between it, crashing into Calibor, and knocking them both to the ground.

His back hit the dirt hard. Arthur's body bearing him down. It knocked the air from his lungs. His chest seized, trying to draw in air, and out of instinct, he reached for his second knife. He'd hardly drawn it before Arthur scrambled against him, catching his arm, and slamming his wrist down.

Calibor cried out as the knife was knocked from his hand. "Stop it! You idiot, she's using you!"

Arthur growled, eyes flashing, as he tried to restrain Calibor's other arm. He gave him a fight, kneeing him in the stomach, but Arthur got his thumb into the arrow wound on Calibor's shoulder and pressed. Calibor groaned, pain turning his vision white, as he spasmed against the dirt. 

"I told you what would happen." Arthur hissed in his ear, thumb digging in deeper. "I told you what would happen if you betrayed us. I warned you."

Calibor bucked his hips. He swung at the side of Arthur's head, connecting with his skull, and managed to dislodge the man. They rolled in the dirt while Merlin's voice echoed far off. Loud and dangerous but completely unintelligible. He caught Arthur again, the time with a blow to his jaw. The man growled, spitting blood, as he grappled against Calibor for purchase.

Calibor straddled Arthur, shoving the man into the ground with an arm at his throat, so hard he worries briefly about the other man's windpipe. "I don't want to hurt you!" 

 Arthur ignored him. He struck out, hitting him right between the ribs, driving the air out of him once more. It was just enough to get Calibor to loosen his grip. 

He was thrown off. Back into the dirt.  And Arthur followed, regaining the upper hand. 

Calibor didn't have his sword. He didn't have his knives. He was wounded in two different places and he was the only one not fighting to kill. Arthur had no such ailments and knew just where to grab around his ankle to make him scream. 

The agony, burning hot, sent him reeling. He almost lost consciousness. 

Arthur was on him again before he could recover, his hands closing around Calibor's throat. Pressing into his windpipe.

Pure terror rippled inside Calibor's chest. He was far too familiar with this situation. He knew too many men who had gone for his throat and almost won.

He clawed at the flesh of Arthur's hands with his fingernails. He twisted and bucked and shoved at the other man's chest but nothing got through to him.

"Arthur--" He choked, squirming desperately, wrenching at the prince's hair. He didn't know why he was saying his name like that. Like it mattered. But it punched out of him again. "Arthur, please."

In the firelight, Arthur was glowing orange. His face set in a determined crease. Murder in his eyes. Fierce and vengeful. Calibor's lungs seized inside his chest. No oxygen to provide him. 

He couldn't speak. 

He couldn't breathe. 

The corners of his vision were going dark and Arthur Pendragon was going to be the last thing he would ever see.

Then--

the forest lit up, bright white, like they had been thrust into the center of the sun. Arthur's hand loosened around his throat and Calibor managed to suck in some air.  

The hand was still at his throat but no longer squeezing. Arthur was looking at something. He turned his head, staring into the light coming from the second weeping tree. 

"Mommy?"

Everything went still. Calibor. Arthur. The entire forest seemed to be holding its breath again as the shiny ghost of a young boy stepped out of the willow. 

He was a corpse too, sinewy flesh and see-through bones.

The phantom woman gave a shuddering gasp, crying out. She floated past Merlin whose expression was tight, a straining arm held in front of him. His eyes glowed amber.  "My darling. Is that--is it really you?"

The boy's spirit nodded, drifting closer. The only thing separating them was the flickering flames of their fire. "You've done bad things, Mommy."

"Oh, my boy. I've been looking for you." She was weeping, holding her arms out, at the boy who was just out of reach.

 "You've been hurting people." The boy whispered.

"No. No. They were liars. They were pretending to be you."

"I'm dead, Mommy."

"No." The woman gasped, tears streaming down her changing face. "Don't say that!"

"I died a long time ago and you did too." The boy's spirit wasn't anything like his mother's. His was more whole, all of the features were in the right place, curved in sadness. "It's time to rest now."

"How can I rest? I miss you so."

The boy smiled softly. "Then come home with me, Mommy. Come home. Rest."

They moved toward each other, glowing like ships in dark water, until they met in the middle of the two willow trees, above the sputtering fire. 

Just as they reached each other, two figures intertwining into one, the forest seemed to let out the breath it had been holding. A rush of wind cut through the trees, extinguishing the bright light, and immersing the forest in darkness once more. 

When Calibor's eyes had adjusted, the spirits of mother and child had gone.

The silence pressed in again. The cold. The ache. 

Calibor was still gasping, taking in deep shuddering breaths, as his lungs tried to fix themselves. Arthur was frozen above him, hands no longer squeezing but cradling. His soft thumbs rested atop his Adam's apple where the skin throbbed. 

He pushed at the man, coughing. "Get off of me."

Arthur's full body flinched as he seemed to become aware of himself. His eyes—wild and strange—caught Calibor's and grew wide. Realization coloring his features. He released Calibor and fell backward off him. 

The weight gone was an instant relief and Calibor dragged himself up, heart hammering as he coughed and hacked around a spasming throat.

"Arthur!?" He heard Merlin cry.  "Excalibor, are you alright?" 

Merlin kicked up dust as he appeared between them. He reached for Calibor but he waved him away, breathing hard. He knelt beside his friend instead. "Are you okay?"

"How could I be so stupid?" Arthur groaned quietly, hiding his face behind his hands. They were shaking.

"It wasn't your fault," Merlin said firmly. "She was enchanting you. I don't think she meant to--she was looking for her son. That's what a wraith is, a spirit who has gone bad."

"She's gone?" Calibor rasped and Merlin nodded.

 Arthur squared his shoulders, drawing into himself. "I ought to have known, Merlin. My mother is dead. She died giving birth to me."

"I know."

"She's dead," Arthur repeated. "There is no coming back from that."

"I know." Merlin's expression was pained and soft, and it made Calibor feel as if he were encroaching on something. He stared at the ground, rubbing at his throat.

"I was stupid. I wanted it to be her."

"That's not stupid, Arthur." Merlin said gently. "That's just human."

Calibor hated that phrase, hated himself, hated that he too had been tricked by something that pretended to be a woman he had left behind years ago. 

Everything felt heavy and cold. He was losing himself a bit, the way he did after a fight, shutting down and turning off. Nobody spoke for a few moments.

"Let's go back to the fire." Arthur managed eventually, before crawling to his feet with Merlin's help and retreating back to the last of the flames. 

It was nearly morning now. A blue haze had begun to peek through the trees, just barely kissing away the dark. Soon the stars would disappear and the sun would replace the moon in the sky.

"Alright?" Merlin asked, forcing Calibor to remember himself. The mage was watching him with cautious, apologetic, eyes. 

"Fine." Calibor nodded stiffly, voice coming out rough and quiet. He dragged himself over and collected his fallen daggers from where Arthur had thrown him. 

Just like that morning, Merlin held out a hand to him. He hauled him to his feet and Calibor limped over to the fire. 

"Next time I pick the campsite, eh?" Merlin told Arthur as they settled down between the branches of the willow. "You always pick the worst ones. Remember the time in Scyla?"

Arthur made a low sort of breath in his throat. It might have been a scoff or a laugh but his heart wasn't in it. He was staring at his hands. 

"Does this sort of thing happen a lot to you two?" Calibor asked, half-exhaustion, half-disbelief. 

Merlin glanced at him, a wry smile on his face. 

"More than you would think." He said.

Chapter Text

The morning after their encounter with the wraith, the trio set out early before the sun had breached the horizon. There was no use trying to sleep after such an event, so they gathered their things together in silence and rode on through the dense forest. They went on like that for many days and Merlin couldn’t brush off the sense of unease which continued to cling to him.

The memory of the wraith—her agonizing grief and yearning—had burrowed under his skin. His mind kept returning to the moment he coaxed the boy's spirit back from the afterlife, tugging on something that didn't want to come, all to persuade the mother's spirit to rest. The endeavor had taken a toll on Merlin, it had cost him something, though he couldn't discern what. Tampering with the veil between life and death had been no small feat and it left him drained and sad.

For Arthur’s sake, he tried to pretend nothing was wrong. He did his best to act like his usual self. He prattled on pleasantly to Excalibor, who listened, grim and rigid where he held Arthur rather stiffly around the waist. Getting any sort of response out of Excalibor was a rarity but when he did speak his voice came out low and shattered to pieces. The near strangulation had ruined his vocal cords and Merlin had to listen closely to decipher his replies. He didn’t mind the extra effort though, so long as he got him talking—even if his responses were often only muttered depreciations of Merlin's tales.

After a few days of this, he found that for as reserved as the boy was, there was a dry sense of humor hiding anyway in there. He’d nearly gotten him to crack a smile after telling him about a very unfortunate incident involving himself, Gwen, and a noble woman’s chamber pot.

Meanwhile, Arthur sulked in their wake.

His silence worried Merlin. Arthur was never quiet. Disagreeable, yes. Rude, often. But never quiet. That was how he knew their experience with the wraith had shaken him.

Merlin tried many times to draw him out of it. A few well-timed jibes. A bit of complaining here and there. Even going so far as to make a few jokes to Excalibor at his expense but Arthur did nothing. He didn't even snap at him when Excalibor agreed, emotionlessly, that his hair did look like a bird's nest in the dim light.

To snap at him, that would mean Arthur would have to actually look at Excalibor, and he seemed determined not to do that. Not at him or the mottled bruises ringing the soft flesh of his neck in the shape of his fingerprints.

Sometimes Merlin couldn’t quite tell if it was because he felt guilty or wished he’d finished the job.

In the evenings, they sought refuge between some trees, never weeping trees, or wherever provided some amount of cover. There was nothing to suggest the soldiers were still pursuing them but with the way Excalibor was constantly checking over his shoulder, it seemed the smart thing to do.

They fell into a sort of rhythm. Arthur would hunt for their dinner, Excalibor would prepare it, and Merlin would tend to the horses and light a fire.

On the third of these nights since they had slept beneath the willows, when he had grown exhausted of Arthur’s gloomy demeanor and of having only Excalibor for company—who was didn’t like to bicker the way that Arthur did— Merlin waited for Excalibor to drift off to asleep before approaching his friend.

Merlin and Arthur had been taking guard duty in turns the past several nights but for some reason, Arthur liked to be a selfless idiot and take on double shifts while Merlin was sleeping. Perhaps, because he was foolish, and blamed himself for falling under the wraith’s enchanted the night he was supposed to be taking guard and was desperate to prove himself better than that.

Arthur was sitting in the grip of a great oak when Merlin sat down beside him, clasping his hands between his knees. It was almost cozy; they were squeezed narrowly together, with their shoulders touching. Arthur had his sword across his lap and his head resting back against the tree.

The flames of the fire were dwindling. It had not been stirred in a long while but the night wasn’t so cold that it was necessary yet—spring had finally decided to do it’s duty.

It was difficult to make out Arthur’s expression in the shadows, the orange glow just barely outlining the curve of his Adam’s apple and providing a glimpse of the broader details of his face.

"So, what is it?" Merlin asked finally, when it was clear that Arthur was content with ignoring him, his head tilted back against the trunk, eyes roving past the trees, and into the haunted depths of the night sky.

"What is what?"

"Whatever you're thinking or feeling—spit it out."

"I'm your prince, Merlin. You can't tell me to 'spit it out'."

"Look at that! It appears that I can, since I already have. What's been bothering you?"

Arthur sighed, knocking his knee against Merlin's a bit roughly.  "Do you ever, just for a moment, remember your station, or mine?"

"Of course, I do. You reiterate it every day by being a massive twat."

"A twat?"

Merlin winced. "A prick. Sorry. Twat just sort of slipped out."

"Well, apparently I don't do it nearly enough, Merlin, considering you still seem to be of the impression that you can just say whatever you want and do whatever you like, regardless of my opinion on the matter."

Arthur shot a scowl at him. Which was fair enough. Merlin would have welcomed anything at this point so long as it wasn't silence.

"You're avoiding the subject." He told him.

Arthur's face seemed to twitch in the dark.

"I am not avoiding the subject. I'm teaching you manners."

"Arthur."

"Merlin."

"It wasn't your fault."

The flickering firelight caught on Arthur's parted mouth, revealing his surprise. It quickly snapped shut. His eyes were deep in shadow but Merlin could tell he was staring.

"It wasn't anyone's fault." Merlin continued, in the same voice. The one he used when explaining something to someone who was being particularly dense. "The reason wraiths are so dangerous is because they act out of desperation. They possess powerful abilities to manipulate people. They can catch anyone by surprise."

"But it didn't catch anyone by surprise, it caught me," Arthur grumbled, turning away from him again and working his shoulders back against the tree.

"Well, you and Excalibor."

"It caught me," Arthur ignored him. "because I was so busy fantasizing about a woman I never knew that I didn't notice it happening."

Merlin's expression melted into a frown as he detected the bitterness in his tone. "Arthur, she was your mother. It's perfectly normal for you to think about her."

"Yes, but I'm not a fool. I knew it wasn’t her but I allowed myself to be deceived. I gave in so quickly." Arthur sighed and screwed a hand over his brow, massaging his face the way he did when he was trying to conceal his distress. "What kind of leader does that make me? I’m going to be King one day and I couldn't even resist an enchantment I knew to be a trick."

The self-loathing was thick in Arthur’s voice. It put Merlin at a loss for words. His heart aching so intensely for his friend that he had the irrational urge to do something foolish, such as pulling the other man into a hug.

"I've thought about my mother every day of my life for as long as I can remember.” Arthur continued quietly, before Merlin’s brief moment of sentiment could get the better of him. “Constantly wishing that I was given the chance to meet her, wishing that I was not responsible for her death."

"But that wasn't your fault either!" Merlin argued, his voice an explosion in the quiet of the woods. Excalibor shifted in his sleep, muttering under his breath, and curling up tighter. He always slept that way, as if he were protecting himself even in sleep.

Arthur and Merlin both held their breaths a moment as they waited for the boy to still. When he did, Arthur carried on, this time a little quieter.

"I know that but I can't help feeling at fault. Sometimes I wonder..." Arthur blew out a low breath, craning his neck up toward the sky like he was on the verge of a terrible confession. "I wonder if she had even loved me at all. I wonder if she would still care for me, if she could see me now."

Merlin gazed at him in disbelief. At the sorrowful droop of his shoulders and the harsh angle of his chin as he stared up at the midnight constellations. Despite himself, Merlin's heart swelled with useless affection.

 "Arthur, you stupid, stupid, prat. She must have loved you! You were only a baby after all. Her baby. You may not be perfect but you're nothing to be ashamed of. You're a good prince, you might be a little slow on the draw perhaps—"

Arthur shoved at the side of Merlin's head so hard that he nearly tipped over into the grass. "You're supposed to be cheering me up not insulting me!"

"—but!" Merlin sputtered rising back up. "There was going to be a but! You care about your people. You're fair and decent and better than you give yourself credit for. She'd be proud of you."

Arthur was quiet for a long time while both of them sat listening to the various strange creatures of the night hooting or whistling from their posts.

It was perhaps too honest and kind of a thing to say to a dunderhead like Arthur. It made Merlin grow warm in embarrassment as he waited for a response. Finally, after a while there came Arthur's quiet voice again. "Thank you, Merlin. I suppose you're right."

Merlin blinked. Slowly a grin crossed his face. "Sorry? Did you say something?"

Arthur snorted and it was a nice thing to hear. Merlin couldn't help feeling a little lighter already. “Forget it.”

"It sounded like you admitted I was right." He noted, not keen to let Arthur forget it.

"Yeah, well, I suppose miracles do happen."

"I don't know." Merlin cast a glance at Excalibor's slumbering figure with a satisfied sigh. "It seems I've been right about a few things lately. He hasn't tried anything yet, has he?"

Whatever moment of peace that had come between them was broken as Arthur tensed against Merlin's side. He swallowed, wishing he hadn't spoken.

They lapsed back into silence for a long while, broken only by the amorous activities of a pair of owls in the close by trees.

"I nearly killed him," Arthur said eventually, in a flat tone. He had turned his face down to stare across the fire at Excalibor. Merlin couldn't tell which emotions played out across his face in the dark. "I would have, if you hadn't broken the enchantment. I wouldn't be surprised if he wants revenge."

"He doesn't." Merlin said, though he didn't know that for certain. It was an impossible thing to know but he had a strong desire to defend the young man anyway.

"I still might have to kill him, you do realize this? If he tries to double-cross us..." Arthur trailed off and Merlin could imagine what he meant by that.

The victory in this was that Arthur didn't sound happy about it, Merlin told himself. He sounded exhausted and frustrated and grim but not happy. 

"And if he doesn't?"

 Arthur sighed deeply through his nose.

"As long as he keeps behaving, we won't have any problems." His friend murmured, shifting uneasily in place, and making their shoulders brush. "I'm not trying to be callous, Merlin."

"I know that."

"There's just something about him. Something I can't put my finger on. And before you start, it has nothing to do with the fact that he's a sorcerer."

"I'm sure it would help if he wasn’t." Merlin muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could envision the scowl on Arthur's face, even though the darkness of the fading fire made it impossible to see.

"Is that really so unreasonable of me? Have you ever actually met a sorcerer, aside from yourself, that didn't use their abilities for nefarious purposes?"

"It's not as simple as that," Merlin groaned, hating that this old argument was cropping back up again. 

"It is to me." Arthur said, which was a bit like a stab to the heart. "Isn't it strange to you, how he says he's unable to control his magic and yet he's capable of killing with it just fine? Not to mention, the way he skins those animals."

Merlin stared at him. "You're suspicious of a man because he dresses his game better than you?"

"He doesn't do it better than me," Arthur was quick to snap, sounding mortally offended. "He's just faster. More brutal. The way he looks at the blood on his hands—the expression he gets on his face--he's clearly had a great deal of practice at slicing things open."

"He's not a prince, Arthur. Some of us common people grew up having to prepare our food for ourselves."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Besides he's barely old enough to be considered a man and—"

"He's seventeen." Merlin interrupted with a roll of his eyes, just to shut Arthur up for a moment. "Not much younger than us at all really. You were eight when you first went into battle."

Arthur frowned at him a little. "How do you know his age?"

"He told me." He was quite pleased with himself for obtaining the information too. It was the first thing he had managed to extract anything from Excalibor about himself since their initial meeting.

The warm, orange glow of the firelight created an amusing reflection on Arthur's open surprised mouth.

"When?"

"While you were hunting earlier."

"Well, he's—he's—" Arthur seemed to be struggling to recover. "He's still younger than us anyway—”

“By a few years.”

“—and it makes you wonder where he learned it from. He's awfully handy with those daggers too."

"So, it's a crime to be good with knives now?"

"Oh, shut up, Merlin." Arthur huffed, resting his head back against the tree again. Merlin tasted victory. "We'll never agree on anything. You're too stubborn. I'm just saying my instincts are warning me something is wrong with him. You can cozy up to him if you like but I'm going to keep an eye on him."

"That settles that then," Merlin answered because it was as close to a compromise as they were going to get and he had learned to take what he could manage.

He settled back comfortably against the tree, though there was a root prodding him in the back, and it was less cozy now that Arthur had shifted away. "You keep an eye on him and I'll make a friend."

"Mhm.” Arthur hummed skeptically. “Good luck with that."

Merlin took that as an insult to his people skills but decided, very maturely, not to respond. They sat there together for a bit, just content to have each other's company until eventually the fire needed stirring again and Arthur elbowed him.

"You ought to get some sleep."

Merlin shrugged, content enough where he was. "Not tired."

"Well one of us ought to rest then." Arthur only replied, stretching. He got up, leaving Merlin's right side awfully cold and lonely. He placed his sword down next to Merlin and yawned. "Wake me in a few hours."

"Yes, sire." Merlin said with only a bit of mocking enthusiasm. Arthur reached out and tousled his hair thoroughly, rubbing his knuckles hard against his skull, so that it stood up in a wild blaze. "Ow! Get off!"

"Goodnight, Merlin."

"Goodnight, sire."

Things continued on in a relatively better manner the following morning and the remainder of the week.

Arthur was speaking again, which brought with it all of the usual pleasantries and offenses that came with conversing with him. They exchanged their typical mixture of playful bickering, banter, and various domestic squabbles, and were satisfied. 

On the other hand, Arthur was persistently unpleasant toward Excalibor, who was far less accommodating of it than he was used to. While most people insulted by the prince of Camelot had the good sense to remain silent, Excalibor was not like most people. He was capable of rivaling Arthur in both snark and intimidation. So much so, in fact, that Merlin often got to enjoy exchanges like this:

"Would you stop touching me?"

"We're on a horse. I have to touch you."

"Well, scoot back in the saddle."

"I've tried. Do you think I want to be pressed up against you?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, I would happily ride with Merlin."

"So, you can push him off and steal his horse? I don't think so."

And those were the more civil disagreements, occurring when moods were high, and everyone was generally satiated by the serene greenery of the endless forest, and the soothing sounds of rushing water from the brook. 

In the evenings it was another story, especially if the hunt was unsuccessful and Arthur's mood had soured. Excalibor might grumble under his breath that if given a bow and arrows, he could surely find something, and it would set the Prince off again. His ankle was on the mend and though Merlin caught him limping, he seemed to be able to put more weight on it than before—regardless, Arthur still refused to entrust him with his weapons.

Consequently, they were left hungry.

On one such evening, when it had already rained twice on them earlier that day--nothing like the torrential downpour that had plagued them a week ago but warm showers. The type that was initially tolerable until your clothes began to cling to your skin and the humidity caused your nose to become stuffy but at least the horses seemed to enjoy it.

Regrettably, the rain had made it increasingly difficult to find any dry kindling or firewood.

The three of them sat in the darkness, nestled between a pair of towering boulders, feeling both damp and famished, as Merlin attempted to prepare a meager pile of tinder for the fire. He was forced to result to magic to ignite the fire. He murmured an incantation, a small spell he'd been eager to experiment with, and watched as a cluster of flames appeared and began to consume the damp wood. A plume of smoke circled their heads, carrying the bitter scent of decay away with it. 

"How did you do that?"

Merlin looked up, startled, to find Excalibor observing him from beneath the shadow of his hood. The rain had washed away some of the grime from the boy, causing his hair to gather into soft curls that were rather pretty. This was in contrast to Arthur's hair, which had flattened to his head, resembling a drowned rat.

"With the fire." Excalibor elaborated quietly, dropping his eyes to the flames. "You conjured it so easily."

"Oh," Merlin said and then smiled. "It's just a spell really. I learned it in a book."

"An illegal book," Arthur grumbled because he was in a bad mood and was annoyed when everyone else was not. Merlin shot him a grin. 

"An illegal spell book that you gave me." He reminded him, showing him his best dimples when Arthur's features crinkled into a scowl.

Excalibor's face was partially obscured by shadow but there was a visible rigidity to his posture. "So, you simply speak the words and you can command it?"

"I mean the incantation is meant to ignite flames, not control them, but yeah, I suppose. There are other spells for more dramatic purposes but it's mostly about the caster's intention."

 Merlin extended his open palm towards Excalibor, whispering the incantation once more. A small flame flickered to life in his hand, causing Excalibor to recoil. Merlin quickly closed his hand around the fire, extinguishing it. "Sorry."

Excalibor shook his head and avoided Merlin's gaze as he drew his cloak tighter around himself. "It's fine."

"If you don't use a spell, how do you do it?" Merlin asked gently as if he was addressing a small animal, something that might bolt away if he made any sudden moves. Excalibor certainly looked the part.

"I don't."

"But you—"

"Never on purpose." Excalibor snapped and Merlin took a pause, letting the man breathe. He didn’t want to push him just to have him shut down again, not if he could get him to open up instead. So, he waited patiently for the other boy to speak.

"I don't have control over when I summon it.” Excalibor finally explained in a low voice. “Otherwise, I might have tried to call it the other night when your friend was strangling me. It's just something that happens."

"Something that happens?" Arthur scoffed, voice sarcastic and mean, dragging the boys' attention over to him. Merlin wished briefly that his prince would hold his tongue and not make this more difficult than it already was. But really, Excalibor was capable of handling himself.

"Yes, sire." He repeated through gritted teeth, making Arthur’s jaw tick. No one had ever made his designated title sound so much like an insult before. "When I'm in trouble or when I'm angry. It isn't always fire either."

Merlin frowned, sensing a shift in the boy's energy, a dark flicker of pain and regret. "What do you mean?"

Excalibor went silent for a long moment and Merlin wondered if he had asked too many questions. The flickering flames of the fire illuminated the boy's haunted expression as he turned his gaze away.

 "I brought down a tavern once.” He said quietly. “The whole place just came apart."

Merlin winced, his mind racing with vivid images. He heard the bloodcurdling screams, felt the walls quaking, and the ground giving out as rubble rained down around him. Then he found himself back in the shadowy forest once more. 

Excalibor was awaiting judgment. Merlin could feel his fear and guilt leaking into the air like a contagion but he was unable to provide it.

The sheer magnitude of the feat was unlike anything Merlin had ever heard of happening by accident. It would have required an immense amount of untapped power. Even Merlin couldn't remember struggling with such strength before his training began and from the way Arthur was staring at him, lips pressed into a thin line, he was wondering about the same thing.

"I'm sorry," Merlin said eventually, after breaking away from Arthur's gaze. 

Excalibor raised his head, voice cold. "That's it? I just confessed to accidentally bringing down an entire structure, causing death and destruction, and you're sorry?" He lowered his head again with a scoff, muttering. "Are you sure you’re from Camelot?”

"Would you rather we lash you to a stake and burn you?" Arthur snapped. "Or execute you in the streets?"

Excalibor's upper lip curled. "I thought that was your preferential treatment of sorcerers. Is it not?"

Arthur opened his mouth to respond but Merlin cut him off. 

"Arthur." He interjected, sending him a look that hoped begged for patience, before turning back to Excalibor. "What you're dealing with is a crude form of emotion-based magic. I dealt with the same thing before my mum sent me to Camelot and I learned how to control it. Nothing quite so dangerous though."

"That sounds like me," Excalibor deadpanned back, a hint of self-loathing in his voice. "Dangerous. Destructive. Cursed."

"Magic isn't all bad.” Merlin told him, a hint of a plea in his voice. “You don't have to fear it. Let me show you."

He inched closer to Excalibor, whose wary gaze followed his movements but made no attempt to retreat. Merlin continued to drag himself across the dusty ground, closing the distance between them until their knees touched. He could feel the tension radiating from Excalibor, the energy palpable, even as the boy maintained a stoic expression.

"I don't think--" He began but Merlin hushed him softly, thinking of a spell that made him smile.

"Just watch."

Enclosing both his hands, he took a deep breath and inhaled the cool aroma of wet earth mingling with the smoky fragrance of burning wood. He whispered softly to his hands.

"Alan fīfealdan."

A warm surge of magic coursed through his palms. They tingled and he knew it had worked. Slowly, he peeled them apart and from them flew, through the gap, a trio of fluttering butterflies.

In the forest, the landscape was only on the cusp of summer, full of timid little caterpillars and unopened bulbs hiding in the darkness of night, but from his magic, they bloomed, beautiful and developed, into the world. The delicate wings of the creatures emitted a gentle luminosity, each butterfly boasting a different hue: one was lavender, another was yellow as a flame, and the third was a serene blue.

Excalibor exhaled roughly and Merlin leaned back to observe his reaction. With parted lips and a furrowed brow, he watched intently as the lavender butterfly performed an intricate dance with its companions. There was a sense of fragility about him as he held out a pale hand in the flickering firelight, trembling slightly as the butterfly landed upon his fingertips. 

Merlin felt a rush of delight wash over him as he witnessed a tentative smile spread across Excalibor's lips. The scar that marred the corner of his mouth appeared to fade into a pale white, as if the magic of the moment had the power to heal even physical wounds.

"Brilliant." He whispered.

With a joyous laugh, Merlin encouraged the lavender insect to take flight once more. It brushed Excalibor's cheek before flitting away, creating a mesmerizing path through the darkness, glowing against the night, as it passed the yellow butterfly that fluttered precariously close to the flames. It flew toward Arthur, who was silent, his eyes slightly widened and his expression captivated, as the butterfly landed gently on his shoulder.

Merlin studied his friend's features, heart beating quicker in his chest.

There was no sign of hatred or disgust on his face, only a hint of caution and vulnerability. A slow smile spread across his face as he locked eyes with Merlin and allowed the butterfly to perch on his shoulder. It rested only a brief moment before it took flight again and joined the other two butterflies, creating a mesmerizing display as they floated upwards, circling into the sky until they became but tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness and then nothing at all. 

"See?" Merlin said in a soft tone, as the night returned to its original state. He directed his words at Excalibor but his gaze never left Arthur's face. "It's not all so terrible, is it?"

There was a horrible knot of desperation gnawing at his insides, wanting nothing more than to be soothed. He waited, perched on the edge of hope and despair, until with a gentle shake of his head, Arthur's usual rugged demeanor melted away, and for a moment it was only the two of them in that forest. The two of them and all of their unspoken words. 

"No," Arthur said softly. "Not so terrible. Not when it's you."

Although Arthur's words were kind and Merlin felt them smooth away the knot in his chest, they were not what was needed in that moment. Excalibor emitted a quiet noise from his throat, a broken laugh, and retreated deeper into his cloak, distancing himself from Merlin until their knees were no longer touching. 

In a dull, lifeless tone, Excalibor spoke up, his face devoid of any emotion once again.

"It was beautiful," He muttered. "but this thing inside of me, my magic, it isn't like yours. I’ll never be able to create anything like that."

Merlin leaned forward, filled with fresh determination now. "Don't you want to try?" He asked. "I can teach you on the way to Deira. I can show you how to control your magic."

As he spoke, movement caught his attention across the fire. Arthur was scowling again, a look of warning in his eyes.

Excalibor shook his head. "That's not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Really, Merlin?" Arthur said, his tone serious. "That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen."

Merlin bristled at the insult, but he held his tongue, knowing that arguing with Arthur would get them nowhere. Instead, he tried to reason with him. "I might not be a very good servant," He said, "but I'm an excellent teacher. I mean, I've never actually taught before, but I think I would be an excellent teacher if given the chance. Gwen says I'm very patient and—"

"And Gaius says you're an idiot because you are one." Arthur interrupted, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. 

Merlin narrowed his eyes at his friend, before shifting his focus entirely to Excalibor, ignoring Arthur's presence. Excalibor refused to look at him. 

"You possess immense power," He said, his eyes fixed on Excalibor. "I could sense it from the moment I saw you at the Inn. All you need is to learn how to control your abilities. We still have a couple of weeks before we reach Deira. It would be worth it, I swear."

Excalibor shook his head again, the firelight highlighting a muscle ticking in his jaw. "No. I don’t think so."

But Merlin couldn't let it go. "People like you and I, we're born with magic inside of us. It's like you said before, it's not a choice, it's a part of who we are. The magic is there whether you want it or not. Trying to stifle it won't make it disappear but mastering it will give you greater control over your life. Don't you want that?"

"I can't." Excalibor said in a low voice. If Merlin had been looking at his hands, he might have noticed the tight clenching of his fists in his lap. The skin stretched thin over his white knuckles.

"Listen to me, Excalibor. I understand how you're feeling but you don't have to be afraid anymore.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Merlin tilted his head, pity welling up inside of him. “That’s not true. I know how difficult it must have been for you—"

Excalibor's head snapped up. "You don't know anything!”

Merlin’s mouth fell shut.

 “I said no." His voice reverberated into the darkness, raw and strained, the aftermath of Arthur's tight grip.

It made Merlin wince in regret and whatever sleeping birds in the trees closest to them take flight. The sudden outburst from someone usually so reserved was jarring. It made the forest feel even more eerie in its quiet cricket song.

Excalibor's breaths were rapid and unsteady as he squeezed his eyes shut. A faint buzz of electricity crackled in the atmosphere and Merlin was certain it was emanating from the young man. 

He locked eyes with Arthur, feeling slightly uneasy. The pang of remorse settled heavily within him. Arthur's face was tense and inscrutable. His hand was on the hilt of his sword.

"Sorry." Excalibor apologized briskly, his curly hair falling over his face. "I just need some air."

He pushed himself up, teetering on his mending ankle, and turned away from the light. He limped away from the fire, away from Merlin and Arthur, from the boulders, and the horses, moving slowly until his cloaked form was eaten up by the darkness.

As he watched the departing figure, Merlin's guilt burned within him intensely. After the man had vanished, he shifted his gaze to Arthur, who wore a look of pointed frustration laced with a hint of I told you so. He only then removed his hand from his sword.

Merlin gnawed on his cheek while observing his companion toss a handful of leaves into the flames. The fire popped and crackled, sending out a few sparks.

"Should I go after him?"

"No," Arthur said firmly, peeling leaf from stem for something to do. "Leave him. He can't go far on that ankle."

"There are wolves out there and bears."

"Good. If he is as skilled a hunter as he claims to be, perhaps he'll return with some dinner."

With a furrowed brow, Merlin peered down at his hands and started to fidget with his fingers. "He's frightened of his own magic. It terrifies him. I was hoping he'd be alright after I showed him it can be controlled."

Merlin was lost in thought until Arthur's voice jolted him out of his reverie. The tone in which Arthur spoke made him look up.

"What are you thinking, Merlin?" He demanded with a shake of his head. "He's already capable of incinerating people and bringing down taverns. Why would you want to teach him how to do more?"

Merlin felt the scowl forming on his face. "Because then he wouldn't have to live in fear of causing another catastrophe the next time he feels something. Because teaching him to control his magic could prevent him from accidentally hurting more people!"

Arthur was looking at him as if he were naïve. "What if he decides he wants to hurt people?"

"I wasn't offering him a Grimoire, I was offering to teach him how to regulate his magic!" Merlin was breathing hard now, his blood boiling with anger and hurt. "You don't know what it's like to be afraid of yourself or what you can do."

He tried to rein in his emotions, to quell the lump forming in his throat. It was evident from the expression on Arthur’s face that he was attempting to hear and listen to Merlin, but it didn't appear to be an easy task for him.

"You're right. I don't know." Arthur said slowly, his brow creasing. "But I want to, I want to understand. I'm just..." He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm worried. About you. About him. About all of this. This was supposed to be a simple journey to Deira to help King Nicodemus. Now I don't know what we're doing."

Merlin shifted as the fight slowly drained out of him. He chewed on his lip, grappling with what was the right thing to say next. After much consideration, he chose to speak the honest thing rather than the right thing, something that had been weighing heavily on his mind for days.

"He's all alone in the world, Arthur." He admitted quietly. "And I don’t want him to be. At least I had Gaius. Not many of us get that lucky."

Merlin knew there must be a terrible war going on inside Arthur. A clashing of two worlds. He had been brought up with all the traditional teachings, and the old prejudices, and those were firmly ingrained in him. Almost untouchable and they were not so easily corrected by things as trivial as friendship. However, he and Merlin had known each other for a little more than a year now. They had grown close and after learning about Merlin's magic he had defied his own teachings to protect him.

 Merlin also knew he was the thorn in Arthur's old beliefs, the splinter that caused him to question the possibility that there was more to magic than he'd been taught.

Arthur added a few more leaves to the fire before turning to his companion. "I won't stand in your way," He said eventually.

Merlin felt a twinge of relief. "Thank you."

"I don't approve of this decision of yours, and I sincerely hope you know what you're doing," He continued, with his brows furrowed. "but I won't interfere with your plans. If you can manage to persuade him to let you teach him, then so be it. Lords know you rarely listen to my advice anyways."

A small smile tugged at Merlin’s lips, the warm spring of gratitude making him want to ease Arthur’s worry.  "Just so you know,” He said softly. “I do listen to you."

Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"When you have good ideas." Merlin smirked. Arthur's mouth fell into a comical frown.

"All my ideas are good ideas, Merlin." He said in outrage. "You're just too much of a numb skull to realize it."

They spent the majority of the following morning hunting and foraging for food, driven by the growling of their stomachs as soon as the sun had risen. Arthur and Excalibor went in separate directions, each to try their luck on their own. Excalibor had decided to have a go at it with his knives. Meanwhile, Merlin was instructed to remain behind with the horse that Arthur was not taking and to watch out for thieves and bandits, though they all knew he really meant Excalibor. 

He had returned to their camp last night, more composed and silent, muttering another brief apology before settling down to rest before the others could say anything.

Merlin pondered the predicament he was in, trying to figure out how best to approach the man. He knew that he couldn't force Excalibor to do anything he did not want to do. Instead, he needed to come up with a different strategy to persuade him

Merlin mulled over his thoughts as he led the solitary mare to the creek, allowing her to drink, and bringing her along as he searched for something edible to eat in the vicinity of their camp.

He'd developed a bit of a skill for foraging and identifying plant life. He could tell most poisonous berries from the consumable ones and knew just where to look to locate certain herbage—all because he had invested enough time in studying Gaius' books so that he could find the proper herbs and ingredients for the physician's salves

Merlin scoured the area, searching beneath downed logs and boulder formations until he discovered a dense cluster of Agrocybe praecox. Mushrooms.

Triumphantly, he gathered the little bulbous plants and packed them into his shirt. As his shirt became weighed down with mushrooms, he offered one to the mare as a gesture of goodwill. It ate it amiably and gave a contented huff that Merlin took to mean they were on better terms.

With his bounty in tow, Merlin made his way back to their camp.

The sun had crept about partway into the sky and the earth was heating up with it.

Merlin tied the horse to a nearby tree and removed his outer vest before starting to rebuild the fire. He fetched a pot and filled it with cool running water from the nearby creek, placing it over the flames to boil. Next, he filled both his and Arthur's waterskins before taking a moment to relish in the coolness of the water and splash his face.

Upon his return, Merlin added roughly half of the mushrooms to the pot of boiling water, reserving the remaining portion in a leather pouch to be stored in their saddle bags for later. He was quite satisfied with his finds, thinking to himself that at least they would have something to eat if both men came back empty-handed. However, he had yet to decide what to do about Excalibor.

As he stirred the stew he'd been cooking, Merlin added a handful of parsley he'd scavenged from by the creek. Just as he finished stirring, he heard the sound of hooves and turned to see Arthur emerging from the trees astride his horse. The expression on his face was not a victorious one.

The air was heavy with the scent of mushrooms and the sound of simmering broth, but the arrival of Arthur made Merlin pause and watch as the other man dismounted.

"Nothing?" Merlin inquired while Arthur secured the horse's reins to the branch. Arthur shook his head, a sheen of sweat highlighting his skin and creating a damp circle around the neck of his shirt. He removed his quiver and bow, then pulled out two small and scrawny Partridges from the side of the saddle.

"Just these." He placed them at Merlin's feet as they both sat down. The birds were barely larger than chicks and there was not enough meat on them to satisfy even one person. Merlin picked up the small prey by their necks.

"Real nice catch here, sire."

Arthur scowled at him and snatched back the birds. "It's not my fault this place is practically barren! I searched everywhere. I did find some bear tracks a few miles up the river, so you were right about the bears."

Merlin nodded. "I knew there were bears."

Arthur ignored him. "This area must be teeming with predators, which is why there's no game left. They've frightened them all off."

Merlin raised an eyebrow, shooting a nervous glance towards the forest, where Excalibor was out there alone. "Do you think they'll be a problem for us?"

Arthur shook his head again and began stripping off his boots. "I doubt it but we'll need to be cautious at night. At least until we leave this area." He gestured towards Merlin's stew with a nod. "What's that supposed to be?"

"Mushrooms!" Merlin responded cheerfully, giving the pot another good stir. Arthur eyed it doubtfully and let out a sigh.

"Well, it's better than nothing." He said. "We could add these birds to it. Might turn out to be a decent stew."

Merlin shrugged indifferently. "Unless Excalibor manages to bring back something better."

Arthur scowled at him. "I've already told you, Merlin. There’s nothing better out there. I'm an expert hunter. I've been doing it since I was little more than a babe. If there was something better, I would have come across it by now."

"Alright, alright." Merlin raised his hands in surrender. "I won't say anything more about it."

"Good." Arthur grumbled as he began to pluck the feathers from the partridges, occasionally tossing them at Merlin, or trying to stick them in his ears like the annoying git he was.

For an unknown amount of time, Merlin continued to monitor the mushrooms which had turned a rich brown color and were now emitting a pleasant aroma thanks to the addition of the parsley. Meanwhile, Arthur had nearly finished plucking the first bird when they both heard a rustling noise coming from the forest to their left. It was a dragging noise like leaves being tugged along.

Merlin and Arthur made eye contact and he reached for his sword. "Who's out there? Show yourself."

From behind a towering beech tree emerged a figure with dark curly hair, dragging the limp body of a large buck by the antlers. Excalibor paused, taking in the scene before him. He glanced down at where Arthur gripped his sword. Excalibor quirked an eyebrow, expression unreadable.

"Could I get some help with this?"

Merlin leaped to his feet with a burst of laughter and Excalibor let go of the antlers, allowing the buck to fall to the ground with a soft thud. He rushed over to examine the animal. Blood was matted in the tan fur near where the heart must have been, and the neck had been slit. "How did you manage this with just your knives!?"

"Patience." Excalibor said quietly, bending over to rub at his ankle. He was favoring his good foot again. "There were a few different deer traveling with it but I wanted to get the right one."

"A few?" Merlin glanced over at Arthur, a grin stirring on his face. His friend had been staring at the slain beast before he caught Merlin's eye, now his face darkened. Merlin opened his mouth to tease his friend but Arthur cut him off.

"Shut up, Merlin."

Merlin ducked his head, laughing quietly, before grabbing the buck's antler, to drag it over to the fire. "Shutting up, sire."

They journeyed through the vibrant green lands for many more days, traversing the endless woods, that teemed with new life as summer fully established itself.

The allure of their current lifestyle became undeniable when the sun glinted through the foliage, scattering gilded patches of gold across the undergrowth, or when a gentle breeze rustled the wispy strands of Old Man's beard which dripped from the limbs of formerly dead spruce now resurrecting, shooting out little verdant pearls of green.

They traveled on through the scenic landscape, two foes on one horse, while Merlin rode the other.

Despite his previous peace offering with the mushroom, the mare seemed to have reverted back to making Merlin's life more difficult. Still, she usually went in the right direction even if she ignored all other commands.

They followed the river which was meant to guide them to the next town and Merlin went on trying to get Excalibor to like him—which was turning out to be a very difficult feat. In the meantime, Arthur went on disapproving of Merlin's efforts but kept quiet unless he had some anecdote to impose over Merlin's to make him look like a fool.

For three nights, they indulged in the leftover meat from Excalibor's deer, a feast that surpassed any meal they had eaten since their stay at the inn. Even Arthur could not deny this, though he might try.

The very night that Excalibor had hunted the deer, Arthur told Merlin that the other man had not bested him, because he had cheated—he was sorcerer and must have used his magic to approach the deer quietly enough to throw the dagger into its heart. Merlin had wisely chosen not to argue with him but thought that was very unlikely. Excalibor was simply a great deal quieter than Arthur, even with his bum ankle, because Arthur was so accustomed to getting what he wanted regardless of the circumstance.

Sometimes in the evenings, they took watch together. Just so for a moment, it was only the two of them again. Arthur, who never wanted to rest, appeared to relax as best as he was able when they were burrowed against a tree, and the moon was high, and nothing was there to complicate them. On some nights there was no sleep to be had anyway. They could hear the wolves in the forest. Their haunting howls and vicious barks echoed in from a faraway hunt, keeping them all awake. Excalibor clutching his daggers while Arthur gripped his sword.

Merlin figured everyone was a bit thankful when the forest began to thin out and they came upon the next town.

They came upon it late in the evening, as the sun was setting, and painting the sky in shades of pink. The town bathed in a warm golden glow as they made their way through the narrow, cobblestone streets. The were a few townsfolk outside, lighting their lanterns and torches, going from place to place, and when they saw them, they stopped to stare.

It was a quiet town, small and unassuming, and likely didn't have many visitors, judging by the way a group of children had giggled and fallen over themselves when Arthur had stopped to ask for directions to the local Inn. 

They were directed toward the center of town where they found the Inn. The building was made of sturdy timber and had a thatched roof with a sign that creaked in the wind. The sign depicted a mug overflowing with ale, and the smell of roasting meat wafted out from the open windows.

They tied up their horses outside and gathered their things before entering the Inn.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and boisterous. The room was crowded with locals and the sounds of laughter and chatter mingling with the plucky tune of a lute. The walls were adorned with tapestries and animal skins, and a large fireplace crackled in the corner, casting a flickering yellow glow across the room.

Merlin and Excalibor found a table in the corner and settled in, while Arthur went to find the Innkeeper to pay for a night's stay.

Excalibor had drawn his hood before entering, weary and suspicious as he looked around the crowded tavern. His eyes darted from face to face, as if searching for danger. 

"I don't like this." He muttered under his breath after they had sat down. "There are too many people. It feels like we're being watched."

Merlin scanned the lively scene before him, taking in the joyful activities and the boisterous crowds of chattering individuals. As he looked closer, he noticed a few people had looked up upon their arrival, but their curious eyes soon grew bored and flicked away. In a corner, a pocket of young women with the curliest strands of golden hair giggled and whispered with their eyes fixed on Excalibor. But that was more due to the fact that he was a strange, young man with a mysterious scar—exactly the type to attract bored tavern girls. He was a person who Morgana would have called pretty, with his sharp cheekbones and long dark hair.

Merlin grinned a little, thinking about Morgana calling Excalibor that to his face, then nudged the man and nodded his head over to the girls. "That's because we are."

Excalibor's eyes followed his friend's gaze, to the group of giggling girls who quickly averted their eyes and hid behind their drinks upon being caught. His mouth pressed into a thin line of annoyance, causing the scar along it to ripple. With a dark look, he turned to face Merlin.

"You don't need to worry." Merlin chuckled softly and placed a comforting hand on Excalibor's shoulder. Excalibor stared at his hand, then at Merlin, until he withdrew his hand with a weak smile. "Sorry. Anyway, this town is so far off the beaten path, I doubt the soldiers would think to look for you here."

Excalibor shook his head, muttering. "I can't stand places like this."

He glanced over at a group of rough-looking patrons several tables away, their faces obscured by the flickering firelight. "There's always trouble brewing, always someone looking for a fight."

Merlin did not necessarily disagree but the warm, cozy atmosphere of the tavern was hard to resist; the delicious aroma of roasted meat and potatoes mingling with the sweet scent of ale. His stomach growled in complaint.

Just to be sure, he reached out with his magic and sifted through the air around them, searching for any signs of danger. Other than the usual electric hum emanating from Excalibor, he felt nothing out of the ordinary.

 "I don't feel anything strange." He said, unable to keep eyes off the table nearest them where a glistening pile of greens sat steaming on a plate. "It's only for a night besides and we need some rest. Let's just keep our guard up and stay together."

Excalibor caught Merlin's eye, a flicker of emotion passing over his face before he stiffly nodded his chin. They both relaxed back into their seats as Arthur returned, grinning at Merlin and plopping down beside him.

As they settled in, a pretty barmaid approached, smiling broadly as she offered to take their drink orders.

"What can I get for you, handsome?" She asked, her crystal blue eyes scanning over Arthur. Merlin resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"A mug of ale, if you don't mind." Arthur replied, smiling at her politely. "And some dinner, whatever those men over there are having."

"Certainly, darling." She said, batting her long eyelashes at him. "And where you gentlemen are from?"

"We're from all over." Arthur lied easily. "But currently heading south."

The barmaid leaned in, her ample cleavage almost spilling out of her dress, and Merlin tried to look elsewhere, his face growing warm. Arthur, ever the princely gentleman, maintained his composure.

"That sounds exciting.” She hummed. “What's out there for you?"

"Camelot, I suppose." Arthur said with the trace of a self-satisfied smirk curling his lips. Merlin, who was tired of this display and really quite hungry, rolled his eyes and dug his elbow into his friend's ribs, receiving a hiss and a scowl in return.

The barmaid laughed sweetly. "Well, I hope you come back some day and tell me all about it." She said, running her finger over the wood grain of the table. “I bet you have wonderful stories about your travels.”

Arthur managed to smile again, though he was rubbing briskly at the spot Merlin had aimed for.

Before he could go on making a fool of himself, Merlin cleared his throat loudly. "I have quite a few stories too, you know."

The barmaid's eyes flicked over to him and she stretched back up. "I'm sure you do." She said politely, though clearly uninterested. She glanced between Merlin and Excalibor. "Dinner and ale for you boys too, I imagine?"

Merlin nodded, pride only a bit stung, but Excalibor remained quiet. His dark eyes narrowed apathetically, preferring to ignore her in favor of the dagger he was playing with. He kept it twirling upon the table, the sharp tip digging into the surface of the wood and wearing a small hole into it.

" Er, he'll have some too, please." Merlin requested, trying to alleviate the awkwardness before it grew unmanageable.

The barmaid shot Arthur one last wistful glance before turning away, the swish of her skirts fading as she moved out of earshot. As soon as she was gone, Arthur rounded on his companions with a scowl.

"Do you have to be so strange to people?" He snapped at Excalibor, who met his gaze with a steely glare.

"Did you have to flirt with the barmaid?" Excalibor shot back in a bored voice. "No, but I suppose we can't help our nature."

Arthur's ears grew a bit pink and his nostrils flared. "I was not flirting with her." He sniffed.

Merlin shrugged, trying not to grin, and failing. "You sort of were though."

"Merlin!" Arthur complained, his eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance. "Don't side with him." 

"I'm not taking sides." He said, his voice low and measured. "I don't care that much."

The barmaid returned to their table, balancing a large tray of foaming mugs on a glinting tray. With a deft flick of her wrist, she set the tray down on the table, the mugs clinking together as she did so. 

"Here you are, gentlemen," She said with a smile, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the tavern. She placed each mug in front of them. "Fresh from the tap, just for you. I'll be back with your plates in a moment."

"Thanks." Arthur muttered, taking his mug without meeting her eyes, and sipping it. Merlin couldn't stop himself from shaking. "Stop laughing, Merlin."

"Yes, sire." Merlin ducked his head and picked up the mug of ale, feeling the cool condensation slick against his fingers. He brought it to his lips, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a long, slow sip. It was smooth and velvety, with a deep, malty flavor that lingered on his tongue. He grinned, satisfied and warm. He raised his mug in a toasting fashion. "To adventure and good company."

Excalibor snorted, letting his dagger slow. The tip sank deeper into the wood.

Arthur placed his mug down a little hard. 

"Put the knife away," Arthur snapped. His eyes flicked around the room and Merlin followed them, taking in the curious glances of the other patrons. "You're drawing attention to us."

Excalibor's jaw clenched and Merlin tensed in preparation for a brewing fight. Then, after a few charged seconds, he plucked the knife up, leaving a scar in the grain of the wood, and with a slow, deliberate motion, slid the dagger back into its sheath.

Merlin released a low breath of relief. To think that before Excalibor came along, he thought he and Arthur were bad. 

Not long after that the barmaid returned to their table, this time carrying a large platter piled high with steaming plates of food.

They ate in relative silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional scrape of silverware against plates and the boisterous chatter of the other patrons in the background. Excalibor pushed his mug of ale aside and did not touch it again, his gaze distant and brooding. Merlin, on the other hand, eagerly helped himself to a second mug, then a third, and eventually a fourth. The ale warming his cheeks and loosening his tongue until he was striking up a conversation with the men nearby. They were the friendly sort, indulging in all manner of topics, and even managing to charm Arthur, who had initially been scowling and reserved. He gradually warmed up to their company after a couple of drinks. They regaled each other with stories and jokes, their laughter ringing out boisterously and creating a festive atmosphere around their table. But the merry times were not to last.

When Excalibor began muttering under his breath in irritation and Merlin was struggling to keep his balance, swaying unsteadily in his seat, Arthur reluctantly pulled them away from their new friends—who groaned and cried for them to stay.

Eventually, they made their way to the room Arthur had rented, with Arthur half-supporting Merlin to keep him on his feet. Though it wasn't his fault that his legs had decided to go all wibbly.

Excalibor sulked in the corner of Merlin's blurred vision, but Merlin was too drunk and content with the world to care. In fact, he felt an odd urge to pinch Excalibor's cheeks but resisted the temptation because he was fond of his hands and thought the other man might cut them off if he tried. So instead, he settled for a lopsided grin and a drunken chuckle, before stumbling towards the bed to collapse onto it.

The bed was like a cloud, enveloping Merlin's tired body in a cocoon of softness. In the background, he could hear Arthur and Excalibor arguing, their voices low and unintelligible but he didn't pay it much mind. He was too comfortable and sleepy to care.

As he drifted off, the last thing he remembered was that he had forgotten to feed the horses and then there was nothing more.

In the morning, Merlin was awakened by a sharp kick to his shin. He groaned, eyes flickering open slowly, as the pounding in his head made itself known. He was on his stomach, a bit of drool plastered on his face, and another fierce kick to his leg made him aware of Arthur in the bed beside him.

"Merlin," Arthur grunted, eyes closed, and expression screwed up. "Fetch me some water."

Merlin sat up gingerly, holding his head in his hands, and surveyed the room through bleary eyes. The sun was shining through the window, warm rays painting a golden pond around Excalibor's slumbering figure. He was curled up on the floor with his cloak beneath him.

The memory of the previous night's drinking came back to him in a rush, and he groaned again. He could barely remember getting back to the room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his head protested the movement, and shuffled over to the water pitcher on the nightstand. He lifted it with shaky hands, the cool liquid sloshing slightly against the sides, and poured it into a glass with a soft clinking sound. Merlin stole a long sip before he brought the glass of water over to Arthur.

"Here." 

Arthur cracked an eye open and snatched the glass from him without a word, gulping down the water.

"This is all your fault, Merlin." He scowled when he had finished. 

"My fault?" Merlin stretched his arms above his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine. As he brought his arms back down, there was a twinge of pain in his shoulders. He winced and rolled them back, trying to ease the tension. "What did I do?"

"I make poor choices when I'm around you." He shoved the glass back into Merlin's hand and Merlin raised an eyebrow. 

"What does that have to do with me?"

"You're my manservant. You're supposed to stop me."

Merlin snorted, which sent a sharp pain through his head. "Arthur, if I was supposed to stop you every time you wanted to do something foolish you wouldn't be allowed to do anything at all."

Arthur sent Merlin a rude gesture before rolling over onto his stomach, leaving Merlin with only the back of his unruly hair to stare at. Behind him, Merlin heard Excalibor stir. The other boy sat up, brushing back a lock of dark hair, and eyeing Merlin standing at Arthur's bedside. His expression was unreadable.

"You look like hell."

Merlin grinned, feeling like hell. "Thank you."

Excalibor's mouth twitched. 

"Shut up, Merlin. I’m trying to sleep." Arthur grumbled distantly; his voice muffled by the pillow he had dragged over his head. "We need some fresh supplies. Make yourself useful and go get some."

"I don't have any money."

"The gold is in my saddle bag." 

Merlin sighed, wanting to crawl back under the covers and face the day when it was a little less bright out, but knew better than to argue with Arthur when he was in this kind of mood. He found the small pouch of gold and stashed it in his pocket.

"What do we need?" He asked, already resigned to his fate. Arthur listed off a small collection of items that needed replacing, namely preservable foods, sounding increasingly bothered before burying his face back into the blankets and ignoring Merlin.

Merlin looked over at Excalibor. He didn't think it was the best idea to leave him alone with Arthur while he was in this sort of mood. "Want to come with me?"

Excalibor's eyes darted over to Arthur, then back to Merlin. "Very well."

As it turned out, the town was quite a bit livelier during the day. There were plenty of people bustling about. Merchants pushing along their carts, calling out their wares, trying to attract customers. Women with baskets of clothes, heading off to do the washing, or walking hand in hand with young children down the cobblestone streets.

Merlin and Excalibor had to dodge carts, animals, and people as they walked. They stopped the first friendly person they saw, an elderly woman with rosy cheek and white fly-away hair, in order to get directions to the different shops. She was very friendly and gave them thorough directions before pinching both of Merlin's cheeks.

The ones that didn’t belong to his face.

They went on their way quickly after that, Merlin’s face glowing hot and probably shining a bright red.

If Arthur had been there, Merlin would not have been able to stop him laughing or taking the piss out of him for the next hour. Excalibor, on the other hand, glared at the old woman, until they rounded a corner. His expression dark as they moved on.

The first shop they went to was the apothecary's shop, where the air was filled with the scent of herbs and potions. The shelves were lined with jars and bottles of every shape and size, filled with brightly colored liquids and powders. Excalibor hung back in the shadows by the door, the owner of the shop, a man with tan skin and a thick beard watching him suspiciously, as Merlin scanned the shelves for ingredients he recognized from his studies with Gaius.

After that, they made their way to the market square. Where a handful of vendors had set up their stalls. The merchants haggled with their customers, shouting and gesturing, and the colorful display of goods caught Merlin's eye. The apples and pears were ripe and juicy, and the smell of fresh bread made his stomach grumble.

They hadn’t spent much time browsing the stalls before it became evidently clear that bringing Excalibor along was a wise decision. Merlin couldn't help but notice how many of the merchants seemed to think they could pull one over on the travelers. With greedy grins and lascivious glances, they drove up their prices shamelessly. Merlin had never thought of himself as someone who appeared soft or easily exploitable but apparently, the vendors did.

At the second stall, Merlin was in the midst of being overcharged for a loaf of bread when Excalibor intervened with a few sharp words. The merchants took one look at him, his dark assertive stare, the scar across his mouth, his threatening stature, and quickly became much more honest with their prices.

After some time browsing the marketplace, Merlin and Excalibor shared a piece of bread, sitting on the stone wall of a bubbling fountain, and listening to the sound of the water hitting the bottom of the pool.

 "Back in Camelot, the merchants treat me with respect." Merlin said casually, waving his crust at Excalibor. "I'm on good terms with most of them, I have to be to get Gaius the things he needs. So, why do these people assume I'm an easy target?"

Excalibor glanced at Merlin, stone-faced, as he tore off a piece of bread. "You smile too much."

Merlin blinked. "Oh. I thought I was just being friendly."

"That's the problem." Excalibor chewed, staring around at the marketplace, eyes dark with a steely resolve.

After they had finished up their meal and their purchases, each of them carrying a few satchels, it was breaching noon. Excalibor suggested they take the supplies back to the tavern.

"We can't have the Camelot’s future king waiting on us any longer, right?" He said, sarcasm thick in his voice.

Merlin nodded, about to agree before his eyes caught on something in another stall.

"Actually, there's one more thing I need to get.” He said distractedly. “You go ahead and I'll meet you there." 

Excalibor frowned at him, the look on his face clearing stating that he did not want to return to Arthur alone, but he just blew out a long breath and shook his head. "Don't take too long." 

Merlin snorted and said goodbye, watching him disappear down the street before turning determinedly toward the stall.

As Merlin made his way back to the Inn from the marketplace, a tall man with a scruffy ginger beard approached him. The man's crooked teeth shone as he grinned and nodded in Merlin's direction.

A blurry memory of the previous night flashed through his mind, and he vaguely recognized the man as one of the rowdy patrons he and Arthur had spent the evening entertaining with their drunken antics.

"Thought I might find you about." He greeted Merlin, his voice rough and gravelly.

Merlin eyed him warily. "Afternoon. I don't suppose I could persuade you to forget about yesterday?"

The man chuckled and clapped Merlin on the back, his hand huge and heavy, nearly making him buckle at the knees. "I see you're still a lively one, eh? I must say, you and your friend had us all in stitches last night. You're a funny fellow, I'll give you that."

Merlin grinned nervously. He couldn't quite remember all of the details, but he was fairly certain he had made a fool of himself at some point.

"Er, thank you."

The man nodded, glancing around them, before his expression changed. He leaned in closer to Merlin.

"So, listen," He said urgently. "That fella you're with, the one with the scar, he's got a price on his head. The soldiers rode through here not too long ago, offering a handsome bounty to anyone who brings him in."

Merlin's heart sank, a chill running fast down his spine like a trickle of freezing water. "What?"

"I figured you didn't know." The man replied. "But don't you worry, my friends and I have got it under control. We'll take care of him, and we'll collect that gold while we’re at it. I just thought you should know. They ought to be wrapping things up as we speak."

Merlin struggled to maintain his composure.

"Thank you for telling me," He managed to say, praying his voice came out as evenly as he hoped it did. "I need to return to my other friend now."

Merlin tried to move past him but the man stepped in his way. His face was apologetic. "I can't let you do that. Not until my buddies are finished."

Merlin was not exactly a fighter, he knew this. His spirit might be willing but he lacked the physical prowess to often indulge himself in the pummeling of men who deserved it. But at that moment, he didn’t care, he had to get to Excalibor. He set his and stared up at the man who was a good two feet taller than him. 

"Move." He demanded. The man's face twisted into a scowl. He straightened up to full height until he loomed over Merlin, enveloping him in shadow.

"What did you say to me?"

Merlin swallowed. “Please?”

He knew when he was about to be thumped around and given a good beating so he glanced around the street quickly. It mostly deserted apart from a few women engaged in conversation outside a shop down the road.

It was now or never.

As the taller man raised his fist, Merlin tried to dart around him, but he was grabbed up quickly by the collar of his shirt. Merlin grabbed back at the man, fisting a hand in his sweaty shirt, and hissing the first spell in his ear that came to mind. 

"Niedhæs swebban."

A brief expression of surprise crossed the man's face before his eyes were rolling back in his head. He collapsed, unfortunately, straight onto Merlin. 

Merlin grunted in pain at the sudden weight bearing him down. He struggled to stay on his feet, nearly buckling under the man. With great effort, he managed to shift away and shove the man off him. He panted heavily, heart racing as he looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the altercation. The group of young women outside the shop were still engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to what had just happened. 

With a determined grimace, Merlin bent down and grabbed the man's ankles, dragging him into a nearby alleyway. Once that was finished, he quickly snatched up the bedroll he had purchased, tucked it under his arm, and raced for the Inn. Hoping for all that he was worth, that he wasn't too late.

The Inn had just come into his sight, the faded sign creaking in the wind, when Merlin heard the sound of clashing swords echoing in the distance, coming from a darkened street to his left.

Merlin slowed, his heart pounding, mindful enough to not allow the sound of running to alert the men to his presence. He crept toward the corner where the main street turned into an alleyway, straining to listen as he peered around the side.

The alleyway was dimly lit, the high brick walls on either side extending far enough into the sky to block out the sun.

The sounds of the fight echoed off the walls.

There were eight men. Two already lying crumpled in the shadows. Blood streamed from Excalibor’s nose, but his expression was hard and determined as he wielded one of the fallen men's swords. The other six men circled around him, faces twisted with malice.

Merlin's heart raced as he instinctively reached for his magic. He meant to call out or throw himself into the fight. Perhaps attempt to toss aside their swords before he could be skewered, knocking them out with the same sleeping spell he had used earlier. But just as he opened his mouth, the men charged and Excalibor set about fighting them all at once.

Swords clashed, metal ringing against metal. Merlin could hear the grunts of exertion as blows were exchanged. He darted back into the shadows, not wanting to risk being hit by a stray swing of a sword. He watched, heart in his throat, as Excalibor expertly maneuvered around the attackers, fending them off one by one.

He was magnificent. It was not hyperbole to say so. Every movement was precise and seamless, despite the injury to his ankle. He spun gracefully, parrying each attack with his sword and countering with deadly force. There was no hesitation on his features as he dispatched them one by one, leaving them crying out in agony.

 Merlin’s stomach turned as he recognized their faces as many of the men that he and Arthur had befriended the night before. But there was nothing to be gained from sympathizing with them now, when they fought to kill or capture his companion.

One of the men lunged at Excalibor. He sidestepped and swiftly brought his sword down, slicing a thick ravine into the man's arm. He let out a roar of pain and staggered back, clutching his wound. Another man tried to take advantage of the distraction but Excalibor was ready for him. He pivoted, swinging his sword with deadly accuracy, and sent the man stumbling backward.

The swords were like smoke, clanging and clashing, blurring in the dark. Merlin could follow nothing but the falling bodies. He fought like no man Merlin had ever seen. Not noble, nor commoner, nor hired hand, but perhaps a mixture of all three. 

The air was thick with the metallic smell of blood. It splattered against the cobblestones and walls.

Merlin caught a glimpse of Excalibor's face and for the first time, Merlin understood why Arthur was so wary of him. His expression was cold and emotionless, his eyes were those of someone who was already dead.

After what seemed like an eternity, there were only two left, circling Excalibor from opposite sides. All of the men breathing hard, as blood poured from Excalibor's nose. Suddenly, the first of the attackers lunged forward, distracting him with the connecting of their swords. With a quick movement, he hooked his foot around Excalibor's ankle and pulled, sending him sprawling to the ground. His sword clattered away.

Merlin came back to himself as a burst of fear ran cold in his veins. He rushed forward shouting, "Excalibor!"

Startled, the boy looked up just as the attacker above him raised his sword. Then, quick as a flash, a dagger had been flung. It struck true, sinking deep into the man's chest, his clothing blooming red as he gurgled and fell.

With a wild roar, the final attacker charged toward Merlin, who didn't hesitate to push out his magic, shouting the same incantation as before. "Niedhæs swebban!" 

The man stumbled and fell to the ground, mid-swing, collapsing beside Excalibor.

The fight was over.

Both men looked at each other.

That same nothingness stayed in Excalibor's eyes, glazed over and distant, making his expression unreadable.

Merlin found himself rooted to the spot, all words lost on him, as he took in the massacre around them. The bodies. The bloodshed. It was impossible to know who was dead or merely unconscious.

Finally, Excalibor tilted his chin towards Merlin.

"Cheers," His voice was low and hoarse, jolting Merlin back into action. He tore his eyes away from the dead and approached him, extending a hand to help him up, which Excalibor accepted. 

"Are you okay?" Merlin asked, his heart still pounding, as he brushed the dirt off Excalibor's shoulders and helped him stand on his own two feet again.

Excalibor glanced at him, a bit of emotion returning to his eyes before it disappeared again with a swallow of his Adam’s apple. "I'm unharmed." 

Merlin stared at Excalibor's bloodied nose.

"Mostly unharmed," He corrected himself quietly, swiping his hand under his nose, smudging the blood across his mouth and cheek. 

The stillness after the battle was shattered by a loud groan. They turned to see one of the defeated men attempting to sit up, clutching his mangled shoulder.

A dark shadow crept across Excalibor's face as he stalked over to the man, forcefully pushing him down and pressing a dagger against his throat.

"Wait, don’t!" Merlin called out, stumbling forward and tripping over the man he had put to sleep with his spell. Excalibor ignored him.

"Who are you?" He hissed, silencing the low moaning that had started to emanate from the man. "Who sent you?"

"You're insane." The man gasped; his voice labored.

Excalibor's grip tightened around the man's collar, causing him to cough and wheeze. "Answer me"

"No one sent me, I swear!" The man struggled, his eyes darting around as he searched frantically for a chance to escape. Excalibor was unrelenting, pressing the dagger closer and closer to the man's throat until a trickle of blood began to flow.

Merlin had never seen him like this before and he would be lying if he pretended that it didn’t frighten him a little.

“Excalibor—” He tried to grab his arm, but the other man shrugged him off, eyes narrowed in anger.

"Liar." Excalibor growled and Merlin watched helplessly as the man began to sob. "Who sent you? Give me a name!"

"Just the Mercian soldiers." The man rasped. "Please. Please. They're offering a reward. We just wanted the gold!"

Excalibor's fist tightened in the man's collar.

"He's telling the truth, Excalibor." Merlin said a bit desperately. "A local told me that a group rode in a few days ago, searching for you. Now let him go please. I'll use a spell to put him to sleep so we can get out of here."

Excalibor's eyes darted back and forth between the man he was threatening and Merlin.

"Are you certain?" He asked the man a final time, his voice weaker. "There was no one else?"

"No one but the King's guard!" The man repeated, eyes wet at the corners. 

For a terrible second, Merlin thought Excalibor would kill him anyway, draw the blade across his throat, and be done with it, but then he pulled back.

"Take care of him." He spat at Merlin.

Merlin nodded in relief and quickly cast the sleeping spell. The man slumped to the ground, his breathing slowing as he fell into a deep slumber. He blew out a sigh as turned back to Excalibor, noticed only then that the other boy had gone down on his knees in the dirt, facing away from the bodies.

He was trembling as he dropped his dagger and covered his eyes, muttering to himself. "No. No. Not now. Please."

Merlin frowned, about to move to help when the ground beneath his feet began to rumble. The shadowed sides of the buildings lining the alleyway suddenly shook, spitting dirt and dust off of their rooftops and raining it down on them.

Excalibor's magic became palpable to Merlin. White hot and electric in the air, rippling in waves, pulsating off of him. Merlin took a step toward him, throat to going dry. He hadn't felt this much magic in the air in a long time.

"Excalibor, what's wrong?"

Excalibor didn't respond, but his trembling increased, and more debris came raining down on them from the roofs. Merlin could feel it then, the way Excalibor's magic was strung tight, coiling around the boy like a massive surge of energy threatening to explode at any moment.

Merlin had to quell this before it caused devastation like the story Excalibor had told them of the tavern collapsing. He reached out urgently, gripping the other boy's shoulders.

“Don’t.” Excalibor flinched, still covering his face as he tried to shudder out of Merlin’s grasp, but he did not let go.

"It's alright, it's alright." Merlin knelt down beside Excalibor, ignoring the leaves falling into his hair from the gutter above. "You're going to be alright. You just need to breathe. Deep breaths. Can you do that?"

Excalibor's face was twisted in pain as he lowered the shaking hand covering it. His panicked eyes were glowing golden. "Merlin, get away."

"I'm not going anywhere," Merlin said. 

The boy’s expression flickered as he sucked in a sharp and uneven breath. His eyes clenching shut again. "I can't—you don't understand—I'm going to—"

Merlin didn’t know why at first but he placed his hand on Excalibor's chest and closed his eyes, drawing on his own magic. There were no spells for this, no incantations that he had ever read or heard of so he created his own. He imagined sending his magic out like a tide to meet Excalibor's and felt it pulse through him, cool and gentle until it brushed against the tight forcefield coming from the other boy.

Excalibor’s eyes snapped open again, panic on his face, his hand suddenly crushing Merlin's wrist. " What the hell are you doing? Stop--"

"Trust me." He told him, as Excalibor's magic began to fight back, growing tighter, causing the alley around them to tremble harder. On the verge of shaking apart. "Let me help you."

His features were etched with distrust, his gaze flickering back and forth between Merlin's eyes and the hand on his chest.

Please trust me, Merlin begged in the space between their magic. As if hearing him, the distrust on Excalibor's face crumpled into anguish. He closed his eyes and allowed Merlin's magic in.

For a moment it was all-consuming; a connection forged in white space, a great rush surging through him, a sudden vibration that prickled the hairs on his arms. He was intertwined with Excalibor beyond the physical realm, their magic belonged to their souls and they were touching, forming a deep intimacy that surpassed anything he had ever experienced before. There was darkness there in the place where they met, a swirling violence that made him shudder, but there was also light and he reached for that instead.

He felt the tension, the power struggle happening inside of Excalibor, because he was inside of him also. He could feel the pulse of his heart, the tiniest molecules of his being, and he could soothe him. He stroked out the tension, calming it, easing away the fight, as if working a muscle. 

The sensation left him breathless and dizzy as if he were alive in a thousand different ways and in a thousand hidden corners of the world. Gradually, he felt that tension ease. He felt Excalibor's magic stop fighting to escape and outside of them, outside of the bond, the shaking of the alleyway slowly subsided and the buildings stopped rattling.

Steadily, because withdrawing was almost painful, Merlin took his magic back inside of himself. He broke the connection. Seeing the world again, outside of it, made everything seem a little grey.

Merlin watched Excalibor's eyes open, his brows raised, mouth parted, as he let go of Merlin's wrist.

They drew away from each other a little, both breathing a little fast, but no longer from panic.

The silence, the emptiness, descended quickly as they returned to themselves in the dark alleyway with the corpses of many men.

"How did you do that?" Excalibor croaked, the first to get his voice back.

Merlin blinked, his body still tingling with remnants of the connection. His mind was all muddled now, struggling to process the intensity of the experience. "I don't know. That was the first time I ever..."

Excalibor's voice cut through the silence, heavy with regret. "Thank you." He murmured, head bowed in shame. "I'm so sorry. I could’ve killed you.”

“Well, you didn’t.” Merlin offered, with a nervous chuckle. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing back the new questions swirling inside of him about magic, for another time. “How about we both treat ourselves to a drink, grab Arthur, and get out of this town?”

Excalibor just stared at him. “Why didn’t you run? I told you before. I can't control it."

Merlin's heart ached at the pain in Excalibor's voice. "I think you can," He said softly, his eyes searching Excalibor's face. "What I just felt, I think you can control it. If you let me help you. I want to help you."

Excalibor was quiet for a moment, his expression conflicted.

"I'll think about it," He finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. And that—that was something, that was progress, and Merlin was willing to take it. Excalibor’s gaze seemed to have found something over Merlin’s shoulder because he frowned. “What is that?”

Merlin turned and saw at the mouth of the alleyway, the bedroll he had abandoned during the fight. His mouth quirked into a smile. "That's the bedroll I purchased for you from the market."

He got to his feet and held out a hand to help Excalibor up. Excalibor stared at it and then at Merlin, a wavering expression of disbelief settling over his face. “You, what?”

“Don’t tell Arthur.” He grinned cheekily, flashing his dimples for good measure. Excalibor frowned, watching as he picked it up, and brushed it off, before tossing it to him. He caught it. “In fact,” Merlin said upon second thought. “can we just agree not to mention to Arthur anything that has happened in the past thirty minutes?”

Excalibor gazed at Merlin with a hint of uncertainty, appearing to wonder if this was some sort of test. "Very well.”"

His nose was still bleeding slightly, but the worst of it had stopped. There wasn’t going to be any hiding that from Arthur but alas.

“Brilliant!”

Merlin glanced down the dimly lit alleyway, at the lifeless bodies lying on the ground. The stench of blood and death was thick in the air and voices were coming from the main street.

“We better get out of here before someone notices.” He said as they began to come closer.

Excalibor gave a sharp nod and without another word, the two sorcerers turned on their heels and fled the gruesome scene, their footsteps echoing in the empty streets.

Chapter Text

Arthur was well aware that something had changed. The suffering caused by last night's drinking was not enough to make him oblivious to this.

He was waiting impatiently when the two men returned to the Inn—whatever mission he’d sent his servant on was long forgotten after lying in bed for hours, head aching with a fierceness that bid him to never drink again. Merlin’s eagerness for a quick departure from the town was suspicious enough before Arthur spotted the fresh bruise upon Excalibor’s cheek and the crust of dried blood beneath his nose.

Merlin grinned at him, flashing his dimples at Arthur in that way he did when he was trying to squirm out of trouble, and suggested they collect their belongings and mount their horses.

Arthur had every right to be furious and he was, but he maturely restrained himself from showing it because any shouting would have hurt his head. He settled for shooting both men an evil look and went to grab his things.

They rode out of town less than an hour later with an angry mob at their heels. He expected Merlin to explain himself, but he did not, and then they had to ride hard and fast to avoid being followed. They went quickly through vast thickets of forest for hours without pausing, until they could be certain that they had lost any stragglers.

Arthur’s head pounded with each jostle of the horse. He was utterly miserable and the infuriating presence of Excalibor behind him in the saddle set his teeth on edge. He despised the sensation of the rigid body pressed against him, the warmth of the arms resting about his waist.

It was maddening—being so close to someone you hated.

Not to mention, Excalibor often smelled strange. A mixture of earth and smoke. A scent that lingered on Arthur’s clothes even at night as he lay on his bedroll. On that day, he also smelled of blood.

Eventually, the sky began to go orange with moribund light and Arthur grew restless. On the verge of losing his composure. He was glad when he finally found a place to draw camp for the evening. It had been getting increasingly harder to do so these past few nights as the trees were becoming further apart and the bramble more entangled. Arthur knew they would be at the Marsh soon and the real unpleasant part of their journey would begin.

He slowed his horse and called out for Merlin, who had let his own horse get away from him and brought his mare to a stop between a cluster of spruces.

Excalibor's arms left his waist as soon as they stilled and he dismounted, disappearing into the trees, without a word to either of them. He’d been like that since the Inn. Quiet. His eyes unseeing—dead—like the eyes of a corpse.

Arthur watched him go with a pit of unease in his stomach. He had the grave feeling something terrible had happened in town and Excalibor was responsible for it.

Merlin had barely finished tying up their horses before Arthur grabbed him around the arm. "What happened?"

Merlin blinked at him, going for innocent, but instead appearing like the hair-brained idiot Arthur knew him to be. "Nothing happened. Did something happen to you? Why do you think something happened?"

Arthur clenched his jaw. "Merlin."

The innocent look melted off of his servant’s face. He nervously whittled his lip between his teeth. "There were some men.” He admitted.

“Some men? I’m going to need you to elaborate.”

“Townsfolk. They were trying to capture Excalibor and turn him into the Mercian soldiers. There’s a price on his head apparently.” Seeing the expression on Arthur’s face Merlin quickly went on. “But we got away so everything’s fine!”

“Fine?” Arthur repeated, glowering. His hand twitched as he refrained from smacking his servant around the head. “Fine? Those Mercian soldiers are still tracking him, he reeks of blood, and we were just chased out of Godfrey! The second town, might I mention, that we’ve left in a hurry since saving his ungrateful life. What about that screams fine to you?”

Merlin chewed at his lip some more, raising an eyebrow tentatively. “We’re not dead yet?”

Arthur groaned, pushing away from Merlin.

“I’m sorry!” Merlin spluttered. “It wasn’t his fault. I asked him to take the supplies back to the tavern. He was coming back for me when they ambushed him."

Arthur shook his head, equal parts furious at himself as he was with Merlin. He should’ve expected this. He should’ve prevented this. He knew Excalibor was nothing but trouble. He shook his head, digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose.

“Do I even want to know what happened to the men who tried to ambush him?” He asked.

Merlin’s silence was answer enough. He wanted to scream but settled on releasing a long-strangled sigh and pictured grabbing Merlin by the neck and shaking him about a bit. Imagining throttling his servant was usually enough to calm him down.

“Please don’t send him away.”

Merlin’s voice came, quiet and sad, to interrupt his meditation.

“His foot has healed. He’ll be fine on his own.” Arthur snapped, angrier because the sadness in Merlin’s voice begged to be consoled and his instincts were conditioned to do so.

“He still needs us.”

Arthur dug his thumb into the space between his eyebrows. “We can’t have the Mercian soldiers on our heels.”

“We can handle them.”

“They’re allies of Camelot and good men doing their duties. I don’t wish to handle them.”

It was quiet for a long moment and Arthur’s throbbing head finally eased a little. He dropped his hand away from his brow. If he wasn’t in such disarray from the night before he would have been up for more of an argument, but his sight was dull at the edges, and he was tired.

Merlin was staring at him when he turned around. His expression was dejected, the look of a dog that had been beaten and crept back on its belly to show it was sorry. His eyes were sad beyond what Arthur thought was appropriate or fair.

“I’ve finally made progress with him, Arthur.” Merlin said quietly. “I think he’s going to let me help him. Please don’t make me abandon him now.”

The way Merlin stared at him ought to have been against the rules, Arthur thought, muscles tightening in his shoulders. He tore his eyes away and jabbed them pointedly at the retiring sun. It had colored the sky an angry shade of red above the scraggly cedar trees.

As infuriating as it was, he had agreed to allow Excalibor to accompany them to Deira as long as he did not try to harm them. Unfortunately, the man had not yet violated the terms of their agreement and Arthur’s code forced him to keep his word, however unfavorable it was.

Damn it. He thought, clenching his fists.

“Our agreement still stands.”

Merlin let out a little sigh of relief as Arthur turned his eyes back upon him. He forced himself to let the tension drop out of his shoulders.

“Well stop standing around, Merlin.” He said. “There’s a fire to be forged and horses to feed. Really you are the worst servant a man could ask for.”

A smile coaxed at his servant’s lips. “Right away, sire.”

That night was a grim affair. No one wanted to be around the others, except for maybe Merlin, but even he appeared rattled and tired. They ate quietly with no appetite. The piece of bread Arthur nibbled on was like dust in his mouth.

Excalibor returned to the camp after the moon had risen, flushed and eyes lined with red, which the firelight caught and exposed.

Arthur tried not to notice or wonder what that meant.

He avoided looking at Excalibor at all if he could help it. His neck was still healing, and Arthur had been forced to watch as those violent bruises faded as the days passed, remembering what it felt like to have his hands around the boy’s throat. It left a hook in his stomach when he thought about it. He’d almost strangled him to death, so he supposed the guilt was honorable. He did not ever wish to become so cold that something of that measure did not affect him.

So, the night was long and uneasy and when the time came for him to sleep, the dead look in Excalibor’s eyes from before they had left the Inn, the crust of blood under his nose, followed him to bed.

In his dreams, he was standing in the middle of a dry riverbed.

He knew he was supposed to be finding Merlin, but he was nowhere to be seen. Excalibor was hunched over a few feet away with his back to him. Arthur reached out, intending to shake answers out of him, but when he spun Excalibor around he gasped. The man’s eyes were clouded white, and his nose was bleeding, thick rivulets of blood running down his chin.

“Help me.” He rasped as Arthur stumbled backward; a shout caught in his throat. Blood continued to pour, filling up the river and sloshing up his legs. It rose until it was past Arthur’s waist. The worst part was that Excalibor wasn’t doing anything to stop it, he bled to death and never made a single move to stem the flow.

Arthur was still trying to keep his head above the river of blood when everything went dark.

In the morning, after Merlin woke him—a strange expression on his face when Arthur sat bolt upright, heart racing like a war drum in his chest—he did his best to brush off the dream. As he did with most dreams which were useless, terrible, configurations of his imagination.

He shrugged off Merlin’s questioning gaze, told him to wake Excalibor, and they set off on their way again.

It took a little more than three days, by the usual reckoning, before they reached the Marshlands, and at least a decade by Arthur’s. The journey itself was not so difficult; the land had opened up a little as they followed the river north. The forest was not quite so thick and hard to traverse with the horses, and they no longer had to concern themselves with the danger of wolves or bears. There were plenty of easy game and dry timber and the weather was kind to them.

No, the journey itself was not so difficult, but it was bothersome on the account that things had very clearly changed between Merlin and Excalibor and Arthur had not been notified about it.

Merlin, who had been rather annoying in his attempts to force Excalibor into conversation from the start, was finally gaining headway. Before the town of Godfrey, his happy chattering had mostly been ignored as they rode on through Mercia, his jokes met with Excalibor’s grim silence, until it became so pathetic that Arthur would take pity on him. Since Godfrey, a miracle seemed to have occurred. Merlin would tell an anecdote and Excalibor would respond. He would make a joke as the two were fixing the fire together in the evenings and the corners of Excalibor’s mouth would quirk up, a soft bout of laughter tumbling out, as quiet as a breath of air.

The first time Arthur saw Excalibor smile, a genuine thing, not a forced upturning of the lips, or a cruel imitation of one, was after they had stopped to water the horses and the two were kneeling near the creek. Arthur had been in a bad mood, for he had not been sleeping well, and had peered over his horse to see what they were up to. Merlin had his hand in the water where it was stillest, murmuring to Excalibor as he swept it along the pebbly bottom of the stream.

“…And if you say this, ongêanhwyrfan wîte.”

He moved his hand away and from beneath it a dozen tiny green fish appeared where the pebbles had been, darting about in the shallow water, between and around Merlin’s fingers.

“That’s amazing.” Excalibor’s expression was softer than Arthur had ever seen it, even in his sleep. It made everything about him less harsh and stuck with Arthur like a thorn in his side whenever he was trying to maintain his distaste for the man.

And so, things went on like that between the two of them and Arthur wasn’t happy about it. He would never admit it to Merlin outright, but he missed when it was just the two of them on the road—Merlin was supposed to be his servant and he wasn’t being nearly as attentive to Arthur as he should.

At least they were no longer fighting, Arthur often told himself, and Merlin was treating him especially kindly since he had not thrown Excalibor out of their caravan. Sometimes they would bicker pleasantly, and Merlin would smile at him in that idiotic way of his and everything would be right in the world again. Until he remembered Excalibor.

They continued through the forest, which seemed to be dying all around them as they grew closer to the Marshes, despite it being Spring. He sulked when it was appropriate, teased his servant when it wasn’t, and generally tried to turn Merlin’s attention back around to him. He fought with Excalibor about everything but even that did not cheer him up because the man no longer seemed as venomous.

In the evenings, he deliberately threw down his bedroll next to Merlin’s and spread out his saddlebags on the other side. He worried about the Mercian soldiers, about what would be done if they caught up. When the other two were sleeping and he was taking watch, he felt the lives he bore very heavily on his shoulders. (For as much as he resented it, they were his to bear, both of them, until Excalibor either broke their agreement or they reached Deira. Being a Prince and Knight of Camelot, his honor required him this.)

So, he felt Merlin’s trusting eyes during the day and when it was his turn to sleep, as he sank close to the edge of slumber, he was stricken by the images of his death at the hand of the soldiers and jolted rudely into a cold sweat to find Merlin awake beside him, and Excalibor curled up across the fire.

It was on the third evening that they came across the edge of the Marsh, signaling they had very nearly made it to the Mercian border. The river they had been following had widened and slowed until gradually it became a carpet of green algae bordered by tall reeds and cat tails. Thinner trees and a gradual decline of fog, the suspicious landscape crept up on them, until Arthur decided that they would camp one more night on its edge before entering into the thick of it.

He could tell Merlin was glad for the idea. He didn’t imagine there were many swamps, bogs, and wetlands between Ealdor, where the man was from, and Camelot.

It was difficult to get a fire going that evening, finding dry wood was next to impossible, and Arthur knew their luck going forward would not improve. He watched, sharpening his sword with a whetstone, as Merlin created a sad little formation of sticks. He would have to use magic to light it, there was nothing else for it. Excalibor was helping, bringing him tinder from nearby.

“Would you like to try?” He heard Merlin ask Excalibor once he had returned with a few final pieces.

“Try what?”

Arthur paused, looking up from his blade. Merlin smiled sheepishly and gestured at the wood.

“You know.” He said vaguely. “I’ll teach you the spell.”

Excalibor’s face grew a little pale. He shook his head. “No. I do not think that would be wise.”

Arthur thought for once that they agreed on something. He tried to suppress it but there was the old revulsion creeping up in his throat, the old fear of magic, and the fear of it being tampered with by a person other than Merlin. His servant did not seem to notice.

“You’ve really never tried to summon your magic for anything on purpose?”

Excalibor shook his head, a shadow of his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Why would I want to? When it brings only death.”

Merlin’s expression was gentle, the one he used with the baker’s children back at home when he was forced to gather them up for their mother. “Not this time. I promise.”

Excalibor did not look convinced. “What if I lose control?”

“I’ll help you.”

Merlin patted the spot next to him for Excalibor to come to sit. It seemed he might refuse but after a tense second, he obeyed, crouching at Merlin’s side.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Merlin.”

Merlin glanced up at him, eyes soft in the light of the moon. “Arthur. You promised not to interfere.”

Arthur did not like being reminded of this promise. He’d made it without thinking it would ever come to pass. He gritted his teeth and stared at his sword. Merlin's guidance was patient and gentle.

“Now the incantation is the easy bit,” Merlin explained quietly, as if whispering would put Arthur to ease. “Forbearnahn. But saying the words aren’t enough. You have to put the right intention behind them. It’s like…reaching inside of yourself.”

“Reaching inside of yourself.” Excalibor repeated. Merlin chuckled, far too at ease, in Arthur’s opinion and he was drawn to look up from his sword.

The two sat close together, very few inches between them, and the dark curls of Excalibor’s hair hid his face.

“I suppose that’s not a very good explanation. Try imagining the fire, feeling the heat, as if it’s already there.” Merlin offered. He held out a hand to the wood. “Like this, forbearnahn.”

His eyes flashed gold and flames flickered to life upon the wet bark with a hiss. It sputtered, bright and orange, casting a glow over the trio for a moment. After a second Merlin muttered Ondwǣsċaþ and closed his fist, then they were left in darkness again.

“Now you try.”

Excalibor leaned back on his heels just enough that the moon shone on his face again. His eyebrows were knit together, and he was paler than he had been when Arthur’s hands had been around his throat.

It made Arthur more uneasy. He laid his sword on his lap, abandoning his whetstone entirely. “Are you sure this is safe, Merlin?”

Merlin frowned at him. “Leave him alone, Arthur. He can do it.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to do it.”

“You just don’t want him to do it.”

“For good reason! I don’t imagine it’s going to be pretty if—”

“Can you both shut up?” Excalibor snapped, breathing shakily. Both of them fell quiet, even Arthur, because Excalibor was leaning forward on his haunches, toward the pile of firewood now. “Just—just let me think.”

He sat there for a long time without moving, staring at the wood and nothing, and something far beyond it. Then he sucked in a long, harsh breath. “You’ll be able to handle it if I—if it gets out of control?”

“Yes.” Merlin nodded. “But you can do it. I know you can.”

Excalibor nodded, stiffly, and slowly held out a hand toward the wood. The hand shook, trembling a little in the moonlight. Arthur held his breath. He gripped the sword on his lap tighter.

“Forbearnahn.” His voice came out like a breath of air, sending a chill down Arthur’s spine. For a long second, everything was still and quiet, even the breeze waited.

Nothing happened. No gold light glowed within Excalibor’s irises, and the wood remained the same, blackened where Merlin’s flames had singed the bark.

Arthur could breathe again.

Excalibor’s expression was difficult to read as he lowered his arm. “Nothing.” It seemed to Arthur that there was a bit of relief in his voice.

Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Magic can be tricky, especially when you're just starting. Let's try again. Focus on that energy within you and believe in yourself."

Excalibor did not seem to think much of this suggestion. His jaw clenched but he tried once more, extending his hand. “Forbearnahn.”

The sticks remained stubbornly unlit. Arthur took the opportunity to interrupt again. “As wonderful as this is, can you please light the fire, Merlin? It’s getting chilly.”

Merlin shot him a scowl before turning back to Excalibor.

“You were saying the incantation right.” He said uncertainly. “Maybe you’re just tired?”

Excalibor settled back into himself, shifting back out of the moonlight so a shadow crossed over his face. He shook his head. “Maybe.” But there was doubt in his voice.

The pair sat in silence for a second and Arthur could tell that Merlin was trying to think up something to say and failing miserably at it. Finally, he growled “Merlin, the fire.” and Merlin startled into action, rolling his eyes in a way that was not becoming of a servant.

“Yes, sire!” He chirped with his usual mockery. “Right away, sire!” And the event was finished.

In the morning, the trio ventured deeper into the marshlands, with little light to guide them. It was a cloudy day that threatened rain, thick blankets of grey blocked out the sun, but they had no choice but to continue on and hope they could outride them. They had lost too many days already and could not afford to wait out the storm on the edge of the Marsh. Arthur’s father was already going to have his head when they returned and he worried that by the time they reached Deira, to help the neighboring King, it would be too late.

The path ahead twisted and turned, guiding them through an eerie, watery labyrinth. Dense curtains of moss-draped cypress trees loomed overhead, casting eerie shadows upon the riders. Their horses were not pleased with this bit of earth and even Arthur had a difficult time corralling his mare through murky puddles. Merlin was a lost cause; his horse splashed unhappily through the deepest bogs and soaked his pant legs.

They journeyed quietly, except for when Arthur had to call Merlin back for his horse had taken him too far ahead and he feared they would lose him in the fog. Mostly, it was only the squelching sound of wet earth under hoof that accompanied them, air heavy with the scent of mildew and moss, as each step brought them deeper into unknown territory.

Many hours passed this way as the sky grew darker.

“I don’t like this.” Excalibor murmured at one point. His voice in Arthur’s ear making him shiver. The arms around his waist hadn’t moved in so long that he’d nearly forgotten they were attached to somebody.

“You don’t say?” Arthur said, steering them under the wispy hangings of old man’s beard. The two ducked in synchronicity. Excalibor ignored his tone.

“There are bad stories about the Marsh.”

Arthur didn’t like the sound of that but forced a scoff to appease his manly side. “Bad stories?”

“Yes.” There was a grit of teeth now. The arms around his waist stiffening.

“Do tell. I’m sure Merlin would like to hear them.”

“Hear what?” Merlin had slowed his mare to travel next to them so that there was less risk of getting separated in the fog.

“Ghost stores about the Marsh, I imagine.” Arthur replied carelessly, but even then, his mind returned to the night they had slept between the Willows and the Spector of a woman had tried to take his life.

Merlin shuddered, rolling out his shoulders, and shaking his head. “I don’t think I want to hear any ghost stories right now.”

“They aren’t ghost stories.” Excalibor grumbled. Arthur could feel the vibrations of it along his back. “Never mind.”

But Arthur was curious now and ill at ease, for the last time the boy had mentioned what he had thought were simple superstitions, they nearly hadn’t survived the night. After a few seconds, the wet clop of the horses’ hooves filling up the silence, Arthur cleared his throat. “Go on then. What stories are they?”

“I’ll just tell you what I’ve heard.” Excalibor said finally. “In the dark days, when the Kingdoms were at War and the Perilous Lands were still ruled by the Fisher King there was a terrible battle between him and Mercia. The last alliance of Mercia fought the Fisher King’s men in the Marshlands, trying to beat back the invasion on their home.”

“What happened to them?” Merlin asked but Arthur had read enough history about the dark days to guess. He knew that hundreds of years before the Great Purge, the Perilous Lands had been the Kingdom of Elmet ruled by a sorcerer called the Fisher King. Many of the Kingdoms were at war with Elmet and there were dozens of battles, the battle of the Marsh perhaps being one of them, but the conflict went on for years. It was only when the King was injured and his wound began to fester, the infection spreading not just through his body, but through his lands as well, eventually reducing his kingdom to a barren wasteland, that peace was wrought once more.

Excalibor was quiet for a moment before continuing. “The Mercian soldiers won the battle.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Depends on your definition of good,” Excalibor muttered. “Hundreds of soldiers died here, and the bodies were never recovered. The locals say they sank into the bog and remain beneath the water even now.”

Arthur’s eyes were dragged to the wet earth beneath the horse, grey water sinking up past its shins. He imagined the corpses of men sunken in the depths, rotting and unable to rest. He swallowed hard and forced his eyes back up to their path with a scowl.

“What rubbish. They would have decomposed by now.”

But the story was accomplished in its power of sway, for everything which had already seemed eerie before was now harrowing. There seemed to be shadows behind each tree looming ominously in the fog.

Merlin’s horse let out a sharp, forceful exhalation of breath through the nostrils, that made them all startle. Excalibor’s arms tightened painfully around his waist before he realized what he’d done and released Arthur altogether.

Merlin laughed, rather high-pitched at their foolishness, and Arthur glared in his direction. His heart beating embarrassingly fast over such a silly thing. “Merlin.”

“Don’t look at me like that! This is your fault. Tell me again why we’re traveling through the haunted swamp?”

“Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing.” Arthur huffed, taking his horse more firmly by the reins and bringing it up in front of Merlin’s. “The route we’re taking will only force us through the outer edges of the Perilous Lands. It’s the safest way through.”

Merlin made a noise of disbelief from somewhere behind him. “This is safe?”

Arthur opened his mouth to reply but Excalibor spoke first.

“Yes.” He said grimly. “Compared to the other option, it is.”

After that, there was no more discussion on it.

Night fell over them quickly, forcing them to light torches so that they wouldn’t lose their way. Merlin’s magic came in handy for this, for there was even less dry wood available and no oil or cloth to wrap them with. A magical flame needed none of this and they struggled onward in the dark with only the flickering blue light to guide them through heavy fog as thick as soup.

There would be no rest that night, nor any other night until they reached the edge of the Marsh. There was no place dry enough to set up camp, no game worth hunting other than waterfowl who crept along with stick-thin legs or caught flight from a nearby tree, spooking the horses. They passed along bits of bread and dried pork instead in an attempt to stay alert.

It was treacherous work and Arthur was afraid of losing the trail, he kept them moving slower than they had in the day, finding the places where the reeds had been worn down by travelers, and checking his compass in the blue glow of Merlin’s fire.

As long as we are heading North, he reasoned to himself, we will be alright. But the darkness was playing tricks on his mind, causing him to see movement in the corners of his eyes, making the fog twist into formations of fear.

Excalibor eventually drifted off against his back which came as another distraction. He hadn’t slept the other night as far as Arthur could tell but had stared into the fire, expression dark and far away, until it had burnt to embers, and it was Merlin’s turn to take watch. Now Arthur was facing the consequences, the boy’s cheek against his shoulder, the occasional wisp of warm air against the back of his neck. It did something funny to Arthur’s stomach.

He thought about jostling him awake just to rid himself of the sensation but figured it might startle him off the horse and he would be saddled with an even worse riding companion—a wet one.

So, he bore it in a princely manner.

Merlin was quiet for many hours and was rarely quiet when he could be loud thus making his weariness worse. He kept catching Arthur’s eyes reproachfully, and the seriousness of their situation was further reminded to him.

Eventually, morning came with the relief and promise of something that’s certainty had been forgotten. Dawn broke over the Marshlands, shedding pale yellow light, as the sun struggled to pierce through the thick, lingering storm clouds, which had gone nowhere overnight. The fog was less heavy, however, and had settled into a dense mist.

Excalibor awoke not long after and both of them were viciously pretending that he had never been asleep, nor resting on Arthur’s back, at all. Merlin was happy enough with the sun’s reappearance that he had taken to humming and coaxing his mare with a bit more gentleness.

All and All, Arthur was glad enough with the morning that he hadn’t noticed anything wrong. No one else had either until it was too late.

The horse's steady gait lulled him into a false sense of security, and as they moved cautiously through the mist-shrouded landscape, he’d taken to reminding Merlin about the time he had nearly let Arthur be kidnapped by a Fae.

“I didn’t let the Fae do anything. It was your fault!!”

“My fault?” Arthur scoffed. “How was it my fault?”

“You cut down the Fae tree. I told you not to do it, remember? But you were like ‘oh Merlin you’re being ridiculous, why would I listen to you, you’re just a lowly servant?’”

Arthur scowled at the high-pitched imitation of his voice. “I am pretty certain I never said that.”

“Oh yes, you did.” Merlin replied. “In fact, I recall you saying something afterward like, ‘I’ll never doubt you again, Merlin, you’re the wisest and most handsome sorcerer in the world and you saved my life. Perhaps I ought too—’”

“Hold on a minute.” Excalibor murmured in Arthur’s ear. He had just turned the horse into a thicket of reeds to avoid a deep puddle of murk. “Arthur, wait—”

In the very corner of his vision, Arthur saw the snake strike. A coiled black thing that sprang to life, its fangs sinking into his horse's leg. The horse reared up in panic and pain, her terrified whinny splitting the stillness of the marsh.

Arthur tried to tighten his grip on the reins, shouting "Hold on!", but they were both thrown violently from the saddle.

“Arthur!”

He landed in a deep puddle, half atop Excalibor, knocking the air from his lungs. Murky water and mud splashed everywhere, instantly soaking through his clothes and matting it to his skin in a cold shock, that left him gasping. Excalibor groaned in pain beneath him, shoving him away.

There was a clatter of elbows and limbs as the two tried to pull themselves out of the bog. Once Arthur managed to sit up, waist-deep in mud, he wiped his eyes violently, trying to clear his vision.

He could hear his faithful mare squealing, stomping her legs wildly, and Merlin’s desperate tone trying to console her from far away. With his sight back, he could see the snake slithering away, past Excalibor and back into the reeds from which it came.

“Arthur!”

“I’m fine, Merlin.” Arthur grumbled, shoving himself to his feet. Soaked in water, covered in mud, and tailbone on fire, but fine.

“No, Arthur, the horse!”

Her front legs were buckling, backstopping low, as she brayed sharply. Excalibor reached his horse before him, snatching up the reins, and tried to get her to stand again.

“Get the saddlebags off her.” Excalibor ordered Arthur. “Quick!”

Arthur listened, only because it was the right thing to do, lest their supplies be crushed. He loosened the straps and pulled free the heavy bags just moments before the mare’s legs gave out. Excalibor led her as gently to the ground as he could, where she rolled onto her side, breathing hard. Her soft brown eye was rolling in fear, latching onto Arthur, as he threw aside the saddle bags.

“Is she alright?” Merlin asked.

Arthur did not have the heart to answer him as he knelt next to his fallen mare. The damned snake’s bite had brought her down so quickly. It could only mean one thing—venom. He cursed under his breath and met Excalibor’s gaze. There was the same realization reflected in his eyes.

The man bit his lip, tearing his eyes away, to assess the damage. Arthur watched as he gently took the mare’s leg. There were two bloody pinpricks above her ankle, such small things to end a life. Excalibor’s thumb brushed the fur near it and the mare snorted softly, in pain. Arthur placed a hand over the fur of her stomach to prevent her from trying to rise.

“Hush now.” He told her, a lump forming in his throat.

“Arthur?” Merlin had dismounted his horse and was standing over them now.

“She’s badly hurt, Merlin.” He said finally.

Excalibor looked up. “Is there a spell—for extracting venom? Something to heal her?”

Merlin’s expression was grim. “I don’t know any. If I had my spell book…”

But that was in Camelot. Arthur had bid him not to bring it, in fear that a maid might find it in their things at a tavern.

The poor, loyal, mare. The lump in his throat was undeniable now but he tried to force it down.

“She’s dying?” Merlin asked, voice a bit thick. His eyes were wet.

“Yes.” Excalibor said quietly, not looking at him. “But venom works slowly, it might take hours to kill her.”

“Can’t we do anything?”

Arthur swallowed hard as the mare whined again, pawing weakly at the muddy earth. Excalibor hushed her softly, stroking the fur of her neck. He was gentle with her, gentler than Arthur had thought that he could be.

“It’s alright.” He murmured, in a voice not meant for him to hear. “You’re alright.”

Again, he met Excalibor’s gaze. He was a sight, just as Arthur knew he must be himself, coated in grey mud. A smear of it under his left eye. The muck of it stuck to his dark curls. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were saying something, something in a language that Arthur could not read. Then he dropped his gaze and reached into his cloak. Arthur watched him pull out his dagger.

“No!” Merlin gasped.

Arthur dug his fingernails into his palm. “It’s the most merciful thing to do, Merlin. It would be wrong to let her suffer.”

Excalibor stared at the dagger in his hand, soothing the horse with soft strokes along her nose, and keeping it out of sight. Merlin looked between him and Arthur with wide eyes. His shoulders drooped.

“I can’t watch.” He said, turning back to his own horse. He led her into the trees a few feet away.

Excalibor blew out a long breath, murmuring to himself. “Alright. Alright.”

He was not cruel about it or cold as Arthur might have imagined. He leaned over the horse, speaking to her in a soothing tone, running his fingers through her mane until she had calmed down.

He never let her see the knife. He never let her know what was coming.

Her brown eyes were sweet, dumb, and showed no accusation as he punctured her heart, sliding the dagger between her ribcage so quickly Arthur nearly missed it. Her painful whinny echoed in the quiet marsh.

Arthur wasn’t soft. He wasn’t gentle. He did not have the priest’s hand nor the butchers, only the hands of a Prince and in that moment, they felt very useless indeed. He tried to offer up what little kindness he knew how to give, stroking the fur of her belly as her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

When it was finished, Excalibor drew his hand over her eyes, closing them as if she were a person. It was a kind thing to do. Not one he would’ve expected from him.

Arthur surveyed Excalibor as he cleaned the blade of his dagger on his sleeve, staining the dark fabric with blood. The cinched muscles of his jaw were the only sign of emotion on his face. Yet, it was clear that he was upset.

Arthur surveyed him and it struck him how little he knew about this boy, who left behind the charred corpses of men, and skinned his game with too much precision, and sat with blood on his hands like it was familiar to him but became upset at the death of a mare.

“Is it over?” Merlin called, breaking the moment open and releasing Arthur from its spell. He dragged himself to his feet, tearing his gaze away from the scene before him.

“Yes, Merlin. It is over.”

With only one horse they were forced to continue through the Marsh on foot. A grim and treacherous thing. The last living mare was made to carry the weight of both saddle bags and thus could not carry any one of them. The three of them were made to trudge through the mud as Arthur led the horse by the reins.

They were stuck moving slowly, staying close to one another, sometimes in single file as they passed through thin strips of soft mires. Never really speaking, feeling the loss of the horse as the death of a companion.

The further they got into the Marsh, the worse the smell and the more dangerous the path. The strong scent of decay hung heavy and foul in the air, stinging Arthur’s nostrils, and while he led on, he doubted each step. He had Merlin find him a tall stick and prodded the wet ground as they went. There were deeper puddles here, so deep they could swallow a man, and he could thrust his stick down into the grey water without ever feeling the bottom.

As night fell, it grew only more difficult to traverse. The soft mires became patchier, surrounded by endless half-strangled networks of murky water.

Merlin lit small blue fires with his magic but even then, after an hour or so Arthur had to call for them to stop until morning when it became too much of a risk for them to go forward.

Arthur poured clean water into his palm from his water skin and let Merlin’s horse drink her fill. Then allowed himself to rest with the others, slumping down beside them in the reeds. They were so small in the vastness of the Marsh. As they sat together, passing around bread in silence, Arthur felt hunted like the small animals of the woods.

“She was a good horse.” Merlin said sadly after a while, playing with the flickering blue flames that floated between them. Excalibor watched the fire with weary eyes, sitting further from it than Arthur.

Arthur nodded at Merlin. “She was.”

“Do you think there are many more snakes like that out here?”

Arthur saw Excalibor’s mouth pressed into a line but neither of them answered. Instead, Arthur thought about the moment before the snake had struck and bitten the poor horse. Excalibor had tried to warn Arthur.

“You knew there was a snake.”

Excalibor looked up, expression shadowed in the firelight. “No.”

“I heard you.” Arthur said. “You said—”

“I had a bad feeling, that’s all.” He interrupted stiffly, not meeting his eyes. Merlin shifted between them, staring at them both curiously.

“A bad feeling?” Arthur repeated. He meant it as a question, meant it to be genuine, but he was tired and angry at the events of the day and his voice reflected that.

Excalibor’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “Yes. I had a bad feeling. I didn’t see it. I didn’t hear it. I didn’t use my magic to summon it and place it before the horse to sabotage our journey.”

“I wasn’t—” Arthur cut himself off and lowered his voice.“I wasn’t suggesting that you did.”

Excalibor stared at him with a skeptical expression. After a moment, he looked away, muttering bitterly. “Then that would be a first.”

Arthur supposed the bitterness was somewhat warranted but that did not stop him from feeling irritated by it. So, when he opened his mouth to reply, he didn’t know what he was going to say but it felt sharp on his tongue—poised to draw blood.

Before it could be spoken though, he was cut off by Merlin, who made a loud shushing noise and gripped his arm. Hard.

“Ow, Merlin!”

“Wait a minute, listen!” He went to wrench his arm out of his servant’s grasp but caught sight of his eyes. They were wide and alarmed, peering off to the right, into the darkness of the Marsh. “Do you hear that?”

Arthur cocked his head and listened. At first, he only heard the usual noises of the Marsh, the nocturnal song of crickets, the croaks of broad-bellied frogs, and the distant call of waterfowl. All of it carried in the breeze, rustling reeds and stirring the still water. Then, as his ears attuned, he could hear other noises that did not belong.

It was too quiet to make out for a moment but slowly he understood what they were. The clanging of metal on metal, the clash of weaponry, steel blades, and armor. Faint cries of men shouting orders and wails of terror, all bouncing off each other in the distance.

It was the sound of war.

“Where is it coming from?” Merlin whispered. Arthur no longer blamed him for the tight grip on his arm.

“It's all around us.” Excalibor clutched a dagger, scanning their surroundings, as Arthur did but there was nothing to be seen. It was all darkness.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Arthur said but his hand had drifted to his sword. “There isn’t a single living army for miles outside of the Marsh.”

Something passed over Merlin’s face, making him paler in the blue firelight. “That’s because they aren’t.”

“Aren’t what, Merlin?”

Merlin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing through the flesh of his throat. Arthur stared at him, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter, as the noises of battle seemed to grow louder. Closer.

“Merlin.”

“Living.” Merlin blurted. “They aren’t living.”

The sounds had surrounded them from all sides. Distant still, but loud enough to hear the shouting of soldiers, thundering hooves, and the violent whinnying of horses. The noises startled their mare and Arthur, quick as a flash reached for her reins, and pulled her down gently beside them so that she could not get away.

“What do you mean not living?” Arthur asked Merlin through gritted teeth. His servant had let go of his arm and was staring in awe into the Marsh.

“I can feel them now.” He replied in a far-away voice. He turned to Excalibor. “Can’t you?”

Excalibor’s jaw clenched. He nodded so stiffly that it was barely there.

“They’re the spirits of the soldiers.” Merlin whispered.

“The soldiers from his story?” Arthur asked, looking between them, wondering what it was that they could feel. A particularly high wail rung out. The horse huffed, tugging at the reins. Arthur held fast. “Can they hurt us?”

The question seemed to pull Merlin out of the haze. He shook his head with a frown. “No?” He said, not sounding certain enough for Arthur’s tastes.

“Can they?” He asked again. Merlin hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

“Lovely.” Excalibor muttered and for once, Arthur was inclined to agree with him.

They could do nothing but listen, sitting very still around Merlin’s blue flames, clutching their weapons as the noises of a spectral war waged on. It was all the distant echoes of a forgotten era, a battle that had ended decades ago, doomed to repeat itself. The faint cries of the dying sent chills down Arthur’s spine. It went on through the night, never getting too close, but it kept them all awake and alert.

When the morning came, it could not have come soon enough. The sun’s light shone weakly through the grey clouds, pale and dappled, providing no color or warmth to the landscape. But the light was enough that they could see their path again without fear, so Arthur bid them to set off again. The ghostly sounds of battle had faded with the morning, but he was still on edge.

As much as Arthur stuck to the mires, the ground was soft and tried to swallow their feet. It was difficult and slow, being sucked into gurgling mud and forced to pull oneself out again with each step. His and Excalibor’s fall into a puddle the day before had entrenched their clothes with enough mud to weigh them down. His legs were beginning to feel this and his feet were sore and wet in their boots.

Thunder rumbled above them and Arthur cast his eyes up at the churning sky. He had hoped they would be out of the Marsh when the storm reached them but making their way on foot had slowed them down significantly and it did not seem they would be that lucky.

A hard-won mile was past them before a gloomy rain descended like a somber curtain over the desolate Marsh. The relentless downpour drenched their cloaks, making the fabric heavier, mixing with the mud, and clinging to their bodies.

Merlin let out a sound of outrage when the rain started. “What did we do to deserve this?”

Excalibor, in his usual cheerful optimism, muttered something like. “I can think of a few things.”

There was nothing to do but keep moving. If they stayed in place too long the muddy quagmire would consume them. They had been trudging along for a while when Arthur heard a splash behind him and a shriek. He turned quickly and saw Merlin face down on the mire, leaning over the edge of the murky bog. Excalibor had him by the hood of his cloak—which seemed to have stopped him from going in.

“There’s something down there!” Merlin cried, stumbling up with Excalibor’s help.

Arthur frowned. “An animal?”

“No, something else! It looked like…” He did not seem to want to say what it looked like.

“Let me see.” Arthur said confidently, passing off the reins of the horse to Merlin. He bent over the murky water. It was difficult to see beneath the surface which rippled from the rain, distorting into many twisted reflections. He saw at first only his face, then he realized it wasn’t his face—it was much older, tinged with blue, swimming in strands of long silver hair.

Arthur sprang backward. “It’s a corpse!”

“There's more.” Excalibor’s voice came from behind Merlin. “Look around us. They're everywhere.”

Arthur listened and regretted it. There were bodies of men in armor beneath the surface of every murky pool. Rusted armor and pale faces, some fair and handsome, some dark and bold, some hidden beneath helmets with plumes of blue hair floating from the top. The skin of their faces was pulled tight against their skulls but not rotten, bloated, or decayed by hundreds of years as they should have been. It was as if they had been there since only yesterday.

“The legends are true.” Excalibor murmured grimly, from where he had knelt to stare into the depths of one of the pools.

Two blind eyes stared at him from beneath the water, pupils gone white in death, and Arthur repressed a shudder. “How can this be?”

“It's magic.” Merlin said.“Someone powerful cursed this Marsh.”

He could see in his servant’s eyes that they were both thinking the same thing.

“The Fisher King.”

Merlin nodded. “I don’t like this at all. How far to the Perilous Lands?”

At the sound of that, Excalibor stood back up, flinging away the slimy water from his hands, and muttering. “You won’t like them any better.”

Arthur shook himself and checked his compass, having to wipe away the rain from the face of it several times before he could get a clear reading.

“We ought to reach the end of the Marsh before we run out of daylight.” He said eventually, with a certainty he did not feel. The time of day was difficult to decide on for the sun was nowhere to be seen and the dark grey clouds continued to spew heavy rain upon them. If they had reached the battlegrounds, they would not be very far off now.

He cleared his throat, taking the reins of the horse from Merlin now. “Just follow me. And tread carefully.”

As they walked on, Arthur knew he would be glad to get them all out of the Marsh and back onto solid ground again. Even if it did lead them along the edge of the Perilous Lands.

He tried to keep his eyes up when he wasn't prodding the ground with a stick, avoiding the ghostly bodies beneath the water but it was difficult when he had to watch his feet to ensure their safe passage.

It went on like this for many difficult miles, chilly and miserable and wet, with no signs of improvement until very slowly the landscape began to shift. The huge moss-eaten trees entangled with vines began to thin. The murky pools grew smaller, turning into concentrated puddles, and the soft mires beneath their feet became firmer. The rain dwindled too until it was sprinkling on their backs, and then nothing more.

For the first time in days, the sun made it past the clouds, a dying scarlet light that fell over their weary backs.

The Marsh faded to nothing over a large hill, which as they breached showed them the land in front of them—unnaturally dry and barren as far as the eye could see. Arthur was sweating by the time they reached the top of it, the muscles in his legs straining and chafing beneath his damp cloak but found it worth it as they took in the sight ahead of them. Merlin let out a relieved laugh.

“I don't want to see another puddle of mud for at least a month.” Merlin announced as they came, triumphantly to rest beneath a large skeleton of a tree, and Arthur agreed.

They decided to camp on the Marshes’ edge before continuing to Deira. Which is what they did, taking it in turns to sleep properly for the first time in days. Arthur was so exhausted when he sank into unconsciousness that there was nothing terrible to greet him, only the heavy black screen of sleep.

In the morning, they gathered their bed rolls, ate a bit of dried fruit, and saw to the horse, before heading out again. After the nightmare of the Marsh, the Perilous Land did not seem so bad to Arthur, but he knew that they were only traveling along the edge of it and should be safe.

On horseback, it would have only taken them only a day or so of decent riding to reach Deira, but on foot, they had to add an extra day to their journey.

They had dried out overnight, hanging their socks to dry above the fire, and setting their boots open to do the same. So, they were clean from all the rain and mildly rejuvenated when setting out again. Arthur’s hair had dried flat and stiff to his head as it always did and Merlin kept plucking at and teasing him, telling him he looked like a scarecrow. Meanwhile, the rain had done something wildly unfair to Excalibor’s, making his hair curly and soft-looking like Morgana's. It framed his face in a way that reminded Arthur that despite the scar running through the young man’s mouth and the dirt he was usually covered in; he was handsome in the way that the ladies of the court found enjoyable.

For two relentless days, they ventured through the wasteland, a sun-scorched expanse with skeletal trees and brown scraggly vegetation of no real sustenance. The sun beat down upon them, casting long shadows on the skeletal remains of dried-out vegetation. They came across a riverbed once which was so dry only a thin stream of water ran through it, just enough to fill their water skins from and allow the horse to drink. Arthur did not want to linger around it for longer than that because watching Excalibor kneel at the trickle next to Merlin, each of them splashing their faces, he remembered the nightmare he had before entering the Marsh and became uneasy.

They paused to rest often, otherwise they would have made much better time, but spring temperature in the Perilous Lands rivaled the peak of Summer in Camelot. Not to mention, Merlin was in a playful mood, which Arthur was willing to indulge after the past few days. He stole Arthur’s cloak and paraded around doing a terrible impression of him. He carried on about things that they ought to do while in Deira, disregarding the fact that they would be too busy hunting an evil sorcerer and freeing the neighboring towns from his torment to do any sight-seeing. He even took Excalibor aside, many times, who had been more tense and irritable upon entering the Perilous Lands than he had in the Marsh, hardly sleeping, always glancing around them during the day as if they were to be set upon at any moment. Merlin, the little idiot, kept trying to cheer him up, talking softly to him about magic and showing off with small spells.

“Watch this.” Merlin would say mischievously to Excalibor, muttering a spell under his breath when he thought Arthur wasn’t paying attention, only to levitate his waterskin out of his belt. Then Arthur was forced to wait, impatiently, while his servant tried to couch Excalibor into levitating his own waterskin from a few feet away. After about the hundredth attempt, he was able to do so, eyes glowing suddenly golden, with a surge of magic so strong that Arthur felt a zap of energy go through his body even though he was standing a few feet away. The waterskin flew straight at the two sorcerers with the speed of a cannonball, they both ducked, and Arthur was hit in the stomach with so much force he was bowled over. Merlin had thought it was hilarious and wouldn’t stop laughing until Arthur threatened to put a scorpion in his bed roll while he slept. Excalibor, on the other hand, seemed to feel some measure of guilt.

However, that had not stopped him and Merlin from practicing at it for ages after they had set up camp that night.

“Right, so focus. Can you sort of feel yourself reaching out to it? Like an invisible arm or an—an extension of yourself. Sort of tingly like?”

“I suppose so.” Excalibor muttered, staring with great hatred at the small stone Merlin had placed next to the fire.

“That’s good! Just sort of tug at it with your magic and think beflēoh again. But gently. Gently!”

The stone surged forward with deadly speed and though it came nowhere near Arthur, he flinched as it soared past where Merlin’s head had been just a moment before.

“Right. That’s fine.” Merlin said, coming up from the ground with dirt on his chin. “Let’s try again.”

“Let’s not.” Arthur snapped. “He’s terrible at this. He’s going to get one of us killed.”

Excalibor glared at him. “If we're lucky it will be you. Perhaps if you stopped staring at me.”

“Me?” Arthur scoffed. “How is it my fault?”

“You’re breathing too loudly.”

“Breathing too loudly?”

“Excalibor, concentrate. Arthur, stop breathing,”

Another time, after they had stopped beside a sad conglomeration of lifeless shrubbery. Merlin had called Excalibor over, showing him as he cupped his hand around one of them and murmured. “Geleofa.” The shrub had instantly straightened up, turning green and healthy before their eyes, sprouting baby leaves dappled with tiny white flowers. Arthur appreciated seeing a glimpse of life amidst the wasteland but when Merlin let it go, it shriveled up again returning to its original form.

“Was it supposed to do that?” Excalibor asked and in response, Merlin shook his head.

“Must be the curse.”

At night, the generally positive demeanor of the day became somewhat diminished. It was too dark to see very far in the barren desert and if enemies were to happen upon them, they would be able to see the firelight from miles away. It was unlikely that any of the Undermen would be so far out on the edge of their territory—they ought to be safe but knowing this only did so much to put their minds at ease.

Excalibor was the most paranoid. He slept very little hours during the night and was usually awake while Arthur was taking watch. He would sit restlessly, staring into the night, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes as Merlin snored between them. It put Arthur on edge.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” He snapped one night. “If you faint like a damsel tomorrow from fatigue, Merlin will be upset.”

Excalibor glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. “It would be easier to rest if I had my sword.”

Arthur snorted. “Easier for you perhaps.”

He turned to stare at him. The firelight flickered across the scowl twisting mouth. “You do realize I could have killed you a thousand times by now? I could have slit your throat at any point after my foot healed but I didn’t.”

It was the truth. Arthur knew this in his heart, but he would rather ignore it. Acknowledging it meant admitting that he was wrong about Excalibor and he wasn’t ready to admit that—that the feeling in his gut screaming danger had been faulty all along. The feeling that hadn’t entirely gone away.

“So, what do you want?” He asked instead. “A reward for acting like a normal person?”

Excalibor laughed, harsh and brittle, and turned away with a shake of his head. He looked back up with anger in his eyes. "I want you to stop being so grandiose, sire. I want you to quit looking at me like I’m beneath you.”

“I don't look at you like that.”

“Yes, you do.”

His gaze was so intense it threatened to pierce a hole in Arthur. He gritted his teeth. “Well, if I do it’s only because I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”

“Don’t act like you’ve never killed before.”

“In battle!”

“What do you think that was?” Excalibor snapped, his voice shattering loudly in the night. Merlin rolled over in his sleep, smacking his lips. Arthur was caught off guard by the emotion in his voice. He watched the man take a deep breath, a mask falling across his face before he spoke again. “What about it bothers you? The fact that I killed them or the fact that it was my magic that did it?”

Arthur did not have a response to that. Excalibor waited, the two of them staring at each other, until he shook his head, lip curling in disgust. “You’re just as I thought you’d be.”

“What does that mean?” Arthur demanded but Excalibor turned his back on him, moving to sit further away in the dark.

“What does that mean?” He hissed after him again but there came no reply, only the cold silence of being left with someone’s shadow over your face. They spent the rest of Arthur’s watch like that, that single sentence chipping away at him until morning.

He awoke Merlin early on the eve of their final day, before the sun rose—their journey had extended into a third due to their frequent stops. As it was, they had stopped on the incline of a great hill that night, and that morning the trio, worn and dust-laden, scaled to the top of it. As they reached the peak of it, they could see in the distance a green line on the horizon, brought into sharper focus by the shimmering orange light of the sun’s rebirth.

“Is that—?” Merlin began.

“Deira.” Arthur finished for him. “We’ve made it.”